The meeting took place on the following Sunday afternoon.  The officers greeted the General agreeably enough, but saluted McTavish with the stiffness that the occasion called for.

“Well, Senores,” commenced the General, after depositing his visitors in the most comfortable chairs, “to business.  Mr. McTavish, as you will admit, has the choice of weapons.”

The officers nodded assent.

“This gentleman,” continued O’Flynnone, “comes of that most noble and warlike race—­the Scotch.  Fiercest of fighters, although they do not sometimes look it, the warriors of Scotland alone among all nations withstood the ravages of the conquering English.  I feel sorry, very sorry for the ‘caballero’ whom you have the honour to represent.”

The pause which followed was most impressive.  The General’s air was suggestive of dire things, as with dramatic suddenness he produced from beneath the sideboard two enormous double-edged battle-axes, which careful polishing had made to shine as new.

“These,” said he, “are the weapons which Mr. McTavish has chosen—­weapons of men, such as they use in his own country,” he continued, brandishing one of them savagely.  “And the fight will be on barebacked horses, for such is the custom of the Scotch.”

The duel did not occur.

* * * * *

THE GAME OF HIS LIFE.

I met the mercurial Gosling at the club a few days ago.  As I hadn’t seen him for some time I asked if he had been on a holiday.  “Yes,” he said, “down at Shinglestrand.  Golfing?  No—­yes.  I did play one game, the first since the War, and rather a remarkable game it was.  I’m a member of the golf-club there, and was down at the clubhouse one morning looking at the papers when a fat middle-aged man, about my age, asked me if I cared for a game.  I didn’t, but in a spirit of self-sacrifice said that I should be very glad.  ‘I think I ought to tell you,’ he went on, ’that I don’t care about playing with a 18-handicap man, and that I always like to have a sovereign on the match.’  Now I never was much of a player—­too erratic, I suppose.  My handicap has gone up from 12 to 18, and the last time I played it was about 24.  But, exasperated by his swank, I suddenly found myself saying, ‘My handicap is 12.’  ‘Very well,’ replied the fat man, ‘I’ll give you 4 strokes.’  We went out to the first tee, and after he had made a moderate shot I hit the drive of my life.  My second landed on the green and I ran down a long putt—­this for a 4-bogey hole.  I’m not going to bore you with details.  I won the second and third holes, and then the fat man went to pieces.  I never wanted any of my strokes and downed him by 5 and 3.  As we re-entered the club-house my partner, who had become strangely silent, walked up to the board which gives the list of handicaps and looked at them.  There was my name with 18 opposite it.  ‘I thought you said your handicap was 12,’ he observed.  ‘Well,’