"Absolutely none," continued Robinson. "The sun was sinking—when I had an idea. In the bottom of my golf bag were four badly hacked and split balls. I called to Powers to keep his nerve. The balls were rubber-cored, and I widened the crack in one of them and gouged out a space in the rubber. In this I put the heads of three matches, teed the ball on the beach, called to Powers what I had done and told him to keep his eye on the ball. I hit it clean and fair, but a trail of smoke told that the concussion had ignited the matches. The ball fell in the underbrush a few yards from Powers, and he almost cried when he took out the charred match heads."
"How far was it?" asked Harding.
"I paced it later and found it to be about one hundred and forty yards," said Robinson.
"You paced it?" exclaimed Harding. "You're a bit mixed on this story,
Robinson, aren't you?"
"Not at all," laughed that gentleman. "You wait and I'll explain. Then I fixed another ball and wrapped the match heads in surgeon's cotton. I popped that ball in the air. The next one was pulled, struck a rock and bounded into the water. One remained, and it was a critical moment. I was numbed with the cold, it was almost dark, and I had to make a shot for a man's life, but I made it. It went far and true and struck in the branches of a fir tree over Power's head. He did not see it, but he heard it. Then began a search for a lost ball. It was pitch dark half an hour later when Powers shouted that he had found it, and soon after we yelled like madmen when a tiny yellow flame curled up from the island. Powers asked me to drive a ham sandwich across, but I did not attempt it. The guide started back after another boat, and Powers and I spent the long hours over our respective bonfires in an effort to keep from freezing."
"It dropped to twenty-five below zero before morning, and when daybreak came I went down to the beach. The water still flowed swift and black directly across, but when I looked to the north I found that the ice extended from the shore to the upper end of the island. I put several sandwiches in my pocket and carefully walked across. Powers was trying to cook some freshwater clams when I came upon his bonfire."
"That is as much of the story as you will be interested in," concluded Robinson. "Powers kept the ball which saved his life, and in return gave me that oil painting depicting the scene at nightfall as I was driving that last ball."
"It's a good thing for your friend Powers that it was not up to me to drive that last ball," declared Harding. "That story is all right, Robinson, and the picture proves it."
As we were leaving the table Mrs. Chilvers called me aside.
"Have you made up a game for this afternoon?" she asked, and I thought I discerned a mischievous glance in her eyes.