'clock. A new one that he'd just bought, I expect."

"Sort of a poddy, heavy set old party with a smooth face?" I suggests.

"That was him," says the starter. "He's a reg'lar fiend at it. But,
then, he can afford to be. Owns a half interest in the buildin', I
understand."

"Must be on good terms with the janitor, then," says I. "He could
practice swings on the roof if he felt like it, I expect."

"You've said it," says the starter. "He could do about what he likes
around this buildin', Mr. Dowd could."

"Eh?" says I. "The Hon. Matt?"

"Good guess!" says the starter. "You must know him."

"Rather," says I. "Him and my boss are old chums. Golf cronies, too.
Thanks. I guess that'll be all."

"But how about that sport census?" asks the starter.

"It's finished," says I, makin' a quick exit.

And by the time I'm back in the private office once more I've untangled
all the essential points. Why, it was only two or three days ago that
the Hon. Matt broke in on Old Hickory and gave him an earful about his
latest discovery in the golf line. I'd heard part of it, too, while I
was stickin' around waitin' to edge in with some papers for Mr. Ellins
to sign.

Now what was the big argument? Say, I'll be driven to take up this
Hoot-Mon pastime myself some of these days. Got to if I want to keep in
the swim. It was about some particular club Dowd claimed he had just
learned how to play. A mashie-niblick, that was it. Said it was revealed
to him in a dream--something about gripping with the left hand so the
knuckles showed on top, and taking the turf after he'd hit the ball.
That gave him a wonderful loft and a back-spin.

And I remember how Old Hickory, who was more or less busy at the time,
had tried to shunt him off. "Go on, you old fossil," he told him. "You
never could play a mashie-niblick, and I'll bet twenty-five you can't
now. You always top 'em. Couldn't loft over a bow-legged turtle, much
less a six foot bunker. Yes, it's a bet. Twenty-five even. But you'll
have to prove it, Matt."

And Mr. Dowd, chucklin' easy to himself, had allowed how he would. "To
your complete satisfaction, Ellins," says he, "or no money passes. And
within the week."

As I takes another look down at the little grass plot on the roof I has
to admit that the Hon. Matt knew what he was talkin' about. He sure had
turned the trick. Kind of clever of him, too, havin' the window marked
and all that. And puttin' the "Ha, ha!" message on the ball.