another four, and again brought his score to even threes.
When the daring golfer has passed quaking up the narrow way and still
survives, he immediately falls a victim to the fourteenth, which is a
bend hole, with all the agonies of the preceding thirteenth, augmented
by a second shot over a long, mushy pond. If you play a careful iron to
keep from the railroad, now on the right, or to dodge the river on your
left, you are forced to approach the edge of the swamp with a cautious
fifty-yard-running-up stroke before facing the terrors of the carry. A
drive with a wooden club is almost sure to carry into the swamp, and
only a careful cleek shot is safe.

"I wish I were playing this for the first time," said Booverman,
blackly. "I wish I could forget--rid myself of memories. I have seen
class A amateurs take twelve, and professionals eight. This is the end
of all things, Picky, the saddest spot on earth. I won't waste time.
Here goes."

To Pickings's horror, the drive began slowly to slice out of bounds,
toward the railroad tracks.

"I knew it," said Booverman, calmly, "and the next will go there, too;
then I'll put one in the river, two the swamp, slice into--"

All at once he stopped, thunderstruck. The ball, hitting tire or rail,
bounded high in the air, forward, back upon the course, lying in perfect
position; Pickings said something in a purely reverent spirit.

"Twice in sixty thousand times," said Booverman, unrelenting. "That only
evens up the sixth hole. Twice in sixty thousand times!"

From where the ball lay an easy brassy brought it near enough to the
green to negotiate another four. Pickings, trembling like a toy dog in
zero weather, reached the green in ten strokes, and took three more
puts.

The fifteenth, a short pitch over the river, eighty yards to a slanting
green entirely surrounded by more long grass, which gave it the
appearance of a chin spot on a full face of whiskers, was Booverman's
favorite hole. While Pickings held his eyes to the ground and tried to
breathe in regular breaths, Booverman placed his ball, drove with the
requisite back spin, and landed dead to the hole. Another two resulted.

"Even threes--fifteen holes in even threes," said Pickings to himself,
his head beginning to throb. He wanted to sit down and take his temples
in his hands, but for the sake of history he struggled on.

"Damn it!" said Booverman all at once.

"What's the matter?" said Pickings, observing his face black with fury.

"Do you realize, Pickings, what it means to me to have lost those two
strokes on the fourth and sixth greens, and through no fault of mine,
neither? Even threes for the whole course--that's what I could do if I
had those two strokes--the greatest thing that's ever been seen on a
golf-course. It may be a hundred years before any human being on the
face of this earth will get such a chance. And to think I might have
done it with a little luck!"

Pickings felt his heart begin to pump, but he was able to say with some
degree of calm:

"You may get a three here."

"Never. Four, three and four is what I'll end."

"Well, good heavens! what do you want?"

"There's no joy in it, though," said Booverman, gloomily. "If I had
those two strokes back, I'd go down in history, I'd be immortal. And
you, too, Picky, you'd be immortal, because you went around with me. The
fourth hole was bad enough, but the sixth was heartbreaking."

His drive cleared another swamp and rolled well down the farther
plateau. A long cleek laid his ball off the green, a good approach
stopped a little short of the hole, and the put went down.

"Well, that ends it," said Booverman, gloomily.

"I've got to make a two and a three to do it. The two is quite possible;
the three absurd."

The seventeenth hole returns to the swamp that enlivens the sixth. It is
a full cleek, with about six mental hazards distributed in Indian
ambush, and in five of them a ball may lie until the day of judgment
before rising again.

Pickings turned his back, unable to endure the agony of watching. The
click of the club was sharp and true. He turned to see the ball in full
flight arrive unerringly hole high on the green.

"A chance for a two," he said under his breath. He sent two balls into
the lost land to the left and one into the rough to the right.

"Never mind me," he said, slashing away in reckless fashion.

Booverman with a little care studied the ten-foot route to the hole and
putted down.

"Even threes!" said Pickings, leaning against a tree.

"Blast that sixth hole!" said Booverman, exploding. "Think of what it
might be, Picky--what it ought to be!"

