"Miss Harding and I will be partners," suggested Carter, before I could get the words out of my mouth.
"Since I am interested in Miss Harding's play to the extent of a box of balls a stroke, I claim the right to act as her partner and adviser," I said, looking hard at Carter.
"Mr. Smith and I will be partners," said Miss Harding, and it was the happiest moment of my life.
"I don't care who are partners," said Harding, stepping up to the tee.
"I'll shoot first, and you keep your eye on your Uncle Dudley!"
He piled up a hill of sand, gripped his club like grim death, drew back, swung with all his might—and missed the ball by three inches.
"One stroke!" laughed Miss Harding.
"That don't count!" he declared. "I didn't hit the blamed thing at all!
Look at it! It's just where I fixed it a minute ago. Don't cheat, Kid!"
"A missed ball counts a stroke," laughed Carter.
"Are you sure that's the rule?"
We all assured him there was not the slightest doubt of it.