We did that!  I would not believe it, but I actually felt sorry for the chaps who went past us, their minds absorbed in the mere struggle to see which would take the fewer numbers of strokes in putting golf balls in certain round holes.  Honestly I pitied them.

And they envied me.  I could see that.  The arrival of Miss Harding has created a sensation, and it was no small honour to play the first game with her.  Of course Marshall, Chilvers, Pepper and other married men hardly noticed me, but Thomas, Boyd, Roberts and such young gallants smiled, bowed and looked longingly in my direction.

It took us more than five hours to play twelve holes, and I have played twice around in less than that.  I have not the slightest idea what my score is, and that is something which never before happened to me.  Carter wins a dozen balls, and he can have them, or a dozen dozen for all I care.

Miss Harding has promised to play with me again.

ENTRY NO.  VII

TWO BOYS FROM BUCKFIELD

When Harding was in the city he purchased a huge golf bag, the most wonderful assortment of clubs imaginable, also two golf suits and a bewildering array of shirts, caps, scarfs, shoes and other articles that some dealers assured him were necessary for the proper playing of the game.

“If I have got to play this fool game, and I suppose there is no way I can get out of it,” he said to me, looking down disdainfully at his knickerbockered legs and taking an extra hitch on his new leather belt, “I may as well have the regulation uniform.  How do I look?”

I told him the suit was very becoming.  He was a sight!  On his huge, bushy head was a Scotch cap, and it is certain that no clan stands sponsor for that bewildering plaid.  The silk shirt was a beauty, but it did not harmonise with the burning red of his coat, with its cuffs and collar of vivid green.

His trousers were of another plaid, but I should say that his stockings were the dominating feature of his make-up.  They were of green and gray, the stripes running around instead of up and down, the effect being, of course, to emphasise the appearance of stoutness.  When you pull a thick stocking or legging over an eighteen-inch calf you have done something which compels even those who are near-sighted and blase to sit up and give attention.

Harding’s feet are of generous proportions, and his tan shoes with their thick, broad soles armed with big spikes to keep him from slipping looked most impressive.

He was the personification of newness.  The leather of his bag was flawless, and the grips of his clubs were new and glossy.  The steel and nickel of his iron clubs shone without one flaw to dim their lustre.  In the pocket of his bag were a dozen new balls, so white and gleaming that it seemed a shame to use them.  I could see that the art collection of balls being made by Miss Dangerfield would take on a boom from the advent of Harding.