Pickings retired hurriedly before the shaking approach of Booverman's
frantic club. Incapable of speech, he waved him feebly to drive. He
began incredulously to count up again, as though doubting his senses.

"One under three, even threes, one over, even, one under--"

"Here! What the deuce are you doing?" said Booverman, angrily. "Trying
to throw me off?"

"I didn't say anything," said Pickings.

"You didn't--muttering to yourself."

"I must make him angry to keep his mind off the score," said Pickings,
feebly to himself. He added aloud, "Stop kicking about your old sixth
hole! You've had the darndest luck I ever saw, and yet you grumble."

Booverman swore under his breath, hastily approached his ball, drove
perfectly, and turned in a rage.

"Luck?" he cried furiously. "Pickings, I've a mind to wring your neck.
Every shot I've played has been dead on the pin, now, hasn't it?"

"How about the ninth hole--hitting a tree?"

"Whose fault was that? You had no right to tell me my score, and,
besides, I only got an ordinary four there, anyway."

"How about the railroad track?"

"One shot out of bounds. Yes, I'll admit that. That evens up for the
fourth."

"How about your first hole in two?"

"Perfectly played; no fluke about it at all--once in sixty thousand
times. Well, any more sneers? Anything else to criticize?"

"Let it go at that."

Booverman, in this heckled mood, turned irritably to his ball, played a
long midiron, just cleared the crescent bank of the last swale, and ran
up on the green.

[Illustration: Wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on the clubhouse
with the miraculous news]

"Damn that sixth hole!" said Booverman, flinging down his club and
glaring at Pickings. "One stroke back, and I could have done it."

Pickings tried to address, but the moment he swung his club, his legs
began to tremble. He shook his head, took a long breath, and picked up
his ball.

They approached the green on a drunken run in the wild hope that a short
put was possible. Unfortunately the ball lay thirty feet away, and the
path to the hole was bumpy and riddled with worm-casts. Still, there was
a chance, desperate as it was.

Pickings let his bag slip to the ground and sat down, covering his eyes
while Booverman with his putter tried to brush away the ridges.

"Stand up!"

Pickings rose convulsively.

"For heaven's sake, Picky, stand up! Try to be a man!" said Booverman,
hoarsely. "Do you think I've any nerve when I see you with chills and
fever? Brace up!"

"All right."

Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek in
his hand shook like an aspen. He straightened up and walked away.

"Picky," he said, mopping his face, "I can't do it. I can't put it."

"You must."

"I've got buck fever. I'll never be able to put it--never."

At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman had
gone to pieces. He stood shaking from head to foot.

"Look at that," he said, extending a fluttering hand. "I can't do it; I
can never do it."

"Old fellow, you must," said Pickings; "you've got to. Bring yourself
together. Here!" He slapped him on the back, pinched his arms, and
chafed his fingers. Then he led him back to the ball, braced him into
position, and put the putter in his hands.

"Buck fever," said Booverman in a whisper. "Can't see a thing."

Pickings, holding the flag in the cup, said savagely:

"Shoot!"

The ball advanced in a zigzag path, running from worm-cast to a
worm-cast, wobbling and rocking, and at the last, as though preordained,
fell plump into the cup!

At the same moment, Pickings and Booverman, as though carried off by the
same cannon-ball, flattened on the green.




III


Five minutes later, wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on the
clubhouse with the miraculous news. For an hour the assembled golfers
roared with laughter as the two stormed, expostulated, and swore to the
truth of the tale.

[Illustration: A committee carefully examined the books of the club]

They journeyed from house to house in a vain attempt to find some
convert to their claim. For a day they passed as consummate comedians,
and the more they yielded to their rage, the more consummate was their
art declared. Then a change took place. From laughing the educated town
of Stockbridge turned to resentment, then to irritation, and finally to
suspicion. Booverman and Pickings began to lose caste, to be regarded as
unbalanced, if not positively dangerous. Unknown to them, a committee
carefully examined the books of the club. At the next election another
treasurer and another secretary were elected.

