"Oh, I've not so sure about that. He'll be all right if he'll let the
champagne alone before he starts to play. I'm banking on him. At the
same time I haven't bet all my money. I've a ten spot left that says
I can beat you to the clubhouse, even if one of my cylinders has been
missing the last two miles. How about it?"

"You're on!" said Harry Bartlett shortly.

There was a throb from each machine as the electric motors started the
engines, and then they shot down the wide road in clouds of dust the
sinister gray car and the more showy yellow while above them, driving
its talons deeper into the sides of the fish it had caught, the osprey
circled off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on the
edge of the forest.

And on the white of the flounder appeared bright red spots of blood,
some of which dripped to the ground as the cruel talons closed until
they met inside.

It was only a little tragedy, such as went on every day in the inlet and
adjacent ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, as he drove on with
ever-increasing speed in an endeavor to gain a length on his opponent,
could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfect blue of the
sky, in which there was not a cloud. Was it prophetic?

Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls,
matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs and
pockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurrying
here and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes,
and of diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at the
Maraposa Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and Harry
Bartlett were racing their cars toward it.

It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on it
were to be played several matches, not the least in importance being
that of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes in
hotly contested contests on the home links.

In spite of the fact that on this day there were to be played several
matches, in which visiting and local champions were to try their
skill against one another, to the delight of a large gallery, interest
centered in the cup-winners' battle. For it was rumored, and not without
semblance of truth, that large sums of money would change hands on the
result.

Not that it was gambling-oh, my no! In fact any laying of wagers was
strictly prohibited by the club's constitution. But there are ways and
means of getting cattle through a fence without taking down the bars,
and there was talk that Horace Carwell had made a pretty stiff bet with
Major Turpin Wardell as to the outcome of the match, the major and Mr.
Carwell being rivals of long standing in the matter of drives and putts.

"Beastly fine day, eh, what?" exclaimed Bruce Garrigan, as he set down
on a tray a waiter held out to him a glass he had just emptied with
every indication of delight in its contents. "If it had been made to
order couldn't be improved on," and he flicked from the lapel of Tom
Sharwell's coat some ashes which had blown there from the cigarette
which Garrigan had lighted.

"You're right for once, Bruce, old man," was the laughing response.
"Never mind the ashes now, you'll make a spot if you rub any harder."

"Right for once? 'm always right!" cried Garrigan "And it may interest
you to know that the total precipitation, including rain and melted snow
in Yuma, Arizona, for the calendar year 1917, was three and one tenth
inches, being the smallest in the United States."