“Can any of you folks tell me if a man named Hardin’ hangs out ’round this here place?” he said, squinting at a card which I instantly recognised.

“I’m Harding,” said that gentleman, walking toward him.  “I reckon you’re the man who owns the late deceased bull?”

“I shurely am,” said the farmer, stroking his whiskers nervously.

“How much do you want for him?” demanded Harding, with characteristic promptness.

“Stranger,” began the man with the hoe, “if you’ll tell me how in thunder you broke the neck of that critter with one of them there sticks,” pointing to our golf clubs, “I won’t charge you one doggoned cent for doin’ it.”

We all roared, and then Harding briefly explained what had happened.

“I reckon you couldn’t do nothin’ else under what the stump speakers call existin’ sar-cumstances,” slowly drawled the farmer, “but he was a mighty fine young bull, an’ I hated like all sin tew lose him.”

“How much was he worth to you?” asked Harding.

“He was a Holstein, Mister, and I wouldn’t er sold him for two hundred and fifty the best day you ever saw.  He took second prize as a yearlin’ at our county fair, and I was plumb sure he’d have the blue ribbon hung on him this year, but instead of a ribbon I found this here on his horns,” he concluded sorrowfully, looking at the card with its string still attached.

“I’ll give you three hundred and fifty dollars and call it square,” said Harding.

“Dew you mean it, Mister?” his watery blue eyes opening wide, his thin lips pursed and his leathery face curiously wrinkled.  “Dew ye mean it?”

“Of course I mean it, but I want his head.  I’m going to have it mounted.”

Mr. Harding opened his wallet, stripped off the bills and handed them to the pleased farmer.

“Mister,” the latter said, “that’s more than he was worth, and I feel kinder ashamed ter take all of it.  Tell you what I’ll do!  I’ve got an old bull that’s no good, but ugly as all get out, and if you’d like ter tackle him with that ortermobill of yours I’ll turn him loose in that same medder, an’ you can have it out with him an’ it won’t cost you a cent.”

[Illustration:  “He was tall, angular, and whiskered”]

“Much obliged,” laughed Harding, “but nature evidently did not design me for a matador.”

If Miss Lawrence does not develop into a great player it will not be because of a lack of assiduity in taking lessons.  Since Wallace has become professional at Woodmere she has taken one and sometimes two each day.  She was starting to take one of these “lessons” when Harding returned.

“See here, Wallace,” he said with mock sternness, “I am becoming curious to know if you are professional to our charming young friend or to the club.”

“Why, Mr. Harding!” exclaimed Miss Lawrence, blushing furiously.  “I have taken only six lessons, and you have no idea how I have improved.”