"It's yours," said he briefly.
"Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You—you ain't giving it to me, are you?" Coyne nodded. "But—but what's the idea? You can't get along without that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!"
"Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf."
"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the privileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get so old they can't walk!"
"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of these other boys——"
"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you meant it at first. I——"
"Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?"
"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This ain't Injun givin'? Because—me, I had my eye on that brassy for some time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, mister! Gee! What do think of that—hey? Some club!"
At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the getting was good.
"Please, can I have that driver?"