Since then, month in and month out, day after day, in patient hope, the
two discredited members of the educated community of Stockbridge may be
seen, _accompanied by caddies_, toiling around the links in a desperate
belief that the miracle that would restore them to standing may be
repeated. Each time as they arrive nervously at the first tee and
prepare to swing, something between a chuckle and a grin runs through
the assemblage, while the left eyes contract waggishly, and a murmuring
may be heard,

"Even threes."

*       *       *       *       *

The Stockbridge golf-links is a course of ravishing beauty and the
Housatonic River, as has been said, goes wriggling around it as though
convulsed with merriment.




A MAN OF NO IMAGINATION




I


Inspector Frawley, of the Canadian Secret Service, stood at attention,
waiting until the scratch of a pen should cease throughout the dim,
spacious office and the Honorable Secretary of Justice should acquaint
him with his desires.

He held himself deferentially, body compact, eyes clear and steady, face
blank and controlled, without distinction, without significance, a man
mediocre as a crowd. His hands were joined loosely behind his back; his
glance, without deviating, remained persistently on the profile of the
Honorable Secretary, as though in that historic room the human note
alone could compel his curiosity.

The thin squeak of the pen faded into the silences of the great room.
The Secretary of Justice ran his fingers over his forehead, looked up,
and met the Inspector's gaze--fixed, profound, and mathematical. With a
sudden unease he pushed back his chair, troubled by the analysis of his
banal man, who, in another turn of Fate, might pursue him as
dispassionately as he now stood before him for his commands. With a few
rapid strides he crossed the room, lit a cigar, blew into the swirl of
smoke this caprice of his imagination, and returned stolidly, as became
a man of facts and figures.

Flinging himself loosely in an easy chair, he threw a rapid glance at
his watch, locked his fingers, and began with the nervous directness of
one who wishes to be rid of formalities:

"Well, Inspector, you returned this morning?"

"An hour ago, sir."

"A creditable bit of work, Inspector Frawley--the department is
pleased."

"Thank you indeed, sir."

"Does the case need you any more?"

"I should say not, sir--no, sir."

"You are ready to report for duty?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"How soon?"

"I think I'm ready now, sir--yes, sir."

"Glad to hear it, Inspector, very glad. You're the one man I wanted." As
though the civilities had been sufficiently observed, the Secretary
stiffened in his chair and continued rapidly: "It's that Toronto affair;
you've read the details. The government lost $350,000. We caught four of
the gang, but the ringleader got away with the money. Have you studied
it? What did you make of it? Sit down."

Frawley took a chair stiffly, hanging his hat between his knees and
considering.

"It did look like work from the States," he said thoughtfully. "I beg
pardon, did you say they'd caught some of the gang?"

"Four--this morning. The telegram's just in."

The Honorable Secretary, a little strange yet to the routine of the
office, looked at Frawley with a sudden desire to test his memory.

"Do you know the work?" he asked; "could you recognize the ringleader?"

"That might not be so hard, sir," said Frawley, with a nod; "we know
pretty well, of course, who's able to handle such jobs as that. Would
you have a description anywhere?"

The Honorable Secretary rose, took from his desk a paper, and began to
read. In his seat Inspector Frawley crossed his legs carefully, drew his
fists up under his chin, and stared at the reader, but without focusing
his glance on him. Once during the recital he started at some item of
description, but immediately relaxed. The report finished, the Secretary
let it drop into his lap and waited, impressed, despite himself, at the
thought of the immense galleries of crime through which the Inspector
was seeking his victim. All at once into the unseeing stare there
flickered a light of understanding. Frawley returned to the room, saw
the Secretary, and nodded.

"It's Bucky," he said tentatively. A moment his glance went
reflectively to a far corner, then he nodded slowly, looked at the
Secretary, and said with conviction: "It looks very much, sir, like
Bucky Greenfield."

"It is Greenfield," replied the Secretary, without attempting to conceal
his astonishment.

"I would like to observe," said Frawley thoughtfully, without noticing
his surprise, "that there is a bit of an error in that description, sir.
It's the left ear that's broken. Furthermore, he don't toe
out--excepting when he does it on a purpose. So it's Bucky Greenfield
I'm to bring back, sir?"

The Secretary nodded, penciling Frawley's correction on the paper.

