“And the old cow crossed the road,
     The old cow crossed the road,
     And the reason why it crossed the road
     Was to get to the other side.”

I would repeat that, over and over again, tapping my foot to keep time as I did so.  Then Mac would join in, and perhaps another of our company.  And before long everyone at the table would catch the infection, and either be humming the absurd words or keeping time with his feet, while the others did so.  Sometimes people didn’t care for my song; I remember one old Englishman, with a white moustache and a very red face, who looked as if he might be a retired army officer.  I think he thought we were all mad, and he jumped up at last and rushed from the table, leaving his breakfast unfinished.  But the roar of laughter that followed him made him realize that it was all a joke, and at teatime he helped us to trap some newcomers who’d never heard of the game.

Mac and I were both inclined to be a wee bit boastful.  We hated to admit, both of us, that there was anything we couldna do; I’m a wee bit that way inclined still.  I mind that in Montrose, when we woke up one morning after the most successful concert we had ever given, and so were feeling very extra special, we found a couple o’ gowf balls lyin’ around in our diggings.

“What do ye say tae a game, Mac?” I asked him.

“I’m no sae glide a player, Harry,” he said, a bit dubiously.

For once in a way I was honest, and admitted that I’d never played at all.  We hesitated, but our landlady, a decent body, came in, and made light of our doots.

“Hoots, lads,” she said.  “A’body plays gowf nooadays.  I’ll gie ye the lend of some of our Jamie’s clubs, and it’s no way at a’ to the links,”

Secretly I had nae doot o’ my bein’ able to hit a little wee ball like them we’d found so far as was needful.  I thought the gowf wad be easier than digging for coal wi’ a pick.  So oot we set, carryin’ our sticks, and ready to mak’ a name for ourselves in a new way.

Syne Mac had said he could play a little, I told him he must take the honor and drive off.  He did no look sae grateful as he should ha’ done, but he agreed, at last.

“Noo, Harry, stand weel back, man, and watch where this ball lichts.  Keep your een well doon the coorse, man.”

He began to swing as if he meant to murder the wee ba’, and I strained my een.  I heard him strike, and I looked awa’ doon the coorse, as he had bid me do.  But never hide nor hair o’ the ba’ did I see.  It was awesome.

“Hoots, Mac,” I said, “ye must ha’ hit it an awfu’ swipe.  I never saw it after you hit it.”

He was smiling, but no as if he were amused.

“Aweel, ye wouldna—­ye was looking the wrong way, man,” he said.  “I sort o’ missed my swing that time.  There’s the ba’——­”

He pointed, and sure enough, I saw the puir wee ba’, over to right, not half a dozen yards from the tee, and lookin’ as if it had been cut in twa.  He made to lift it and put it back on the tee, but, e’en an’ I had never played the game I knew a bit aboot the rules.