.
All together now--S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!"

Say, it makes a hit with the directors, all right. First off they
didn't seem to know whether they'd strayed into a bughouse, or were
just bein' cheered; but when they sees Old Hickory's mouth corners they
concludes to take it as a josh. It turns out that both of 'em are golf
cranks too, and inside of three minutes they've forgot whatever it was
they'd come for, they've shed their coats, and have been rung into a
foursome.

Honest, of all the nutty performances! For there was no tellin' where
them balls would roll to, and wherever they went the giddy old boys had
to follow. I remember one of 'em was stretched out full length on his
tummy in the front hall, tryin' to make a billiard shot from under a
low hall seat, when there's another ring at the bell, and Marston, with
a golf bag still slung over his shoulder, lets in a square-jawed,
heavy-set old gent who glares around like he was lookin' for trouble
and would be disappointed if he didn't find it.

"Mr. Peter K. Groff," announces Marston.

"Good night!" says I to myself. "The enemy is in our midst."

But Old Hickory never turns a hair. He stands there in his shirt
sleeves gazin' calm at this grizzly old minin' plute, and then I sees a
kind of cut-up twinkle flash in them deep-set eyes of his as he summons
his foursome to gather around. I didn't know what was coming either,
until they cuts loose with it. And for havin' had no practice they
rips it out strong.

"S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!" comes the chorus.

It gets Peter K.'s goat too. His jaw comes open and his eyes pop.
Next he swallows bard and flushes red behind the ears. "Ellins," says
he, "I've come fifteen hundred miles to ask what you mean by telling
me----"

"Oh, that you, Groff?" breaks in the boss. "Well, don't interrupt our
game. Fore! You, I mean. Fore, there! Now go ahead, Rawson.
Playing eleven, aren't you?"

And Rawson's just poked his ball out, makin' a neat carom into the
music room, when the hall clock strikes five.

"By Jove, gentlemen!" exclaims Doc Hirshway. "Sorry, but I must quit.
Should have been in my office an hour ago. I really must go."

"Quitter!" says Mr. Ellins. "But all right. Trot along. Here, Groff,
you're a golfer, aren't you?"

"Why--er--yes," says Peter K., actin' sort of dazed; "but I----"

"That's enough," says Old Hickory. "You take Hirshway's place.
Dunham's your partner. We're pla