"Wait a second," said Wally. "I want to get you all on record. I have made a courteous request——"
"And it has been refused," said old Peebles, blinking at both of us. "Gentlemen, you can't go through!"
"Is that final?"
"It is—absolutely."
And Watlington and Peck nodded.
"Drive, Jim!"
This time it was Hamilton who spoke.
"Pardon me," said Wally. He skipped out in front of the tee, lifted his cap and made a low bow. "Members of the Greens Committee," said he, "and one other hog as yet unclassified, you are witnesses that I default my match to Mr. Curtiss. I do this rather than be forced to play behind four such pitiable dubs as you are. Golf is a gentleman's game, which doubtless accounts for your playing it so poorly. They tell me that you never let any one through. God giving me strength, the day will come when you will not only allow people to pass you, but you will beg them to do it. Make a note of that. Come along, Curtiss. We'll play the last nine—for the fun of the thing."
"Oh, Curtiss!" It was Watlington speaking. "How many did you have him down when he quit?"
The insult would have made a saint angry, but no saint on the calendar could have summoned the vocabulary with which Wally replied. It was a wonderful exhibition of blistering invective. Watlington's thick hide stood him in good stead. He did not turn a hair or bat an eye, but waited for Wally to run out of breath. Then: