ognize him as the
notorious Malefactor.

One day, while he was cowering in a dark corner of his Club to get
away from the pesky Reporters, he was joined by the Trouble-Maker.

"I gave you the wrong Steer," said Ambition, now much subdued. "You
are in Dutch. Beat it! All the Rough-Necks down by the Round-House
and the fretful Simps along every R. F. D. Route are getting ready to
interfere in the Affairs of Government. The Storm Clouds of Anarchy
are lowering. In other words, the new Primary Law has begun to do
business. Every downtrodden Mokus owing $800 on a $500 House is honing
for a Chance to Hand It to somebody wearing a Seal-Skin Overcoat. From
now on, seek Contentment, Rural Quietude, and a cinch Rate of 5 Per
Cent. on all your Holdings."

So Ambition, after leading him hither and yon, finally conducted him to
the swell Country House surrounded by Oaks and winding Drives and
Sunken Gardens.

Far from the Hurly-Burly he settled down among his Boston Terriers and
Orchids and Talking-Machines and allowed Old Age to ripen and mellow
him into a Patriarch of the benevolent Pattern.

At the suggestion of an expensive Specialist, he went in for Golf.
After he had learned to Follow Through and keep within 100 yards of
the Fair Green, he happened to get mixed up in a Twosome one day with
a walking Rameses who had graduated from the Stock Exchange soon after
the Crime of '73. This doddering Shell of Humanity looked as if a High
Wind would blow him into the Crick. When he swung at the Pill, you
expected to hear something Snap.

Our Hero had about 10 Years on the Ancient, and it looked like a
Compote. But the Antique managed to totter around the Course, playing
short but safe, always getting Direction and keeping away from the
Profanity Pits.

He never caught up with Colonel Bogey, but he had enough Class to trim
our Hero and collect 6 Balls.

Ambition rode home with the unhappy Loser in the $12,000 Limousine.
"Buck up, Old Top," said the faithful Prompter. "Fasten your Eye on
the Ball and don't try to Force. He is sure to blow up sooner or
later. Take another Lesson to-morrow morning and then publish your
Defi in the afternoon."

He never had been strong enough to stand off Ambition. So the next Day
he took on Old Sure-Thing again and got it in the same Place.

No wonder. The Octogenarian was of Scotch Descent. He was the Color
of an Army Saddle. He never smiled except when the Kilties came on
to