"Steady golf is never an accident," argued Henry. "I have thought it all out and come to the conclusion that what I need now is keener competition—er—better men to play with; and"—this with a trace of stubbornness in his tone—"I mean to find them."
The Bish kicked my foot under the table.
"That's all very well," said he, "but—how about the Old Guard?"
The wretched renegade squirmed in his chair.
"That," said he, "will adjust itself later."
"You mean that you'll break away?"
"I didn't say so, did I?"
"No, but you've been talking about keener competition."
Henry was not pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. He rose to go.
"Woodson and Totten and Miller are fine fellows," said he. "Personally I hold them in the highest esteem, but you must admit that they are poor golfers. Not one of them ever shot an eighty-five. I—I have my own game to consider.... You're quite sure you won't have a vacancy this afternoon?"