It was the ball which we less-favoured golfers dream shall some day be ours to command; the ball which starts low, rises in a concave curve, and ends its trajectory in a slight slant to the left—­the low, hooked ball.  It was not a phenomenally long drive; about two hundred yards, I should say, but for the apparent effort expended I have never seen a more perfect shot.

“Why in thunder don’t you hit it hard, Wallace?” demanded Bishop.  “Soak it, man, soak it!  That was only a love tap.”

I would rather have stood in the shoes of that “hired man,” and listened to the comments of those three girls, than to rival the eloquence of Demosthenes, and withstand the surges of the applause of admiring thousands.

“Let me drive two or three easy ones, Mr. Bishop,” Wallace said, placing another ball on the turf, “and then I will press a bit, and see if I have lost the feel of a full swing.”

It was a wonderful exhibition of clean, long driving.  He teed a dozen balls, and I doubt if one of them fell fifteen yards outside the line of the lone walnut tree which had been selected as the target.  The ground was fairly level, and Mr. Bishop and I paced the distance to the outer ball.  We agreed that it was about two hundred and forty yards from the point driven, and seven of the twelve balls were found within a radius of fifteen yards.  In fact all of them would have been on or near the edge of a large putting green.

I have seen longer driving, but nothing equalling it in accuracy or consistency.

“It is very much better than I had expectation of doing,” said Wallace.  “That is a well-balanced club of yours, Mr. Smith, but a bit too short and whippy for me.”

He good-naturedly consented to try lofting and approaching shots.  On the start he was a little unsteady, due probably to lack of familiarity with my clubs, which are made to conform with some of my pet hobbies.  After a few minutes’ practise he got the hang of them and did really brilliant work.

With a mashie at one hundred and twenty yards he dropped ball after ball within a short distance of a stake which served to indicate a cup.  He picked them clean from the turf, lofting them with that back-spin which causes them to drop almost dead.  It was the golf I have always claimed to be within the range of possibility, but I never hoped to see it executed.  Even Bishop was impressed with the skill displayed by his employee, and as the balls soared true from his club, like quoits from the hand of a sturdy expert, the farmer grinned his appreciation.

“I don’t know much about this here game, Jack,” he said, as Wallace rejoined us, “but it looks to me as if this man of mine has you Woodvale fellows skinned a mile.  Tell you what I’ll do!  I’ll back him for ten dollars against any man you’ve got.”

“I am not eligible to play in Woodvale,” observed Wallace, a peculiar smile hovering on his lips, “so it is useless to discuss that.”