Carter, who was a bit sore that he had fallen down.

"It looks easy for me," calmly declared Harding stepping up to the tee.
"Can you make as high a pile of sand as you want to?"

"Yes, but it is better to tee it close to the ground," advised Carter.
"If you tee it high you are apt to go under it."

Ignoring Carter's advice he reached into the box, scooped out a
double-handful of sand and piled it in a pyramid at least four inches
high. On the apex of this he placed a new ball I had taken from my bag,
and which I felt reasonably certain would be cut in two in the
improbable event that he hit it. He stood back and surveyed his
preparations with evident satisfaction.

[Illustration: "... but there was blood in his eye"]

It was impossible for Carter and me to keep our faces straight, but
Harding paid no attention to us.

"I ought to be able to hit that, all right," he said, walking around the
sand pile and viewing it from all sides. Then he stood back and took a
practise swing.

He stood square on both feet, his legs spread as far apart as he could
extend them. He grasped the shaft of the club with both hands, holding
the left one underneath. His practise swing was the typical baseball
stroke used by all novices, and I saw at a glance that in all
probability he would go under his ball.