is or
Ekwanok like--well, like Billy Sunday would talk about heaven. But I've
stretched a willing ear for Mr. Ellins often enough so I can----"

"I see," breaks in Dowd. "Possibly you will do. At any rate, I must tell
this to someone."

"I know," says I. "I've seen 'em like that. Shoot."

"As you are probably aware," says he, "Ellins was in Florida with me
last month. In fact, we played the same course together, day in and day
out, for four weeks. He was my partner in our foursome. Rather a helpful
partner at times, I must admit, although he hasn't been at the game long
enough to be a really experienced golfer. Fairly long off the tee, but
erratic with the brassie, and not all dependable when it came to short
iron work. However, as a rule we held them. Our opponents, I mean."

I nods like I'd taken it all in.

"A quartette of bogey hounds, I expect," says I.

Dowd shakes his head modest. No, he confesses that wasn't an exact
description of their ratin'. "We usually qualified, when we got in at
all," says he, "in the fourth flight for the Seniors' tournament. But as
a rule we did not attempt the general competitions. We stuck to our
daily foursome. Staples and Rutter were the other two. Rutter's in
steel, you know; Staples in copper. Seasoned golfers, both of them.
Especially Rutter. Claims to have turned in a card of 89 once at Short
Hills. That was years ago, of course, but he has never forgotten it.
Rather an irritating opponent, Rutter. Patronizing. Fond of telling you
what you did when you've dubbed a shot. And if he happens to win--" Dowd
shrugs his shoulders expressive.

"Chesty, eh?" says I.

"Extremely so," says Dowd. "Even though his own medal score wasn't
better than 115. Mine was a little worse, particularly when I chanced to
be off my drive. Yes, might as well be honest. I was the lame duck of
the foursome. They usually gave my ball about four strokes. Thought they
could do it, anyway. And I accepted."

"Uh-huh," says I, grinnin' intelligent--I hope. I sure was gettin' an
earful of this golf stuff, but I was still awake.

Dowd goes on to tell how reg'lar the old foursome got under way every
afternoon at 2:30. That is, every day but Sunday.

"Oh, yes," says I. "Church?"

"No," says Dowd. "Sandy the Great."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

"Meaning," says Dowd, "Alexander McQuade, to my mind the best all around
golf professional who ever came out of Scotland. He was at our
Agapoosett course in summer