It will, therefore, be readily understood that Archibald's inability to
do a hole in single figures did not handicap him at Cape Pleasant as it
might have done at St. Andrews. His kindly clubmates took him to their
bosoms to a man, and looked on him as a brother. Archibald's was one of
those admirable natures which prompt their possessor frequently to
remark: 'These are on me!' and his fellow golfers were not slow to
appreciate the fact. They all loved Archibald.
Archibald was on the floor of his bedroom one afternoon, picking up the
fragments of his mirror--a friend had advised him to practise the
Walter J. Travis lofting shot--when the telephone bell rang. He took up
the receiver, and was hailed by the comfortable voice of McCay, the
club secretary.
'Is that Mealing?' asked McCay. 'Say, Archie, I'm putting your name
down for our championship competition. That's right, isn't it?'
'Sure,' said Archibald. 'When does it start?'
'Next Saturday.'
'That's me.'
'Good for you. Oh, Archie.'
'Hello?'
'A man I met today told me you were engaged. Is that a fact?'
'Sure,' murmured Archibald, blushfully.
The wire hummed with McCay's congratulations.
'Thanks,' said Archibald. 'Thanks, old man. What? Oh, yes. Milsom's her
name. By the way, her family have taken a cottage at Cape Pleasant for
the summer.
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