Photograph by Edwin Levick, New York

and man, but his advantages for book learning were not great, and I strongly suspect that his reminiscences were not written but were talked to somebody who put them in form for the printer. There is a famous, deep and terrible bunker at St. Andrew's known as Hell Bunker. One day Kirkaldy was playing, so he says in his book, with an English Bishop who put his ball into Hell Bunker but got it out and onto the green by a prodigious stroke with his niblick. In great elation the Bishop exclaimed as he clambered out of the pit: "Andrew, did you see me get out of Hell with my niblick!" "I did, my Lord," was the answer, "and I advise ye to tak' yer niblick wi' ye when ye dee!" Andrew did not stand in awe of the clergy.

A good caddie can almost turn defeat into victory by his wise advice. At North Berwick, once a professional was losing a tournament match by being short and timid in his putting. His cad

die at length remonstrated: "Het the ba', man; het the ba'. What are ye frichtened for?" The advice was taken and the match was won. Unfortunately in tennis when a player is putting all his returns into the net no one can stand beside him and exclaim, "Don't be timid! Hit the ball!"

In the Rev. Mr. Kerr's quarto there are some reminiscences by R. J. B. Tait, a representative of one of the oldest golfing families of East Lothian. "Sir Walter Scott," says Mr. Tait, "once played a game on Prestonpans course, and in going to the links walked down a narrow lane next to the brewery. In 1862 I remember walking with my father to the green, and asking him why it was that in going to golf he always went down this vennel. He replied: 'All great men walk down here. Sir Walter Scott once walked through it.' 'Did you see him?' I asked. 'No,' he said, 'but I have seen a man who saw him, and so have

you.' He referred to old Willie Wright, who was then ninety-four years of age and lived opposite the narrow lane referred to." This anecdote alone is sufficient, I think, to justify my assertion that golf has a peculiar literary quality. What other game is there which one could approach in remembrance and veneration of a great poet and novelist? And what other game is there which obtains from its neophytes such unswerving devotion as golf? I quote again from Mr. R. J. B. Tait:

In 1869, when the whale came in at Longniddry, a friend and I, both boys and both "gowf-daft," took our irons and played shots over the whale's back. My friend, another day, went to see the whale for the express purpose of playing a shot from off his back. A favorite pastime of ours was to lay down a lucifer match and light it by hitting the brimstone with the bone of the club at full swing. Another player, when the weather was wet, would go into a bedroom and place a hat on the bed and play iron shots from the floor into it. We played shots over the church steeple at Aberlady, over Gosford House, and we even took our clubs to Coldstream for the purpose of playing balls across the Tweed during our Christmas holidays. On one occasion, when young Tom Morris [by some believed to be the greatest golfing genius who ever lived, the William Tilden 2d of the game] came to Luffness to practice for the first professional match of importance that had ever taken place there, viz., that between Bob Ferguson and himself, he stayed with us at the Golf Hotel at Aberlady, and occupied the same bedroom as I did. We kept all our clubs there beside us, and spent part of each night playing iron shots. for pennies from the hearth-rug into a hat which we placed in the bed. We often had some clubs in the bed beside us, and not infrequently got up in the middle of the night to illustrate to each other how certain shots ought to be overcome, to go over the different styles of the golfers we knew, and to imitate the various characters themselves.

I doubt if Tilden ever took a tennis racket to bed with him, and it is certain that he could not practice his cannonball service aces on a bedroom floor at night. Nevertheless, he seems to have developed the game to its highest possible form of perfection. Perhaps he will now devote himself to seeing whether it cannot be given a literary cast. A hard task, however, lies before him, for literature is a plant of slow growth, and the literature of golf has already had a record of nearly two centuries.

HR

OW could he face his congregation? The Pastor paced the floor of his study, ringing his thin hands. For the past three days he had been "out" to all callers, but tomorrow would be Sunday, and he must conduct his usual services. To-morrow several hundred accusing eyes would be turned upon him as he entered his pulpit. Yet he had done nothing that was criminal or really wrong. It had simply been a case of bad judgment. But it had cost his congregation thousands of dollars. Many of them had parted with their life's savings on his advice.

