"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong. I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks—not one. I—I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you."
"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like an April zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-bad golfer—ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to my ball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-foot putt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine trimming this morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three and two without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn't make him like it. What do you think of that, eh?"
"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?" Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window.
"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight. Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just to put some life into him and stir up his—er—cupidity. I guess that's the word. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do? Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up his ball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of Hell's Half Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!"
"He has cause—if you beat him," said one of the older members.
"I wish I could win from a well man once in a while," complained Parkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on an invalid."
"Oh, shut up and let Bob alone!"
"Yes; quit riding him."
"Don't rub it in!"
Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him, and the general conversation languished until the devil himself prompted one of the veteran golfers to offer advice: