If there be any soil where hope absolutely runs riot it is in the breast of a golfer.  The fond mother who cozens herself into the faith that her boy will some day be President of the United States builds on the same foundation as the duffer who enters a competition in which he is outclassed.

Personally I can see no reason why I shall not some day win the international golf championship, and I have strong expectations of doing so, but know perfectly well that I will not.  It is a peculiar but delightful complication of mind.

Carter had the best qualifying score, making the round in a consistent eighty.  Marshall was second with an eighty-two, Boyd and LaHume were tied with eighty-four each, and I came in fifth with one more.  Chilvers, Pepper, and Thomas also qualified, but the cup should lie among the first five.

Candour compels me to admit that on form it should come to a struggle between Carter and Marshall; but if I get into the finals with either of these gentlemen I shall play with confidence of winning.

A most astounding thing has happened!  If I were incorporating these events in a narrative or a novel I presume I would reserve the statement I am about to make until the finish, so as to form an effective climax—­and on reflection I have decided to do so in these notes.  So I will begin at the beginning.

The second day after our visit to Bishop’s, Miss Lawrence called me aside on the veranda, and I could see that some great secret had possession of her.

“I wish to ask a favour of you, Mr. Smith,” she said, after beating about the brush for a minute.

“Anything at my command is yours,” I said.

“I have come to you,” she said, “because I know that you are one of the members of the club who can keep a secret.  Not that this is any tremendous affair,” she added, a blush faintly touching her cheek, “but I don’t care to have everybody know it.”

I assured her that wild horses could not drag from me any confidence reposed.

“I want to borrow some of your clubs,” she faltered.

“My clubs?”

“Yes; some old ones which you do not use regularly.”

“You may have any or all the clubs I have,” I assured her.  “When do you wish them?”

“Right now.”

She was silent a moment, and I was too mystified to frame any comment.

“I am going to tell you all about it,” she impulsively declared, laying her little hand on my arm.  “I want them for Mr. Wallace!”

“Mr. Wallace?” I repeated.  At that instant I could not think whom she meant.

“Mr. Bishop’s assistant.”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed.  By a mighty effort I kept from smiling.  It was the first time I had heard a “hired man” called an “assistant,” and I have heard them called many names.

“Do you remember that at the dinner I said Mr. Wallace had promised to teach me the St. Andrews swing?” she asked, her eyes bright with excitement.