split with Harry the proceeds from your friend. That'll satisfy me."
"Let my partner get started," retorted Jay, the fight in him aroused. "He's nervous and'll improve."
"He'll have to, old top," agreed Harris, appreciatively. "You can't, unless you're counting on cutting out putts altogether and sinking your approach shots."
"This game is young," returned Jay, stubbornly.
"Oh, all right," Harris accepted, "if you're pleased. We got to look out, Ram. We'd have lost that hole, d'you realize, if Rountree had just sunk his drive. That's all he had to do."
Jay hurried on to his partner, who was walking alone, and patted him on the back.
Phil flushed gratefully and responded with a terrific, smacking swing which soared his ball a clean two hundred yards, out of bounds. On the seventh hole, a similar smack stayed on the course and Harris lost a ball; Metten and Rountree won that hole and halved the ninth, so they turned only six down. Phil, on the nine, had taken sixtyeight strokes.
"Pardon the not unnatural curiosity," appealed Ramsey, accompanying Jay down the fairway from the tenth tee. Phil's second swing on his drive had sliced his ball into a forest at the right and, with uncountable crashes; he was hacking his way out. "Who is yon bald Bobby Jones? Do you mind taking us into the secret of your mercy? Why do you let him live?"
"Why?" asked Jay.
"It will make it more comfortable for us, when cashing your check, if we know what's in it for you," explained
