rolled up his sleeves. I was impressed with his magnificent physique,
and do not recall when I have seen so massive and well-formed a forearm.
From my bag he selected a driver which I seldom use on account of its
excessive weight, and looked at it critically.

"Pretty fair sort of a stick," he observed, swinging it clumsily and
viciously, "but I'd rather have one of those hickory roots we used to
cut for shinny when I was a boy. Go ahead and soak it, Carter, so that I
may know what I've got to beat."

I mentally resolved to press even at the chance of flubbing. Carter hit
the ball too low, and it sailed into the air barely clearing the lane,
stopping not more than one hundred and fifty yards away.

"That's not so much," said Harding, grimly. "Bat her out, Smith, and
then watch your Uncle Dudley!"

I carefully teed a new ball and took a practise swing or two. I felt
morally certain that Harding could not beat Carter's drive, poor as it
was, but I was anxious to show him how a golf ball will fly when
properly struck.

I fell on that ball for one of the longest and cleanest drives I ever
made, and it did not stop rolling until it was twenty yards past the
two-hundred-yard post. I was properly proud of that shot, and despite
his loud talk I felt a sort of pity for Harding.

"Is that considered a fairly good shot?" he asked.

"It was a good one for Smith, or for that matter for anyone," replied