He had been honest in the whole matter, but he had been a dupe. The Promoter had come to him with, apparently, good credentials. If he had only verified. these, the whole matter would have been averted. But the Promoter had swept him off his feet by his wonderfully frank and open-handed manner. At first he had simply played the rôle of a devout attendant at the Sunday services. When an appeal was made for funds with which to meet the interest due on the church debt, he had given a contribution of a hundred dollars. It had been the same when the church had been called upon to give its share toward foreign missions; the Promoter had headed the subscription list with a generous donation. Then, when an impecunious member of the congregation had lost his wife, and hadn't the money with which to bury her, he had come forward and had paid all the funeral expenses.

"Do all the good you can in the world, it is the only thing worth living for," was the constant saying of the Promoter.

In a few weeks he had become an usher in the church and one of the Pastor's most ardent helpers in the numerous tasks and problems that every minister has.

Just when it was that the Promoter's great "uplift work" was first divulged to the Pastor, and then to his congregation, he couldn't remember. But it had seemed such a wonderful proposition. It was going to double the purchasing value of the workingman's dollar. It was a great and daring attack on the capitalists. Under the Promoter's plan of co-operative buying and selling the man in the street would reap all the benefits

become a financier

By GEORGE WITTEN

With a broad-minded, generous mar. like the Promoter at the head of it, the plan seemed certain of success. The Pastor rejoiced that the opportunity to take part in such a great work had been afforded him, and he had joined hands with the Promoter. However, he had not been the only man of standing in his community who had given his unqualified indorsement to the stock issue. There was the Superintendent of Public Schools, the Secretary of the Y. M. C. A., Schools, the Secretary of the Y. M. C. A., and the Secretary of the Y. W. C. A.

None of these had allowed their names to be used in the promotion literature, but they had talked of the plan, and when asked for advice by those who looked to them for guidance had advised investing. The only man in the town who openly fought the proposition was the Secretary of the Chamber of Commerce, but then the Promoter had pointed out the fact that the Secretary represented the merchants of the town, who were reaping big profits and whose business would be affected. This had seemed a reasonable and logical argument, and had helped further to prove that the Promoter's plan was a real fight against the big interests.

The stock had sold with a boom. Men and women who had lived contentedly on moderate incomes, investing their small savings in Liberty Bonds and securities of proved stability that paid only small dividends, suddenly developed extravagant ambitions. There was little talk of anything else but the great equalizing plan of the Promoter. It was going to give every one the same chance in life. But those who invested first and got in on the ground floor would have advantages over those who held back and didn't come in until the plan was put into effect. The thing to do was to invest at

once.

Homes were mortgaged, Liberty Bonds and good securities were sold, and money taken from the savings banks. There was more happiness in the community than there had ever been before. Everybody wore a smile, and the Promoter stood out among them, a Moses come to lead them from bondage. Then, crash! What had happened? The Promoter

were closed, and the firm that had rented him his office furniture was trying to collect the rental from the stockholders. Other bills, made in the name of the corporation, were pouring in, but the officers of the enterprise had vanished.

The Superintendent of Schools was away on his vacation. The Secretary of the Y. M. C. A. was attending a convention. The Secretary of the Y. W. C. A. had taken to her bed, and remained there, too ill to see anybody. The Pastor had been left to face the enraged stockholders alone. For days his door-bell and telephone had rung incessantly. Then he did what he should have done months before, made investigation of the Promoter's credentials. These he found, to his dismay, were forgeries.

When the crash first came, the Pastor had attempted to appease the stockholders and had tried to justify his position by showing them his own elaborately engraved stock certificate, which he had bought with his small savings. But there was no reasoning with them-all they wanted was their money back. Finally he had denied himself to all callers and had attempted to concentrate his mind on his sermons. But to-morrow was Sunday, and to-morrow he must face an enraged congregation.

The position of the Pastor was only the same as that in which hundreds of honest, well-meaning men have found themselves in recent years. The promoter of to-day is a student of psychology, and, while there is always a flaw in his makeup and he has his weaknesses, he is a man of brains, who, if he exerted his efforts in the right direction, could accomplish great things. One of the greatest troubles with the average man is that he expects to find the marks of the beast in every vender of worthless securities; he looks for the "horns," while the most dangerous of the promoters are men of smart and often benevolent appearance, with soft voices and kindly manners.

The writer, in once making an investigation of a fraudulent concern that was playing the "uplift game" to the superlative degree, found the head of the enterprise to be a man with silvery white, wavy hair of the Mark Twain type; a jovial, round face with a most engaging