rough, and landed on
the edge of the green."

"Mercy!" I cried. "Didn't it kill him?"

"Of course not," retorted Boswell. "You can't kill a shade. Diogenes
didn't know he'd been hit, but if that had happened to one of you
material golfers there'd have been a sickening end to that tournament."

"There would, indeed," said I. "There isn't much fun in being hit by a
golf-ball. I can testify to that because I have had the experience," and
I called to mind the day at St. Peterkin's when I unconsciously stymied
with my material self the celebrated Willie McGuffin, the Demon Driver
from the Hootmon Links, Scotland. McGuffin made his mark that day if he
never did before, and I bear the evidence thereof even now, although the
incident took place two years ago, when I did not know enough to keep
out of the way of the player who plays so well that he thinks he has a
perpetual right of way everywhere.

"What kind of clubs do you Stygians use?" I asked.

"Oh, very much the same kind that you chaps do," returned Boswell.
"Everybody experiments with new fads, too, just as you do. Old Peter
Stuyvesant, for instance, always drives with his wooden leg, and never
uses anything else unless he gets a lie where he's got to."

"His wooden leg?" I roared, with a laugh. "How on earth does he do
that?"

"He screws the small end of it into a square block shod like a brassey,"
explained Boswell, "tees up his ball, goes back ten yards, makes a run
at it and kicks the ball pretty nearly out of sight. He can put with it
too, like a dream, swinging it sideways."

"But he doesn't call that golf, does he?" I cried.

"What is it?" demanded Boswell.

"I should call it football," I said.

"Not at all," said Boswell. "Not a bit of it. He hasn't any foot on that
leg, and he has a golf-club head with a shaft to it. There isn't any
rule which says that the shaft shall not look like an inverted nine-pin,
nor do any of the accepted authorities require that the club shall be
manipulated by the arms. I admit it's bad form the way he plays, but, as
Stuyvesant himself says, he never did travel on his shape."

"Suppose he gets a cuppy lie?" I asked, very much interested at the
first news from Hades of the famous old Dutchman.

"Oh, he does one of two things," said Boswell. "He stubs it out with his
toe, or goes back and plays two more. Munchausen plays a good game too.
He beat the colonel forty-seven straight holes last Wednesday, and all
Hades has be