“You talk about driving six hundred yards to that green,” I said, annoyed at his ignorant nerve, “I will bet you a box of cigars that you do not carry that railroad track in a month.”

“Don’t be foolish, Smith.”

“Do you wish to bet?”

“Of course I do,” he replied, teeing a ball, “and we’ll get action on it in about ten seconds.  Just keep your eye on this ball!”

Disdaining to take a practice stroke, he swung viciously at it.  He must have caught it on the toe of his club, for it sliced to the right in a low and sweeping curve.

As I followed its flight I saw a farm wagon in the road.  The driver had stopped his team, and was standing up watching Harding.  I recognised Farmer Bishop, and noted that his sallow face was distorted in a disdainful grin, which froze on his lips when he saw the ball curving toward him.

It is difficult for an experienced golfer to dodge a sliced drive, even when he has a chance to run to one side or the other, but all that Bishop could do was to duck, which he did, with the result that the ball hit his left temple.  He half fell and half jumped to the ground, and was not so badly hurt as to prevent his being the maddest agriculturist I have seen in many years.

He danced up and down at the edge of the road, his hand to his head, warm, loud words flowing in a torrent from his mouth.

Harding dropped his club and we both ran toward the injured man.  Harding was the first to reach the fence, but he did not climb over.

“Did it hit you?” he asked Bishop.

The farmer took one more hop and then turned and faced the railroad magnate.  There was a lump over his eye bigger than a hen’s egg, and on it I could see the bramble marks of the ball.  It was a moment before his rage permitted utterance.  He spit out a mouthful of tobacco so as not to be handicapped.

“Did you hit me; you dod-gasted old poppinjay of a fat dude!” he exclaimed, shaking a brawny, freckled fist at Harding.  “Did you hit me; you flabby old chromo!  Do you suppose I fall out of my wagon and dance up and down this road for exercise; you old boiled lobster?”

“I am very sorry, sir,” said Harding, amusement and growing anger struggling for mastery.  “I wasn’t shooting in this direction.  Something happened to my ball; what do you call it, Smith?”

[Illustration:  “Did it hit you?”]

“You sliced it,” I said.

“That’s it; I sliced it,” declared Harding, as if that were more or less of a valid excuse.

“You come over that fence an’ I’ll slice you!” roared Bishop, taking a step forward.  “Things have come to a fine pass in this country if an honest farmer can’t take his milk to town without riskin’ bein’ murdered by plutocrats with ‘sliced balls’ and all that blankety-blank tommyrot.  Climb over on this side of the fence an’ I’ll lick seven kinds of stuffin’ out of you in erbout a minute.”