“Pretty fair sort of a stick,” he observed, swinging it clumsily and viciously, “but I’d rather have one of those hickory roots we used to cut for shinny when I was a boy.  Go ahead and soak it, Carter, so that I may know what I’ve got to beat.”

I mentally resolved to press even at the chance of flubbing.  Carter hit the ball too low, and it sailed into the air barely clearing the lane, stopping not more than one hundred and fifty yards away.

“That’s not so much,” said Harding, grimly.  “Bat her out, Smith, and then watch your Uncle Dudley!”

I carefully teed a new ball and took a practise swing or two.  I felt morally certain that Harding could not beat Carter’s drive, poor as it was, but I was anxious to show him how a golf ball will fly when properly struck.

I fell on that ball for one of the longest and cleanest drives I ever made, and it did not stop rolling until it was twenty yards past the two-hundred-yard post.  I was properly proud of that shot, and despite his loud talk I felt a sort of pity for Harding.

“Is that considered a fairly good shot?” he asked.

“It was a good one for Smith, or for that matter for anyone,” replied Carter, who was a bit sore that he had fallen down.

“It looks easy for me,” calmly declared Harding stepping up to the tee.  “Can you make as high a pile of sand as you want to?”

“Yes, but it is better to tee it close to the ground,” advised Carter.  “If you tee it high you are apt to go under it.”

Ignoring Carter’s advice he reached into the box, scooped out a double-handful of sand and piled it in a pyramid at least four inches high.  On the apex of this he placed a new ball I had taken from my bag, and which I felt reasonably certain would be cut in two in the improbable event that he hit it.  He stood back and surveyed his preparations with evident satisfaction.

[Illustration:  “... but there was blood in his eye”]

It was impossible for Carter and me to keep our faces straight, but Harding paid no attention to us.

“I ought to be able to hit that, all right,” he said, walking around the sand pile and viewing it from all sides.  Then he stood back and took a practise swing.

He stood square on both feet, his legs spread as far apart as he could extend them.  He grasped the shaft of the club with both hands, holding the left one underneath.  His practise swing was the typical baseball stroke used by all novices, and I saw at a glance that in all probability he would go under his ball.

“The blamed club is too light, but I suppose it’s the best you’ve got,” he said.  “It feels like a willow switch.  Well, stand back and give me lots of room.  Here goes!”

As he grasped the club I saw the muscles of his right forearm stand out like whipcords.  His face was wrinkled in a frown, but there was, blood in his eye.

Carter and I stood well away so as to escape a flying club-head.  I cannot describe how Harding made that swing; it was done so quickly that I only noted what followed.