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 It was a grisly sight to see the professor, head and shoulders above the ditch, hewing at his obstinate Haskell.

"Sixteen!" said the professor at last between his teeth. Then, having made one or two further comments, he stooped and picked up his ball.

"I give you this hole," he said.

We walked on.

I won the seventh hole.

I won the eighth hole.

The ninth we halved, for in the black depth of my soul I had formed a plan of fiendish subtlety. I intended to allow him to win—with extreme labor—eight holes in succession.

Then, when hope was once more strong in him, I would win the last, and he would go mad.

I watched him carefully as we trudged on. Emotions chased one another across