“Indoor golf!” says Old Hickory, readin’ the instruction pamphlet.  “Oh, I see!  A putting green.  Set it there on the rug, Marston.  Now, let’s see if I’ve forgotten how to putt.”

We all gathers around while he tries to roll the balls into the cups.  Out of six tries he lands just one.  Next time he don’t get any at all.

“Pooh!” says the Doc edgin’ up int’rested.  “Wretched putting form, Ellins, wretched!  Don’t tap it that way:  sweep it along—–­follow through, with your right elbow out.  Here, let me show you!”

But Hirshway don’t do much better.  He manages to get two in; but one was a rank scratch.

“Ho-ho!” cackles Old Hickory.  “Isn’t so easy as it looks, eh, Hirshway?  Now it’s my turn again, and I’m betting ten I beat you.”

“I take you,” says the Doc.

And blamed if Old Hickory don’t pull down the money!

Well, that’s what started things.  Next I knew they’d laid out a regular golf course, drivin’ off from the rug in front of the desk, through the double doors into the drawin’ room, then across the hall into the music room, around the grand piano to the left, through the back hall, into the lib’ry once more, and onto the tin green.

Marston is sent to dig out a couple sets of old golf clubs from the attic, and he is put to caddyin’ for the Doc, while I carries the bag for the boss.  Course they was usin’ putters mostly, except for fancy loftin’ strokes over bunkers that they’d built out of books and sofa pillows.  And as the balls was softer than the regulation golf kind, with more bounce to ’em, all sorts of carom strokes was ruled in.

“No moving the chairs,” announces Old Hickory.  “All pieces of furniture are natural hazards.”

“Agreed,” says the Doc.  “Playing stimies too, I suppose?”

“Stimies go,” says the boss.

Say, maybe that wa’n’t some batty performance, with them two old duffers golfin’ all over the first floor of a Fifth-ave. house, disputin’ about strokes, pokin’ balls out from under tables and sofas, and me and Marston followin’ along with the bags.  They got as excited over it as if they’d been playin’ for the International Championship, and when Old Hickory loses four strokes by gettin’ his ball wedged in a corner he cuts loose with the real golfy language.

We was just finishin’ the first round, with the score standin’ fourteen to seventeen in favor of the Doc, when the front doorbell rings and a maid comes towin’ in Piddie.  Maybe his eyes don’t stick out some too, as he takes in the scene, But Mr. Ellins is preparin’ to make a shot for position in front of the green and he don’t pay any attention.

“It’s Mr. Piddie, Sir,” says I.

“Hang Mr. Piddie!” says Old Hickory.  “I can’t see him now.”

“But it’s very important,” says Piddie.  “There’s someone at the office who——­”

“No, no, not now!” snaps the boss impatient.