passed him in the race. Every time he had the chance to carry through some big deal in hay, or to execute some flashing coup in corn and feet, the fatal difference generated by a hundred rotten rounds would undo him. I understand his bankruptcy may be expected at any moment."
"My golly!" said the young man, deeply impressed. "I hope I never become a goof. Do you mean to say there is really no cure except giving up the game?"
The Oldest Member was silent for a while.
"It is curious that you should have asked that question," he said at last, "for only this morning I was thinking of the one case in my experience where a goof was enabled to overcome his deplorable malady. It was owing to a girl, of course. The longer I live, the more I come to see that most things are. But as you will no doubt wish to hear the story from the beginning"
The young man rose with the startled haste of some wild creature which, wandering through the undergrowth, perceives the trap in his path.
"I should love to," he mumbled, "only I shall be losing my place at the tee."
"The goof in question," said the Sage, attaching himself with quiet firmness to the youth's coat-button, "was a man of about your age, by name Ferdinand Dibble. I knew him well. In fact, it was to me"
"Some other time, eh?"
"It was to me," proceeded the Sage, placidly, "that he came for sympathy in the great crisis of his life, and I am not ashamed to say that when he had finished laying bare his soul to me there were tears in my eyes. My heart bled for the boy."
"I bet it did. But"
The Oldest Member pushed him gently back into his seat.
"Golf," he said, "is the Great Mystery. Like some capricious goddess"
The young man, who had been exhibiting symptoms of feverishness, appeared to become resigned. He sight softly.
"Did you ever read 'The Ancient Mariner'?" he said.
"Many years ago," said the Oldest Member. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the young man. "It just occurred to me."
GOLF (resumed the Oldest Member) is the Great Mystery. Like some capricious goddess, it bestows its favours with what would appear an almost fatheaded lack of method and discrimination. On every side we see big two-fisted he-men floundering round in three figures, stopping every few minutes to let through little shrimps with knock knees and hollow cheeks who are tearing off snappy seventy-fours. Giants of finance have to accept a stroke per from their junior clerks. Men capable of governing empires fail to control a small white ball which presents no difficulties whatever to others with one ounce more brain than a cuckoo-clock. Mysterious, but there it is. There was no apparent reason why Ferdinand Dibble should not have been a competent golfer. He had strong wrists and a good eye. Nevertheless, the fact remains that he was a dub. And on a certain evening in June I realized that he was also a goof. I found it out quite suddenly as the result of a conversation which we had on this very terrace.
I was sitting here that evening, thinking of this and that, when by the corner of the club-house I observed young Dibble in conversation with a girl in white. I could not see who she was, for her back was turned. Presently they parted, and Ferdinand came slowly across to where I sat. His air was dejected. He had had the boots licked off him earlier in the afternoon by Jimmy Fothergill, and it was to this that I attributed his gloom. I was to find out in a few moments that I was partly but not entirely correct in this surmise. He took the next chair to mine and for several minutes sat staring moodily down into the valley.
"I've just been talking to Barbara Medway," he said, suddenly breaking the silence.
"Indeed?" I said. "A delightful girl."
"She's going away for the summer to Marvis Bay."
"She will take the sunshine with her."
"You bet she will!" said Ferdinand Dibble, with extraordinary warmth, and there was another long silence.
Presently Ferdinand uttered a hollow groan.
"I love her, dammit!" he muttered, brokenly. "Oh, golly, how I love her!"
I was not surprised at his making me the recipient of his confidences like this. Most of the young folk in the place brought their troubles to me sooner or later.
"And does she return your love?"
"I don't know. I haven't asked her."
"Why not? I should have thought the point not without its interest for you."
Ferdinand gnawed the handle of his putter distractedly.
"I haven't the nerve," he burst out at length. "I simply can't summon up the cold gall to ask a girl, least of all an angel like her, to marry me. You see, it's like this. Every time I work myself up to the point of having a dash at it, I go out and get trimmed by someone giving me a stroke a hole. Every time I feel I've mustered up enough pep to propose, I take a ten on a