"Bucky--well, now, that is odd!" said Frawley musingly. He rose and took
a step to the desk. "Very odd." Mechanically he saw the straggling
papers on the top and arranged them into orderly piles. "Well, he can't
say I didn't warn him!"

"What!" broke in the Secretary in quick astonishment, "you know the
fellow?"

"Indeed, yes, sir," said Frawley, with a nod. "We know most of the
crooks in the States. We're good friends, too--so long as they stay over
the line. It's useful, you know. So I'm to go after Bucky?"

The Secretary, judging the moment had arrived to be impressive, said
solemnly:

"Inspector Frawley, if you have to stick to it until he dies of old age,
you're never to let up until you get Bucky Greenfield! While the
British Empire holds together, no man shall rob Her Majesty of a
farthing and sleep in security. You understand the situation?"

"I do, sir."

The Honorable Secretary, only half satisfied, continued:

"Your credit is unlimited--there'll be no question of that. If you need
to buy up a whole South American government--buy it! By the way, he will
make for South America, will he not?"

"Probably--yes, sir. Chile or the Argentine--there's no extradition
treaty there."

"But even then," broke in the Secretary with a nervous frown--"there are
ways--other ways?"

"Oh, yes." Frawley, picking up a paper-cutter, stood by the mantel
tapping his palm. "Oh, yes--there are other ways! So it's Bucky--well, I
warned him!"

"Now, Inspector, to settle the matter," interrupted the Secretary,
anxious to return to his routine, "when can you go on the case?"

"If the papers are ready, sir--"

"They are--everything. The Home Office has been cabled. To-morrow every
British official throughout the world will be notified to render you
assistance and honor your drafts."

Inspector Frawley heard with approval and consulted his watch.

"There's an express for New York leaves at noon," he said
reflectively--then, with a glance at the clock, "thirty-five minutes; I
can make that, sir."

"Good, very good."

"If I might suggest, sir--if the Inspector who has had the case in hand
could go a short distance with me?"

"Inspector Keech shall join you at the station."

"Thank you, sir. Is there anything further?"

The Secretary shook his head, and springing up, held out his hand
enthusiastically.

"Good luck to you, Inspector--you have a big thing ahead of you, a very
big thing."

"Thank you, sir."

"By the way--you're not married?"

"No, sir."

"This is pretty short notice. How long have you been on this other
case?"

"A trifle over six months, sir."

"Don't you want a couple of days to rest up? I can let you have that
very easily."

"It really makes no difference--I think I'll leave to-day, sir."

"Oh, a moment more, Inspector--"

Frawley halted.

"How long do you think this ought to take you?"

Frawley considered, and answered carefully:

"It'll be long, I think. You see, there are several circumstances that
are unusual about this case."

"How so?"

"Well, Buck is clever--there's no gainsaying that--quite at the top of
the profession. Then, he's expecting me."

"You?"

"They're a queer lot," Frawley explained with a touch of pride. "Crooks
are full of little vanities. You see, Bucky knows I've never dropped a
trail, and I think it's rather gotten on his nerves. I think he wasn't
satisfied until he dared me. He's very odd--very odd indeed. It's a
little personal. I doubt, sir, if I bring him back alive."

"Inspector Frawley," said the new Secretary, "I hope I have sufficiently
impressed upon you the importance of your mission."

Frawley stared at his chief in surprise.

"I'm to stick to him until I get him," he said in wonder; "that's all,
isn't it, sir?"

The Secretary, annoyed by his lack of imagination, essayed a final
phrase.

"Inspector, this is my last word," he said with a frown; "remember that
you represent Her Majesty's government--you are Her Majesty's
government! I have confidence in you."

"Thank you, sir."

Frawley moved slowly to the door and with his hand on the knob
hesitated. The Secretary saw in the movement a reluctance to take the
decisive step that must open before him the wide stretches of the world.

"After all, he must have a speck of imagination," he thought, reassured.

"I beg pardon, sir."

Frawley had turned in embarrassment.

"Well, Inspector, what can I do for you?"

