By the end of a month we must have played a dozen rounds of this nature.  I always had a feeling that I was really a better golfer than he, and this made me friendly towards his game.  I would concede him short putts which I should have had no difficulty in missing myself; if he lost his ball I would beg him to drop another and go on with the hole; if he got into a bad place in a bunker I would assure him it was ground under repair.  He was just as friendly in refusing to take these advantages, just as pleasant in offering similar indulgences to me.  I thought at first it was part of his sporting way, but it turned out that (absurdly enough) he also was convinced that he was really the better golfer of the two, and could afford these amenities.

One day he announced that he was going back to Canada.

“We must have a last game,” he said, “and this one must be decisive.”

“For the championship of the Empire,” I agreed.  “Let’s buy a little cup and play for it.  I’ve never won anything at golf yet, and I should love to see a little cup on the dinner-table every night.”

“You can’t come to dinner in Canada every night,” he pointed out.  “It would be so expensive for you.”

Well, the cup was bought, engraved “The Empire Challenge Cup,” and played for last Monday.

“This,” said Smith, “is a serious game, and we must play all out.  No giving away anything, no waiving the rules.  The Empire is at stake.  The effeteness of the Mother Country is about to be put to the proof.  Proceed.”

It wasn’t the most pleasant of our games.  The spirit of the cup hung over it and depressed us.  At the third hole I had an eighteen-inch putt for a half.  “That’s all right,” said Smith forgetfully; and then added, “Perhaps you’d better put it in, though.”  Of course I missed.  On the fifth green he was about to brush away a leaf.  “That’s illegal,” I said sharply, “you must pick it up; you mayn’t brush it away,” and after a fierce argument on the point he putted hastily—­and badly.  At the eighteenth tee we were all square and hardly on speaking terms.  The fate of the Mother Country depended upon the result of this hole.

I drove a long one, the longest of the day, slightly hooked.

“Good shot,” said Smith with an effort.  He pressed and foozled badly.  I tried not to look pleased.

We found his ball in a thick clump of heather.  With a grim look on his face, he took out his niblick....

I stayed by him and helped him count up to eight.

“Where’s your ball?” he growled.

“A long way on,” I said reproachfully.  “I wish you’d hurry up.  The poor thing will be getting cold.”

He got to work again.  We had another count together up to fifteen.  Sometimes there would be a gleam of white at the top of the heather for a moment and then it would fade away.

“How many?” I asked some minutes later.

“About thirty.  But I don’t care, I’m going to get the little beast into the hole if it takes me all night.”  He went on hacking.