"Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while."
"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong—my shots left me. I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the course—couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows any more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my life—and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a battle!"
"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worry too much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's a sport—a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but I never worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten; to-day——"
"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I suppose you call that good—eh?"
"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind! Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on, take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. The match is over, so you won't have that to worry about."
"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golfer yourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not being beaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and then falling down on the execution—that's what breaks my heart! If ever you get so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and your game leaves you overnight—steps right out from under you and leaves you flat—then you'll know how I feel."
"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a bad player—oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. And just to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in—no handicap—not even a bisque. What say?"
"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time tee shots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!"
Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward the clubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. He grinned from ear to ear and illustrated an animated discourse with sweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him, kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders sagged listlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of his drooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himself heavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out of the window but seeing nothing.