that your wife hears that!"

"Don't tell her; she'll beat him terribly," warned Chilvers. "Did you ever hear, Boyd, why our friend Smith is so sour when he sees a lady on these links?"

Chilvers has told that story on me many times, but Boyd declared he had not heard it.

"As you know," began Chilvers, "Smith was born on this farm. It's the ancestral Smith homestead, and Smith's relatives were very indignant when he leased it to the Woodvale Golf and Country Club. What was the name of that maiden aunt of yours, Smith?"

"My Aunt Sarah Emeline Smith," I replied.

"Yes, yes! Well, Aunt Sarah Emeline was especially incensed over this act of sacrilege on Smith's part," continued this historian, and he followed the facts closely, "and only once since has she stepped foot on the broad acres where her happy girlhood was spent. It was my good-fortune to meet her on that occasion, and I shall never forget it."

"Neither shall I," I said.

"On her visit here Aunt Sarah Emeline persisted in wandering over the links. She had on a wonderful bonnet, and through it she glared disdainfully at the members of the club who yelled 'Fore!' at her. She was headed for the old mill, which now is used as a caddy house. I was playing the last hole and thought she was well out of line of a brassey, so I fell on that ball for all I was worth. I sliced it; yes, I sliced it badly."

[Illustration: "… and threw it in the pond"]

Chilvers paused and seemed lost in thought.

"Did it hit her?" asked Boyd.

"Of course it hit her," resumed Chilvers. "Aunt Sarah Emeline is more than plump, and since it did not hit her in the head I can't see how it could have hurt her. She certainly was able to stoop down, pick up that ball and throw it in the pond—and it was a new ball. I ran toward her and apologised the best I could, and what she said to me made a lasting impression. I suppose, Smith, that it was the most expensive sliced ball ever driven on these links?"

"Very likely," I sadly replied. "The following day I received a letter from Aunt Sarah Emeline informing me that she had cut me out of her will. And you still slice abominably, Chilvers."

"Thus you see that Smith has solid reasons for his prejudice against the gentler sex as golfists," concluded Chilvers.

I entered a general denial, and the conversation drifted into other channels. As a matter of fact, my dislike of the woman golfer is based on different grounds.

A pretty woman is a most glorious creature, and I yield to no one in my admiration of the fair sex, but a woman is out of her proper environment when she persists in frequenting a golf course designed for men who are experts at the game.

When I see women on the broad verandas of the Woodvale Club, or when I see them strolling along the shaded paths or indulging in tennis, croquet, and other games to which they are physically fitted, I know that they possess tact and discrimination, but when I see them ahead of me on the golf links—well, it is different.

Women may gain in health by attempting to play golf, but they do so at the expense of shattered masculine nerves and morals. When our board of management decided to permit the ladies to have free use of the course at all times except when tournaments are in progress, I resigned as director, but what good did it do?

A woman never is so tenacious of her rights as when she is in the wrong.
I wonder if that is original?

I know of no agony more acute than to be condemned to play golf with women when there is a chance to get in a foursome with good scratch men. The dyspeptic compelled to fast while watching the progress of a banquet, must suffer similar torture.

"What's the use of sitting here and talking?" demanded Chilvers. "It has cooled off; let's have a foursome. Marshall and I will play you and Boyd, Smith. What do you say?"

At this instant the head waiter appeared and said Mr. Thomas wished me to come to his table for a moment. Thomas was on the other side of the veranda, but I had a suspicion of what was in store for me and arose with a sinking heart.

Thomas is the only good player in the club who is willing to make up a foursome with women, or, as it is most properly called, a "mixed foursome." I never saw one which was not mixed before many holes had been played.

Just as I anticipated, I found Thomas at a table with Miss Ross and Miss
Dangerfield. Both are so pretty it is a shame they attempt to play golf.

"We are planning a foursome and Miss Dangerfield has chosen you for her partner," began Thomas, who knows exactly how I feel about such matters and who delights to lure me into trouble.

"If you and Miss Dangerfield will give Miss Ross and me two strokes," proposed Thomas, "we will play you for the dinners."

I felt sure it was a put-up job, but what could I say?

"I did not dare choose you for my partner, Mr. Smith," interposed Miss Dangerfield. "I know it is tiresome for a good player to go pottering around the links with women at his heels, and only suggested a game if you had no other engagements."

"Mr. Smith dare not plead another engagement," asserted Miss Ross, her dark eyes flashing a challenge. She is a lovely girl, but digs up the turf terribly.

"Smith has no game on. He has been over there talking for an hour," added Thomas, before I could say a word. I could have murdered him.

"I am delighted, and it is kind of you to ask me," I lied most effusively. "It is an easy game for us, Miss Dangerfield."

"Do not be too sure," scornfully laughed Miss Rosa. "Mr. Thomas is a splendid player."

"But he cannot equal Mr. Smith," declared my loyal partner. "Oh, Mr. Smith, I have heard so much of your long drives and wonderful approach shots! It is so good of you to play with us."

"It is an unexpected pleasure," I replied, rather ashamed of myself.

I have no patience to describe in detail the game which followed. I am usually sure on a drive, but I topped five out of the eighteen and popped half of the others into the air.

Miss Dangerfield distinguished herself by missing her ball four successive times from the tee. This is not the female record for this feat, so I am informed, but it is a very creditable performance for a young lady who selects a scratch player for her partner.

Miss Ross played my ball by mistake on two occasions, and on one of them succeeded in almost cutting it in half. It is a mystery to me why a woman cannot keep track of her own ball, when as a rule she does not knock it more than twenty yards.

The ball she hits is usually a dirty, hacked-up object, but when she goes to look for it she imagines that by some miracle it has been transformed into a clean, white, and unmarked sphere, which has been driven for the first time.

Carter arrived at the club shortly after our "mixed foursome" had started out. He took my place, he and Boyd playing Marshall and Chilvers. Our orbits crossed several times.

Miss Dangerfield found three balls. One of them belonged to Chilvers, and he saw her find it, but he is a perfect gentleman and did not say a word. It was the one redeeming incident in the game.

Miss Dangerfield confided to me that she is making a collection of balls.

"I am awfully lucky," she said, looking critically at Chilvers' ball. "Whenever I find one I keep it as a memento of the game; that is, of course, if it is nice and clean like