The door of the lounging room crashed open and Sam Totten entered, dragging Henry Peacock behind him. Miller and Woodson brought up the rear.
"Hey, Waddles!" shouted Sam. "What do you think of this old stiff? He shot an eighty-two; he did, on the level!"
"An eighty-two?" said I. "Then his net was——"
"Sixty-four," murmured Mr. Peacock with an apologetic smile. "Yes—ah—sixty-four."
"The suffering Moses!" gulped Waddles. "How did he do it?"
"He played golf," said Peter Miller. "Kept his tee shots straight, and holed some long putts."
"Best round he ever shot in his life!" Woodson chimed in. "Won three balls from me, but it's a pleasure to pay 'em, Henry, on account of your winning the cup! Who'd have thought it?"
"And we're proud of him!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm proud of him! He's my partner! An eighty-two—think of an old stiff like him shooting an eighty-two! One foot in the grave, and he wins a cup sixteen hands high and big as a horse! Cheers, gentlemen, cheers for the Old Guard! It dies, but it never surrenders!"
"Here," said I, thrusting the rest of the tags into Henry's limp and unresisting hand. "You sign these."
"But," said he, "I—I didn't order anything, and I won the drink hole."