anda, too, his grief was respected. No one spoke to him. In
fact, I think no one dared. We were careful that even our mirth did
not reach his ears. He was alone with his thoughts. The afternoon
waned. His three companions again reached the ninth tee, drove the
pond, and came into the club-house to dress. The caddies were about to
depart. Then a strange thing happened; at its first intimation we
tiptoed to a window to observe. He roused himself, leaned over the
rail, and called a caddie.

"Boy," we heard him say, in a deep, tragic voice, "can you swim?"

"Yes, sir," the caddie replied.

"All right. About thirty feet out in front of the ninth tee there's a
bag at the bottom of the pond. Go get it for me, and I'll give you
five dollars."

The caddie ran, peeling his garments as he went. Modestly retaining
his tattered underclothes, he splashed in from the tee, while the
somewhat elderly golf player gesticulated directions on the bank.
Presently the boy's toes detected something, and he did a pretty
surface dive, emerging with the bag strap in his right hand. He also
rescued the floating driver, and we saw the promised bill passed to
him, and watched him drag on his clothes over his wet undergarments.
Slowly, even tenderly, the somewhat elderly gentleman emptied the
water and the stone from his bag, and wiped the clubs on his
handkerchief. With the wet, dripping burden over his shoulder he came
across the foot-bridge and into the locker room, while we hastened to
remove our faces from the door and windows, and attempted to appear
casual.

He entered in silence, and strode to his locker. The silence grew
painful. Somebody simply had to speak, or laugh. Finally somebody did
speak, which was probably the safer alternative.

"Decided to try again, eh?"

The somewhat elderly gentleman wheeled upon the assemblage, his
dripping bag still hanging from his shoulder.

"Yes, damn it!" he thundered.

Well, I have never thrown my clubs into a pond, and I am sure you have
never done anything so childish, either. But how many times have you
and I both given up golf forever, and then returned to links the
following day--"damn it"! We do not play for the exercise, we do not
play because it "keeps us out in the open air." Neither motive would
hold a man for a week to the tantalizing, costly, soul-racking, nerve-
and temper-destroying game. We play it because there is some
diabolical--or celestial--fascination about the thing; som