"Sorry," lied the Bish; "we're already hooked up with a foursome."
Henry said he was sorry too; and moreover he looked it.
"I was thinking I might get in with you," said he. "What I need is the—er—opportunity to study better players—er—get some real competition. Somebody that will make me do my best all the time. Don't you think that will help my game?"
"Doubtless," said the Bish in his deepest tone; "but at the same time you shouldn't get too far out of your class. There is a difference between being spurred on by competition and being discouraged by it."
"I shot an eighty-two last Saturday," said Henry quickly.
"So I hear. So I hear. And how many brassy shots did you hole out?"
"Not one. It—it wasn't luck. It was good steady play."
"He admits it," murmured the Bish, but Henry didn't even hear him.
"Good steady play," he repeated. "What a man does once he can do again. Eighty-two. Six strokes above the par of the course. My net was twelve strokes below it—due, of course, to a ridiculously high handicap: I—I intend to have that altered. Eighty-two is Class-A golf."
"Or an accident," said the Bish rather coldly.