Say, maybe that wa'n't some batty performance, with them two old duffers golfin' all over the first floor of a Fifth-ave. house, disputin' about strokes, pokin' balls out from under tables and sofas, and me and Marston followin' along with the bags. They got as excited over it as if they'd been playin' for the International Championship, and when Old Hickory loses four strokes by gettin' his ball wedged in a corner he cuts loose with the real golfy language.
We was just finishin' the first round, with the score standin' fourteen to seventeen in favor of the Doc, when the front doorbell rings and a maid comes towin' in Piddie. Maybe his eyes don't stick out some too, as he takes in the scene, But Mr. Ellins is preparin' to make a shot for position in front of the green and he don't pay any attention.
"It's Mr. Piddie, Sir," says I.
"Hang Mr. Piddie!" says Old Hickory. "I can't see him now."
"But it's very important," says Piddie. "There's someone at the office who——"
"No, no, not now!" snaps the boss impatient.
And I gives Piddie the back-out signal. But you know how much sense he's got.
"I assure you, Mr. Ellins," he goes on, "that this is——"
"S-s-s-st!" says I. "Boom-boom! Outside!" and I jerks my thumb towards the door.
That settles Piddie. He fades.