of us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fair
chance. You know what I mean--with Her. At present we've got each other
stymied. Now, how would it be,' said Peter, abstractedly spreading
marmalade on his bacon, 'if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, the
loser to leg out of the neighbourhood and stay away long enough to give
the winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood?'
James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye with
his fork.
'That's exactly the idea I got last night, too.'
'Then it's a go?'
'It's the only thing to do.'
There was silence for a moment. Both men were thinking. Remember, they
were friends. For years they had shared each other's sorrows, joys, and
golf-balls, and sliced into the same bunkers.
Presently Peter said:
'I shall miss you.'
'What do you mean, miss me?'
'When you're gone. Woodhaven won't seem the same place. But of course
you'll soon be able to come back. I sha'n't waste any time proposing.'
'Leave me your address,' said James, 'and I'll send you a wire when you
can return. You won't be offended if I don't ask you to be best man at
the wedding? In the circumstances it might be painful to you.'
Peter sighed dreamily.
'We'll have the sitting-room done in blue. Her eyes are blue.'
'Remember,' said James, 'there will always be a knife and fork for you
at our little nest. Grace is not the woman to want me to drop my
bachelor friends.'
'Touching this match,' said Peter. 'Strict Royal and Ancient rules, of
course?'
'Certainly.'
'I mean to say--no offence, old man--but no grounding niblicks in
bunkers.'
'Precisely. And, without hinting at anything personal, the ball shall
be considered holed-out only when it is in the hole, not when it stops
on the edge.'
'Undoubtedly. And--you know I don't want to hurt your feelings--missing
the ball counts as a stroke, not as a practice-swing.'
'Exactly. And--you'll forgive me if I mention it--a player whose ball
has fallen in the rough, may not pull up all the bushes within a radius
of three feet.'
'In fact, strict rules.'
'Strict rules.'
They shook hands without more words. And presently Peter walked out,
and James, with a guilty look over his shoulder, took down Sandy
MacBean's great work from the bookshelf and began to study the
photograph of the short approach-shot showing Mr. MacBean swinging from
Point A, through dotted line B-C, to Point D, his head the while
remaining rigid at the spot marked with a cross. He felt a little
guiltily that he had stolen a march on his friend, and that the contest
