And Rawson’s just poked his ball out, makin’ a neat carom into the music room, when the hall clock strikes five.

“By Jove, gentlemen!” exclaims Doc Hirshway.  “Sorry, but I must quit.  Should have been in my office an hour ago.  I really must go.”

“Quitter!” says Mr. Ellins.  “But all right.  Trot along.  Here, Groff, you’re a golfer, aren’t you?”

“Why—­er—­yes,” says Peter K., actin’ sort of dazed; “but I——­”

“That’s enough,” says Old Hickory.  “You take Hirshway’s place.  Dunham’s your partner.  We’re playing Nassau, ten a corner.  But I’ll tell you,—­just to make it interesting, I’ll play you on the side to see whether or not we accept that proposition of yours.  Is it a go?”

“But see here, Ellins,” conies back Peter K.  “I want you to understand that you or any other man can’t tell me to sew my head in a bag without——­”

“Oh, drop that!” says Old Hickory.  “I withdraw it—­mostly gout, anyway.  You ought to know that.  And if you can beat me at this game I’ll agree to let you have your own way out there.  Are you on, or are you too much of a dub to try it?”

“Maybe I am a dub, Hickory Ellins,” says Peter K., peelin’ off his coat, “but any game that you can play—­er——­ Which is my ball?”

Well, it was some warm contest, believe me, with them two joshin’ back and forth, and at the game time usin’ as much foxy strategy as if they was stealin’ railroads away from each other!  They must have been at it for near half an hour when a maid slips in and whispers how Mr. Robert is callin’ for me on the wire.  So I puts her on to sub for me with the bag while I slides into the ’phone booth.

“Sure, Mr. Robert,” says I, “I’m still on the job.”

“But what is happening?” says he.  “Didn’t Groff come up?”

“Yep,” says I.  “He’s here yet.”

“You don’t say!” says Mr. Robert.  “Whe-e-ew!  He and the governor having it hot and heavy, I suppose?”

“And then some,” says I.  “Peter K. took first round 12-17, he tied the second, and now he’s trapped in the fireplace on a bad ten.”

“Wha-a-at?” gasps Mr. Robert.

“Uh-huh,” says I.  “Mr. Ellins is layin’ under the piano,—­only seven, but stimied for an approach.”

“In Heaven’s name, Torchy,” says Mr. Robert, “what do you mean?  Mr. Groff trapped in the fireplace, father lying under the piano—­why——­”

“Ah, didn’t Piddie tell you?  The boob!” says I.  “It’s just golf, that’s all—­indoor kind—­a batty variation that they made up themselves.  But don’t fret.  Everything’s all lovely, and I guess the Corrugated is saved.  Come up and look ’em over.”

Yep!  Peter K. got the decision by slipping over a smear in the fourth, after which him and Old Hickory leans up against each other and laughs until their eyes leak.  Then Marston wheels in the tea wagon full of decanters and club soda, and when I left they was clinkin’ glasses real chummy.