hered speed, all but died at
the edge of the cup and--toppled in amid a salvo of handclaps and roar
of "Bravo!"

That was nerve, courage, skill! That was golf! The miracle had
happened! Another hole to decide the match.

Quickly the crowd became still again as McLeod, his teeth set upon the
stem of his pipe, his stony face masking a murderous disappointment,
stepped forward to run down his four.

The silence was broken by a cry. Out of the air overhead came the sound
of a disturbance, and every face turned. A most amazing thing was in
the way of happening, a phenomenon unique in the history of
tournaments, for a man was being thrust forth from one of the hotel
windows, perhaps twenty-five feet above the ground--a writhing,
struggling, kicking man with fawn-colored spats. He was being ejected
painlessly but firmly, and by a girl--a grim-faced young woman of
splendid proportions. For a moment she allowed him to dangle; then she
dropped him into a handsome Dorothy Perkins rosebush. He landed with a
shriek. Briefly the amazon remained framed in the casement, staring
with dark defiance down into the upturned faces; her deep bosom was
heaving, her smoky hair was slightly disarranged; she allowed her eyes
to rest upon the figure entangled among the thorns beneath her, then
she closed the window.

Nothing like this had ever occurred in Scotland. The mighty McLeod
missed his putt and took a five.

As Allie Briskow passed through the lobby with her head erect and her
fists clenched, she heard the sound of a great shouting outside and she
believed it was directed at her. She fled into her room and flung
herself upon her bed, sobbing hoarsely.

Mrs. Ring was waiting on the veranda for Gus Briskow when he returned
to the hotel about dark. He had learned to dread the sight of her on
that veranda, for it was her favorite resigning place--what Gus called
her "quitting spot," and it was evident to-night that she was in a
quitting mood, a mood more hysterical than ever before. It was some
time before he could get at the facts, and even then he could not fully
appreciate the enormity of the disgrace that had overwhelmed Allie's
instructress.

"She chucked the dancin' teacher out of a winder?" he repeated,
blankly. "What for?"

"Goodness knows, Mr. Briskow! Something he said, or did--I couldn't
make out precisely. I found her in a dreadful state, and I tried to
comfort her, I did really, but--oh! If you could have _heard_ her!