Carter called me aside the next evening.
"I understand," he said, "that you have retained the services of a private golf tutor."
"Who told you that?" I was thunderstruck.
"Never mind who told me," laughed Carter. "Trying to steal a march on the rest of us, eh? Foxy old Smith; foxy old Smith!"
There was nothing I cared to say, and I said it.
"Is he any good?" Carter asked.
"Is who any good?" I parried.
"Wallace, of course. Oh, I know all about it. You, Miss Lawrence, Miss Ross, and Miss Harding have been taking lessons from Wallace for several evenings over in Bishop's sheep pasture. What I wish to know is this: does this Scotch chap of Bishop's really know anything about the game, or are the girls carried away with him because he is a handsome dog who has seen better days and is now playing in bad luck?"
"I cannot speak for the young ladies," I replied realising that I might as well tell the truth, "but I am smitten with the way he hits a ball, and also with his genius in explaining it to me. Carter, I tell you this fellow Wallace is a wonder!"
Carter was silent a moment.