The log cabin Democrat., 1909-10-01
Cell 4ft-ll-44
Copyright. by J. 5. LippIncott Co.1
By Edwin k. Sabin

our links; he was villain because he kept bearing off prizes which 1 had counted upon capturing myself; he l was a villain because he was so l blamed popular and easy-gc ing. His 1 Vile, moreover, was becoming the champion ping-ponger in the Ibsen Ping-Pong circle, to which my wife be- 1 longed
 l did not hate Jones; I hated mere. ly the sight of him and the sound Of his name
 The crisis came one evening in June, following upon the day of our regu. lar annual introductory tournament All winter long I had been practic. ing in our cottage parlor-the dining room being given up to pingpong- with this single tournament in view was determined to beat Jones. And now my hopes had been dashed, for Jones had triumphed over me by four holes lowing to luck and technicaii- ties upon which he insisted)!
 This was to be a club evening. de voted to program of music on the lawn and light refreshments on the veranda. And here let me digress briefly:
 Anyone who plays golf, or who is acquainted with somebody who plays golf, knows what an intense person a golfer is. On or off the links, he is necessarily at his game. Day and n Q in in bo io making his strokes. He roams the house, swinging and he cannot walk abroad without beholding a landscape oi tees and hazards. His calculating eye is ever alert and his arm is ever busy to drive off" bric-a brac and pebbles. An, it is fascinating to be a golfer, but it is hard on property and nerves.
 So much understod, therefore. When was sitting this evening in chair upon the club veranda and saw be- fore me and below me his bald head waiting like a positive challenge, the impulse was overmastering He was comfortably placed upon the veranda steps listening 10 the music, and the top of his head was on a level with my feet. It was such a smooth. rounded, firm, bare surface, furnish ing an ideal lie In the middle was tiny tuft of hair, supplying the ball!
 l tried to turn my attention to the music The orchestra was playing The Wearing of the Green" mel ody dear to every golfer. But tried in vain-that enticing pate, with it's little clump of hair. obtruded be- tween the notes. My fingers uneasily clasped my cane. I wiggled in my seat. I shut my eyes-no use.
 The orchestra struck up After the Ball another golfing measure l mob, with it's spot of black, still beckoning. I trembled, clenched my teeth-and yielded. The opportunity was too fine to be ignored. l quietly arose, grasped my cane by the ferrule, took my stance, swung and in another second the crook would have shaved of that lock Of HdlI WlluOuL so MHCn as DredklDS the skin had not bumptious neighbor seized my arm and violently wrencbed away my cane. Then I was pinioned in my chair, and amid ridiculous out cry was accused of having essayed to assault Jones, my rival,
 So, here l am, on a trumped up charge, condemned to charlotte-russe and getting completely out of prac- tice.
 would esteem it great favor if the person into whose hands this statement falls would find my wife at the Ibsen Ping Pong circle, and make her cognizant of what has be. come of me. and then drop in at the High-Hole Golf club and get me copy of the last handicap list, pay ing particular notice to the scores of John Johnson Jones.
 China's Craving for Knowledge.
 EnrpiOn in ,;t