"I'll accept no bets on that basis," Waddles announced. "I like a friendly, chatty game."
"I've got you for fifty, then, and talk your head off!" And Jay laughed until I thought he would choke. As a matter of fact, he laughed all the rest of the afternoon.
IV
Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was no delay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There was considerable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major to the limit.
"You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injured tone of voice.
"Make it a hundred if you want to," was Jay's come-back.
"Fifty is plenty, thanks."
"What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit on the conversation!"
"Got you!" snapped Waddles.
He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him to it. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch of sand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamer dead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then he stepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled—actually cackled like a hen.