Wilson was away, but when he was within a few yards of his ball he looked intently at the turf and then dropped to his knees and crawled slowly around.
"What are you looking for?" exclaimed Harding "There's your ball right in front of you."
"I know it," calmly said Wilson, running his hand over the turf, "but
I'm curious to know what kind of Trifolium this is."
"Wilson," said the magnate, as the former rose to his full height and took a club from his bag, "Wilson, I might as well quit and give up this game."
"Why?" asked the surprised banker.
"Let me tell you something," declared Harding. "I only took up this golf business a few weeks ago, and by hard work have found out about mashies, hooks, foozles, cops, one off two and all those difficult things, but I'm blamed if I ever heard of trifoliums, or whatever you call 'em, and you can't ring 'em in on me. I won't stand for it! We don't play trifoliums in Woodvale, do we, Smith?"
"But my dear Harding," interposed Wilson, his mobile face wrinkled in a smile, "Trifolium is not a golf term and has nothing whatever to do with the game."
"What in thunder is it?"
"Trifolium is the genus name for the clover plant, and these are beautiful specimens," explained this amateur botanist.
"It is, is it?" laughed Harding. "Well, let's see how far you 'can knock that ball out of that bed of Trifoliums."