He discovered that by walking briskly toward the door he could make them start and eye one another suspiciously, like men in a barber-shop at the call of “Next!” When this entertainment palled, he played with his hat. Still the great man did not come, and presently Cutting took a tour of inspection about the room. As he reached the lawyer’s desk, a golf-club caught his eye, and he stopped. It was a strangely weighted, mammoth mashie. He picked it up and swung it.
“What an extraordinary thing!” he muttered. “It weighs a pound.” He looked for the maker’s name, but the steel head had not been stamped.
He put it back on the desk-top, and was turning away when a row of books caught his eye. Half concealed by a pile of papers was the Badminton golf-book, an American book of rules, a score-book, a work entitled “Hints for Beginners,” and a pamphlet of “Golf Don’ts.” In the pigeonhole above lay several deeply scarred balls. Cutting laughed.
Just then he heard a step, and turned hastily around. A tall, imposing figure stood in the private doorway—a man of sixty, with a grim, clean-cut face.
“Well?” said Mr. Heminway, questioningly. He had a blunt, aggressive manner that made Cutting feel as if he were about to ask a great favor.
“Well?” he repeated. “I’m very busy. Please tell me what I can do for you.”
“My name’s Cutting,” the young man began—“Richard Cutting, of Cutting, Bruce & Smith.”
The great lawyer’s face softened, and a friendly light came into his eyes.
“I am glad to know you,” he said. “I knew your father. Your uncle and I were classmates. That was a long time ago. Are you the ‘R.’ Cutting who won the golf tournament down on Long Island last week?”