"If you get away with it," said Windy, "I won't complain to the police. Put up or shut up."
Well, it looked like finding the money. We knew that Windy couldn't break a 90 to save his life, and Cupid had done the course in an 84, using nothing but a putting cleek.
"How many clubs can I have?" asked Cupid with his usual caution in the matter of bets.
"Oh, six or eight," answered Windy. "Makes no difference to me."
"I'll take eight," said Cupid briskly. "And if you don't mind, I'll post a check. I'm not in the habit of carrying the entire cash balance in my jeans."
"Fair enough!" said Windy. "You boys are all witnesses to the terms of this bet. I'm to pick out eight clubs—eight new ones—and Cutts here is to play with 'em. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly!" grinned Cupid. "It'll just cost you fifty fish to find out that a mechanical golfer can lick you with strange weapons."
Windy went out and Cupid promised us all a dinner on the proceeds of the match.
"I don't want the fellow's money," said he, "but Windy's entirely too fresh for a new member. A beating will do him good and make him humble. Eight clubs. If he brings me only two or three that I can use—a driver, a mid-iron, and a putter—I'll hang his hide on the fence too easy. He's made a bad bet."
But it wasn't such a bad bet after all. Windy came back with eight clubs in the crook of his arm, and when Cupid caught a glimpse of the collection he howled himself purple in the face, and no wonder. Eight nice, new, shiny, mashie niblicks!