“We must go round the links together one of these days, Mr. Garnet,” said the professor.  “I have noticed you there on several occasions, playing a strong game.  I have lately taken to using a wooden putter.  It is wonderful what a difference it makes.”

Golf is a great bond of union.  We wandered about the grounds discussing the game, the entente cordiale growing more firmly established every moment.

“We must certainly arrange a meeting,” concluded the professor.  “I shall be interested to see how we stand with regard to one another.  I have improved my game considerably since I have been down here.  Considerably.”

“My only feat worthy of mention since I started the game,” I said, “has been to halve a round with Angus M’Lurkin at St. Andrews.”

“The M’Lurkin?” asked the professor, impressed.

“Yes.  But it was one of his very off days, I fancy.  He must have had gout or something.  And I have certainly never played so well since.”

“Still——­,” said the professor.  “Yes, we must really arrange to meet.”

With Ukridge, who was in one of his less tactless moods, he became very friendly.

Ukridge’s ready agreement with his strictures on the erring Hawk had a great deal to do with this.  When a man has a grievance, he feels drawn to those who will hear him patiently and sympathise.  Ukridge was all sympathy.

“The man is an unprincipled scoundrel,” he said, “and should be torn limb from limb.  Take my advice, and don’t go out with him again.  Show him that you are not a man to be trifled with.  The spilt child dreads the water, what?  Human life isn’t safe with such men as Hawk roaming about.”

“You are perfectly right, sir.  The man can have no defence.  I shall not employ him again.”

I felt more than a little guilty while listening to this duet on the subject of the man whom I had lured from the straight and narrow path.  But the professor would listen to no defence.  My attempts at excusing him were ill received.  Indeed, the professor shewed such signs of becoming heated that I abandoned my fellow-conspirator to his fate with extreme promptness.  After all, an addition to the stipulated reward—­one of these days—­would compensate him for any loss which he might sustain from the withdrawal of the professor’s custom.  Mr. Harry Hawk was in good enough case.  I would see that he did not suffer.

Filled with these philanthropic feelings, I turned once more to talk with the professor of niblicks and approach shots and holes done in three without a brassy.  We were a merry party at lunch—­a lunch fortunately in Mrs. Beale’s best vein, consisting of a roast chicken and sweets.  Chicken had figured somewhat frequently of late on our daily bill of fare.

We saw the professor off the premises in his dried clothes, and I turned back to put the fowls to bed in a happier frame of mind than I had known for a long time.  I whistled rag-time airs as I worked.