"So it didn't work," said he. "It didn't work—and I'm sixteen dollars to the bad. Hey! Quit pounding me on the back! Anybody but a born ass would have known the whole thing was cooked up for Mary's benefit—and you've just tumbled, eh? Now then, what has he done?"
Briefly, and in words of one syllable, I sketched Russell's activities. Waddles wagged his head soberly.
"Treated her just the same as if he was already married to her, eh? A mixed foursome is no-o-o place for a mean man; give him rope enough and he'll hang himself. How do they stand?"
I had not been keeping the score, so we walked down the hill to the eighteenth tee.
"Pretty soft for you folks," said Waddles with a disarming grin. "Pretty soft. You've only got to beat a net 98."
"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell snatched a score card from his pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left his face; his eyes sparkled; he smiled.
"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that—84. Why—it's a cinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!"
"And you?" asked Waddles, turning to Bill.
"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's their handicap?"
"Sixteen," answered Waddles.