"Oh, what a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive," even to deceive ourselves.

Thus does this score counting and this yearning for one's record round breed a moral cowardice in such men. There is only one score to count, and that is the one which would be passed according to the rules of stroke play. If golfers must count scores they must be just to themselves, and they must not even temper their justice with any mercy, for the laws of golf are inexorable, and in them there is no mercy.

IX

There are many who hold that the most exasperating opponent of all is he who is afflicted with an amazing indecision when about to make his very shortest putts. For a minute he will stand with his putter to the ball as if in abject fear of his fate, and surely at such a time there are strange fancies flying through his brain. They must be like the fancies of a drowning man. It was agreed among a company of his friends that these must be the jerky thoughts of such a man whom they well know when he was engaged gloomily upon the dreaded task of putting a ball that lay eighteen inches from the hole, the little patch of putting green that intervened being perfectly smooth and level:-

This is a very simple job,

And when I have holed the ball

I shall be certain of my half-crown.

Still, I must be careful. It is very easy to miss these short putts;

And I have missed many thousands, costing me

Many pounds - scores of pounds.

And now that I am up against it,

And looking at this putt,

It does not seem quite so easy as it did at first.

It will require most careful management - a most delicate tap,

And very accurate gauging of strength.

One needs to be very cool and deliberate over these things.

One's nerves, and stomach, and liver must be in prime condition.

I wish I had not been out to dinner last night.

Was it Willie Park or Ben Sayers

Who said that the man who could putt could beat anybody?

I believe him - Willie or Ben.

This is really a most awkward putt.

The green looks slower than the others. It is very rough.

Why don't the committee sack the greenkeeper,

Who ought to be a market gardener ?

It is like a bunker between

My ball and the hole. Such very rough stuff.

One, two, three - six - nine - why!

There are eleven big blades of grass

Sticking up like the rushes at Westward Ho!

The grass becomes so very stiff and wiry in this very hot weather.

(Yes, it is too hot to putt properly.)

My ball will never break through this grass.

It is one of the hardest putts I have ever seen.

I wish I had more loft on my putter.

I was an ass not to bring that other one out from my locker,

Where it is eating its head off (so to speak).

I think, also, that a little cut would do this putt a lot of good.

But how ? The green slopes from the left;

Yet it seemed to slope from the right.

Also, it goes downwards to the hole.

This is a perfect devil of a putt!

I know my stance for putting is not good,

But Harry Vardon says that every man has his own stance,

So perhaps it is all right.

But I had better move my left foot; it seems in the way.

I see that two - four - six - seven of the pimples on this ball

Are quite flat.

Nobody can putt with a ball like that.

A man ought to be allowed to change his ball

Even on the green at times like this.

I must allow for those pimples.

Confound that fellow Brown!

He seems to be waiting.

And he is smoking his dirty shag so much

That I can hardly see the hole for smoke.

If I lose this hole I shall lose the match.

I am quite with Johnny Low in his new idea for handicapping,

When he says some of us should be allowed to play

Our bad shots over again.

In that case I would have one good smack at this ball

To get the strength and the hang of

Everything. And I am certain - yes, I am quite absolutely certain-

That I would hole the ball next time.

However, what does it matter?

Better men then I have missed such putts,

And I am not a chicken - live a hard life - lot of work-

Office to-night - awful day to-morrow.

And as the wife was saying-

Let me see. Oh! hang this putt!

He can have his half-crown if he wants it,

Uut I am going to have one good smack

At this ball. Now-

No, that was wrong. Now, yes, yes-

..................

My godfathers!

And my godmothers!

I have missed that putt again!

[ 11'hen the ball came to a standstill it was just an inch ami a half short of the hole, and considerably to the left of the proper line to the middle.}

X

Some of those cantankerous people who have no sympathy with games, and but a limited confidence in the wise precept that the healthy mind is most frequently to be found in association with the healthy body - practical people they like to call themselves -will sometimes ask you what is the good of golf. It is generally useless to attempt to humour them by advancing the proposition that it returns a dividend of fifty per cent, in mental and physical efficiency, and seventy-five in the general happiness of the subject.

What are really the least convincing examples of the practical value of golf are the most effective in argument against such folks. With them it may count a word in favour of the game that a man once playing it found that his ball from a full drive came to rest on a sixpence which had evidently dropped through a hole in the pocket of a previous player. Here, indeed, was a material practical gain! They will be impressed also with the possibilities of the game when they are told a little story of how a man, who was not in quest of art treasures at the time, discovered an old master accidentally, and entirely through the medium of his golf. It was in this way. A Montreal art dealer was playing the game on a country course one day in 1903, when he sliced a ball so badly that away it went through the window of a cottage hard by. Thereupon there came out from it an old lady, a French Canadian, who was possessed of remarkable power of speech, of which the golfer was given much evidence. Presently, when her attack was somewhat exhausted, the poor golfer offered to recompense her for the damage done to the window; but then it was put to him that the broken glass was not the only casualty. The ball, after passing through the window, had continued its course of destruction by breaking the glass that covered the picture; and without making any examination of the nature of this damage the player agreed that he would give a matter of a pound for the picture besides paying for the broken window. This soothed the feelings of the lady of the cottage, and she pressed upon him the picture, for the damage to which he had paid so handsomely. He took it away with him, and at home in the evening he was led in a spirit of curiosity to make some examination of it, when, to his astonishment, he discovered that it was a Dutch interior by Teniers, which he sold a few days later for £500. To the credit of this golfer be it said, he sent a cheque for half the amount to the cottager. This is an excellent story to tell to the absurd and practical people, and a true one.