"You're right, Governor," says Mr. Robert. "That's just what it is."
Piddie takes a cautious squint and nods his head. So we made it unanimous.
"But I don't quite see, sir," goes on Piddie, "how a——"
"Don't you?" breaks in Old Hickory. "Well, that's strange. Neither do I."
"Might it not, sir," adds Piddie, "have been dropped from an airplane?"
"Dropped how?" demands Old Hickory. "Sideways? The law of gravity doesn't work that way. At least, it didn't when I met it last."
"Certainly!" says Piddie. "I had not thought of that. It couldn't have been dropped. Then it must have been driven by some careless golfer."
He's some grand little suggester, Piddie is. Old Hickory glares at him and snorts. "An amazingly careless golfer," he adds, "considering that the nearest course is in Englewood, N. J., fully six miles away. No, Mr. Piddie, I fear that even Jim Barnes at his best, relayed by Gil Nichols and Walter Hagen, couldn't have made that drive."
"They—they never use a—a rifle for such purposes, do they?" asks Piddie.
"Not in the best sporting circles," says Old Hickory.