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 Jay had played a few rounds with them, spotting them six strokes on eighteen holes. At that he had made a little money.

Phil Metten was delighted to meet them and preferred greatly playing foursome, as partner of Jay Rountree. He gave the impression, indeed, that he had come to Tryston to team with Jay.

"How do you shoot?" Harris inquired of Phil, cautiously.

"Me," said Metten, temporizing, as the fairway, the bunkers and the distant, very distant flagged hole (to be reached in five par strokes) for the moment dismayed him. He realized, with a sudden sinking, how completely he was out of his class. Yet at all costs he would play as partner with Jay Rountree and against these nice young society men. Prominent, probably, they were, too; at least in Pittsburgh. Phil Metten's name might be with theirs in newspapers to-morrow. "I don't know just how I will shoot this course," said Phil modestly. "I just came this morning. Is it very sporty?"

"Par is seventy-two," explained Jay.

"Par is little in Rountree's life," commented Ramsey, ruefully. "He's cracked it twice. He averages seventy-six. Harris and I kid ourselves that we're steady eighty-two."

Phil, with his assurance in his boots, calculated how recklessly he dared endorse himself. Once, memorable day, when the Gods of Fair Beginnings had bounced back to the fairway, from trees out of bounds, four badly sliced drives and when Phil, privately, had subtracted several swings which, having missed the ball, he had called mere practice, he had broken a hundred. In fact, he had given