A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested they listened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carrying profession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the name of Butch:
"And you oughta seen him at the finish—all he needed was an undertaker! You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time. The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag—darned if it wasn't pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the last hole——"
"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the clubhouse. "Here he comes now!"
Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what brought him into their midst.
"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which one would you take?"
"If I had a what?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement.
"Which one of these clubs do you like the best?"
"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!"
Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag.