When about a mile from the first tee, I saw Harding. His head and shoulders showed above the dreaded trap of "Strath's Bunker," and not far from him was a white-bearded old gentleman with twinkling blue eyes who was smiling at Harding's desperate efforts to loft his ball out of the sand.
[Illustration: "This takes the cake!">[
"Thot weel not do-o, mon!" I heard him say as I neared the scene of this tragedy. "Take yeer niblick, mon, an' coom richt doon on it!"
Out of a cascade of flying sand I saw his ball lob over the bunker, and with various comments Mr. Harding scrambled out of this pit, brushed the sand off his clothes, and then turned and saw me.
"Of all the damned places to get in trouble, Smith, this takes the cake!" he exclaimed, mopping the perspiration from his face. "Do you know," he added, looking about for his ball, "that it took me five strokes to get out of that cursed sand pit!"
He looked in his bag for another club, played his shot, and made a fairly good one, and then appeared to recall for the first time that he had not recently seen me.
"Hello, Smith; when did you strike town?" he said, a welcoming smile on his face as he offered his hand.
"About an hour ago," I said.
"Well, well! I'm glad to see you! Why didn't you wire you were coming? We'd have come for you in our new machine. Bought a new one since we came over here and have been travelling around in it. It's more comfortable than these confounded English trains. They're the limit, aren't they? Well, how are you? Seems to me you look a bit peaked?"
"I'm all right," I insisted. "How is—how is Mrs. Harding?"