"And you'd bet on it?"
"Certainly."
Windy didn't say anything for as much as two minutes. The rascal was thinking.
"All right," said he at last. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll make you a little proposition. You say you can play with any clubs. Give me the privilege of pickin' 'em out for you, and I'll bet you fifty dollars that I trim you on an even game—no handicap."
"Yes, but where are you going to get these clubs for me to play with? Off a scrap pile or something?"
"Right out of MacLeish's shop! Brand-new stuff, selected from the regular stock. And I'll go against you even, just to prove that you don't know it all, even if you have been playin' golf for twenty years!"
It was a flat, out-and-out challenge. Cupid looked Windy up and down with a pitying smile—the same smile he uses when an 18-handicap man asks to be raised to 24.
"I'd be ashamed to rob you, Wilkins," said he.
Windy didn't say anything, but he went into his locker and brought out a roll of bills about the size of a young grindstone. He counted fifty dollars off it, and you couldn't have told the difference. It looked just as big as before. He handed the fifty to me.
"It would be stealing it," said Cupid, but there was a hungry look in his eye.