"The blamed club is too light, but I suppose it's the best you've got,"
he said. "It feels like a willow switch. Well, stand back and give me
lots of room. Here goes!"

As he grasped the club I saw the muscles of his right forearm stand out
like whipcords. His face was wrinkled in a frown, but there was, blood
in his eye.

Carter and I stood well away so as to escape a flying club-head. I
cannot describe how Harding made that swing; it was done so quickly that
I only noted what followed.

When the club came down there was a crack that sounded like a pistol
shot, and at that instant I noted that the pyramid of sand was intact.
Then I saw the ball! It was headed straight out the course, curving
with that slight hook which contributes so much to distance.

When I first caught sight of it I should say it was fifty feet in the
air and slowly rising. I never saw a ball travel so in my life. We had
sent a caddy out ahead, and he marked the spot where it landed. It was
more than twenty-five yards beyond the two-hundred-yard mark, and the
ball rolled forty-five yards farther, making a total of two hundred and
seventy yards.

It was within ten yards of the longest drive ever made by Kirkaldy, our
club professional.

The exertion carried Harding fairly off his feet, and he landed squarely
on the tee. He half raised himself, and followed the flight of the ball.
His shirt was ripped open at the shoulder and torn at the neck.