“I’ll bet you cannot,” I declared, angry that he should class Carter above me.

“Bet I cannot beat my Grace?” he exclaimed.  I told him that such was my opinion.

“Of course I can beat you, papa,” laughed Miss Harding.  “You have never played, and know nothing of the game.  I can beat you easily.”

“Talk of the insolence and ingratitude of children!” he gasped.  “Kid, I’m astonished at you!  I’ll teach both of you a lesson.  What do you want to bet, Smith?”

I suggested that a box of balls would suit me as a bet.

“Box of monkeys!” exclaimed Harding.  “I thought you were a sport, Smith!  A box of balls don’t last me as long as a box of cigarettes does Carter.  Tell you what I’ll do.  We’ll all keep track of our shots, and for every one I beat her you pay me a box of balls, and for every one she beats me I pay you a box of balls.  How does that strike you?”

“Take him up, Mr. Smith,” said Miss Harding, a smile on her lips and a meaning glance in her eyes.  I would not have hesitated had I known it would have cost me every dollar in the world.

“You are on, Mr. Harding,” I said.

“We’ll teach you a good lesson, Papa Harding,” she declared, with a confidence which surprised me.  “You have never seen me play.”

He roared with laughter.

“Talk about David and Goliath!” he exclaimed.  “Tell you what I’ll do, Kid.  I’ll make you a small bet on the side.  You remember that sixty horse-power buzz wagon we were looking at in the city the other day?”

“The one in red that I admired so much?” asked Miss Harding.

“Yes, the one you tried to soft soap me into buying.  Tell you what I’ll do.  If you beat me I’ll buy that machine for you, and if I beat you I get a new hat which you pay for out of your pin money.”

“It’s a shame to take advantage of you, papa, dear,” she hesitated, “but I want that machine awfully, and I’ll make the wager.”

[Illustration:  “... and missed the ball by three inches”]

“If you never get it until you beat me at this shinny game you will wait a long time,” he declared.  “Who shoots first?”

“Miss Harding and I will be partners,” suggested Carter, before I could get the words out of my mouth.

“Since I am interested in Miss Harding’s play to the extent of a box of balls a stroke, I claim the right to act as her partner and adviser,” I said, looking hard at Carter.

“Mr. Smith and I will be partners,” said Miss Harding, and it was the happiest moment of my life.

“I don’t care who are partners,” said Harding, stepping up to the tee.  “I’ll shoot first, and you keep your eye on your Uncle Dudley!”

He piled up a hill of sand, gripped his club like grim death, drew back, swung with all his might—­and missed the ball by three inches.

“One stroke!” laughed Miss Harding.

“That don’t count!” he declared.  “I didn’t hit the blamed thing at all!  Look at it!  It’s just where I fixed it a minute ago.  Don’t cheat, Kid!”