"If you please, sir," said Frawley, "I was just thinking--after all, it
has been a bit of a while since I've been home--indeed, I should like it
very much if I could take a good English mutton-chop and a musty ale at
old Nell's, sir. I can still get the two o'clock express."

"Granted!"

"If you'd prefer not, sir," said Frawley, surprised at the vexation in
his answer.

"Not at all--take the two o'clock--good day, good day!"

Inspector Frawley, sorely puzzled, shifted his balance, opened his
mouth, then with a bob of his head answered hastily:

"A--good day, sir!"




II


Sam Greenfield, known as "Bucky," age about 42, height about 5 feet 10
inches, weight between 145 and 150. Hair mouse-colored, thinning out
over forehead, parted in middle, showing scalp beneath; mustache would
be lighter than hair--if not dyed; usually clipped to about an inch.
Waxy complexion, light blue eyes a little close together, thin nose, a
prominent dimple on left cheek--may wear whiskers. Laughs in low key.
Left ear lobe broken. Slightly bowlegged. While in conversation strokes
chin. When standing at a counter or bar goes through motions, as if
jerking himself together, crowding his elbows slowly to his side for a
moment, then, throwing back his head, jumps up from his heels. When
dreaming, attempts to bite mustache with lower lip. When he sits in a
chair places himself sidewise and hangs both arms over back. In walking
strikes back part of heel first, and is apt to waver from time to time.
Dresses neatly, carries hands in side-pockets only--plays piano
constantly, composing as he goes along. During day smokes twenty to
thirty cigarettes, cutting them in half for cigarette-holder and
throwing them away after three or four whiffs. After dinner invariably
smokes one cigar. Cut is good likeness. Cut of signature is facsimile of
his original writing.

With this overwhelming indictment against the liberty of the fugitive,
to escape which Greenfield would have to change his temperament as well
as his physical aspect, Inspector Frawley took the first steamer from
New York to the Isthmus of Panama.

He had slight doubt of Greenfield's final destination, for the flight of
the criminal is a blind instinct for the south as though a frantic
return to barbarism. At this time Chile and the Argentine had not yet
accepted the principle of extradition, and remained the Mecca of the
lawbreakers of the world.

Yet though Frawley felt certain of Greenfield's objective, he did not
at once strike for the Argentine. The Honorable Secretary of Justice had
eliminated the necessity for considering time. Frawley had no need to
guess, nor to risk. He had simply to become a wheel in the machinery of
the law, to grind slowly, tirelessly, and inexorably. This idea suited
admirably his temperament and his desires.

He arrived at Colon, took train for Panama across the laborious path
where a thousand little men were scratching endlessly, and on the brink
of the Pacific began his search. No one had heard of Greenfield.

At the end of a week's waiting he boarded a steamer and crawled down the
western coast of South America, investigating every port, braving the
yellow fever at Guayaquil, Ecuador, and facing a riot at Callao, Peru,
before he found at Lima the trail of the fugitive. Greenfield had passed
the day there and left for Chile. Dragging each intermediate port with
the same caution, Frawley followed the trail to Valparaiso. Greenfield
had stayed a week and again departed.

Frawley at once took steamer for the Argentine, passed down the tongue
of South America, through the Straits of Magellan, and arrived at length
in the harbor of Buenos Ayres.

An hour later, as he took his place at the table in the Criterion
Gardens, a hand fell on his shoulder and some one at his back said:

"Well, Bub!"

He turned. A thin man of medium height, with blue eyes and yellow
complexion, was laughing in expectation of his discomfiture. Frawley
laid down the menu carefully, raised his head, and answered quietly:

"Why, how d'ye do, Bucky?"




III


"We shake, of course," said Greenfield, holding out his hand.

"Why not? Sit down."

The fugitive slid into a chair and hung his arms over the back, asking
immediately:

"What took you so long? You're after me, of course?"

"Am I?" Frawley answered, looking at him steadily. Greenfield, with a
twitch of his shoulders, returned to his question:

"What took you so long? Didn't you guess I'd come direct?"

"I'm not guessing," said Frawley.

"What do you say to dining on me?" said Greenfield with a malicious
smile. "I owe you that. I clipped your vacation pretty short.