We made the next ten miles at a rapid gait through one of the finest country-residence sections in this fair land of ours.  Then we entered a sparsely settled agricultural district.  We were opposite a meadow which recently had been mowed.  It was a gentle slope with picturesque rocks flanking its sides, and near the road was a pond.

[Illustration:  “It was not much of a drive”]

“Whoa there, Smith!” shouted Harding.  I jammed on brakes and turned to see what was the matter.

“What is it, papa?” asked Miss Harding.

“This is just the place I’ve been looking for,” he said, standing and surveying the meadow with the eye of an expert.

“What for?”

“To paste a ball in,” he asserted, reaching for his clubs.

“Drive ahead, Jacques Henri!” ordered my charming employer.  “Papa Harding, we’re not going to stop every time you see a place where you wish to drive a ball!”

“Just this once, Kid,” pleaded her father.  “Let me soak a few balls out there, and I won’t say another word until we get to Oak Cliff.  Be good, Grace, we’ve got lots of time.”

“Very well,” she consented, looking at her watch.  “We’ll wait ten minutes for you.”

“Here’s where I get some real practice,” he said, arming himself with a driver and a box of balls.  “Come on, Chilvers, you and Carter help me chase ’em.”

“Robert Harding, you are hopeless!” declared his good wife.  “You have become a perfect golf crank.”

“Let me alone,” he grinned, as he climbed the fence.  “I’m on my vacation.  Keep your eyes on this one, boys!”

Before we started from Woodvale he declared that it was all nonsense to take along a change of clothes, and he was dressed in that wonderful costume, plaids, red coat and all.

We lay back in our seats and smilingly watched his efforts.  He has shown signs of improvement recently, and is imbued with the enthusiasm of the novice who realises that his practice has counted for something.

He drove the first half-dozen balls indifferently, but the next one was really a good one.

“There was a beaut!” he exclaimed, turning to us as the ball disappeared with a bound over the crest of the slope.  “What’s the matter with you folks?  Why don’t you applaud when a man makes a good shot?”

“That’s balls enough, papa, dear,” said Miss Harding.  “By the time you have found them your time will be up.”

“Right you are, Kid,” he admitted.  “I’m proud of that last one, and I’m going to pace it.  Help me pick ’cm up, boys, I’ll drive ’em back, and then we’ll go on.”

He started to pace the distance of the longer ball, counting as he strode along.  When he reached the crest of the slope we could hear him droning, “one hundred twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three,” etc.  Carter was hunting for the balls to the right and Chilvers for those to the left.

The red coat and plaid cap disappeared over the hill.  Miss Dangerfield was chattering about something, I know not what.  I was looking at Miss Harding, and did not hear her.