“I will, on one condition,” said Sharwell.
“What is it?” asked his companion.
“That you kindly refrain from telling us how many spools of thread were sent to the cannibals of the Friendly Islands for the fiscal year ending June 30, 1884.”
“Done!” cried Garrigan with a laugh. “I'll never hint of it. Colonel, will you accept our hospitality? I believe you are already put up at the club?”
“Yes, Miss Carwell was kind enough to secure a visitor's card for me.”
“Then let's forget our sorrows; drown them in the bubbling glasses with hollow stems!” cried Garrigan, gayly.
“Here, Shag,” called the colonel, as he gave his rod to his colored servant. “I don't know when I'll be back.”
“Well said!” exclaimed Sharwell.
Then they adjourned to the nineteenth hole.
If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it was certainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat on the shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things, and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr. Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had been called off on the day of his funeral. But now those last rites were over, the clubhouse was the same gay place it had been. Though more than one veteran member sat in silent reverie over his cigar as he recalled the friend who never again would tee a ball with him.