Dangerfield was astonished and gratified next day when he was essaying some approaching to find Trent watching his efforts in a not unfriendly spirit.
“The trouble with you,” said the younger player graciously, “is that you chop your stroke instead of carrying through. I’ll show you what I mean.”
In the half hour he devoted to Dangerfield he improved the millionaire’s game six strokes a round.
“It would be no fun to play with you,” he said when Dangerfield again invited him, “but I hate to see a man trying to approach as you did when a little help could put him right.”
Thus were any Dangerfield suspicions disarmed. He helped him once or twice more and on every occasion insisted that the hovering attendant be sent away.
“Your keeper,” said Trent genially, “puts me off my stroke.”
“Keeper,” grinned Dangerfield, “I’m not as bad as that. He’s my valet.”
Two days before the ball at the Uplands it was observed that Anthony Trent visited the Nineteenth Hole more frequently and stayed there longer. He was playing less golf now. The bartender confided in Mr. Dangerfield, who was also a consistent patron, that he was drinking heavily.
“I guess,” said the tender of the bar with the sapience of his kind, “that he’s one of these quiet periodic souses. They tell me he has the stuff sent up to his room.”
“Too bad!” said Mr. Dangerfield, shaking his head as he ordered another.