score, seem to realize what had happened.
'Hello!' he calls to Rutter. 'They've got us beaten.' 'No,' says Rutter.
'Can't be possible!' 'But we are,'insists Staples. 'Thirteen points
down and twelve to go. It's all over. Dowd, here, is playing like a
crazy man.'

"And then the spell, or whatever it was, broke. I flubbed my drive,
smothered my brassie shot, and heeled my third into the woods. I
finished the round in my usual style, mostly sevens and eights. But
there was the score to prove that for nine straight holes I had played
par golf; professional golf, if you please. Do you think either Rutter
or Staples gave me credit for that? No. They paid up and walked off to
the shower baths.

"I couldn't account for my performance. It was little short of a
miracle. Actually it was so unusual that I hardly felt like talking
about it. I know that may sound improbable to a golfer, but it is a
fact. Except that I did want to tell Alexander McQuade. But I couldn't
find him. They said at the shop he was laid up with a cold and hadn't
been around for several days. So I took the train north that night
without having said a word to a soul about those wonderful nine holes.
But I've thought a lot about 'em since. I've tried to figure out just
what happened to me that I could make such a record. No use. It was all
beginning to be as unreal as if it was something I had dreamed of doing.

"And then yesterday, while reading a recent golf magazine, I ran across
this item of news which gave me such a shock. It told of the sudden
death from pneumonia of Alexander McQuade. At first I was simply
grieved over this loss to myself and to the golfing profession in
general. Then I noticed the date. McQuade died the very morning of the
day of our last match. Do you see?"

I shook my head. All I could see was a moonfaced, owl-eyed old party who
was starin' at me with an eager, batty look. "No," says I. "I don't get
the connection. McQuade had checked out and you won your foursome."

"Precisely," says Dowd. "The mantle of Elijah."

"Who?" says I.

"To make it plainer," says Dowd, "the mantle of Sandy the Great. It fell
on my shoulders."

"That may be clear enough to you, Mr. Dowd," says I, "but I'll have to
pass it up."

He sighs disappointed. "I wish Ellins would have the patience to let me
tell him about it myself," says he. "He'll not, though, so I must make
you understand in order that you may give him the facts. I want him to
know. Of