. I didn't even fall off the
desk. All Old Hickory does is set his teeth into the cigar a little
firmer and roll his eyes over one shoulder. Piddie's the only one who
shows signs of shell shock. When he finally lets out a breath it's like
openin' a bottle of home brew to see if the yeast cake is gettin' in its
work.

The bumpety-bump noise comes from something white that follows the crash
and rolls along the floor toward the desk. Naturally I makes a grab for
it.

"Don't!" gasps Piddie. "It--it might be a bomb."

"Yes," says I, "it might. But it looks to me more like a golf ball."

"What?" says Old Hickory. "Golf ball! How could it be?"

"I don't know, sir," says I, modest as usual.

"Let's see," says he. I hands it over. He takes a glance at it and
snorts out: "Impossible, but quite true. It is a golf ball. A Spalldop
31."

"You're right, Governor," says Mr. Robert. "That's just what it is."

Piddie takes a cautious squint and nods his head. So we made it
unanimous.

"But I don't quite see, sir," goes on Piddie, "how a----"

"Don't you?" breaks in Old Hickory. "Well, that's strange. Neither do
I."

"Might it not, sir," adds Piddie, "have been dropped from an airplane?"

"Dropped how?" demands Old Hickory. "Sideways? The law of gravity
doesn't work that way. At least, it didn't when I met it last."

"Certainly!" says Piddie. "I had not thought of that. It couldn't have
been dropped. Then it must have been driven by some careless golfer."

He's some grand little suggester, Piddie is. Old Hickory glares at him
and snorts. "An amazingly careless golfer," he adds, "considering that
the nearest course is in Englewood, N. J., fully six miles away. No, Mr.
Piddie, I fear that even Jim Barnes at his best, relayed by Gil Nichols
and Walter Hagen, couldn't have made that drive."

"They--they never use a--a rifle for such purposes, do they?" asks
Piddie.

"Not in the best sporting circles," says Old Hickory.

"I suppose," puts in Mr. Robert, "that some golf enthusiast might have
taken it into his head to practice a shot from somewhere in the
neighborhood."

"That's logical," admits Old Hickory, "but from where did he shoot? We
are nineteen stories above the sidewalk, remember. I never saw a player
who could loft a ball to that height."

Which gives me an idea. "What if it was some golf nut who'd gone out on
a roof?" I asks.

"Thank you, Torchy," says Old Hickory. "From a roof, of course. I should
have ma