A SOUTHERLY squall rattled the windows, and through the u glass, blurred by the driving rain, Colonel Bullivant, Indian Army (retired), stared irritably at the swaying oaks, the little pools forming on the eighteenth green, and the wildly fluttering red flag.

Hawkins, comfortably seated in the Colonel's favourite chair by the fireside, laid down his paper and revealed a round and solemn face from which blue eyes innocently stared.

"By the way, Colonel," he said, as he thoughtfully surveyed the figure by the window, "I notice old Lady Marrovale is dead."

"Marrovale?" The Colonel started. "D'you mean Herbert Marrovale's mother?"

"Yes," said Hawkins. "The family's now extinct."

"Not much loss," growled the Colonel. "They were all wild, or mad. Look at Herbert Marrovale. There was a golfer for you .... if only he hadn't been so queer."

"Just what do you mean by 'queer'?" inquired the young man mildly.

"What! Never heard how he tried to kill his caddy?" The Colonel smiled superciliously. "Even you, I suppose, will admit that that was unusual. It was the last hole in the final and the boy trod on his ball, thereby losing Marrovale the hole, the match, and the championship. Marrovale's face—I saw the whole thing—started twitching, his eyes blazed with sudden hate, white froth oozed between his teeth, and he sprang at the boy with his mashie. Imagine the sensation. Papers hushed it up of course, and a few days later he disappeared. Blew his brains out probably. And that was the end of the greatest match player since Freddie Tait.

"It was not the end of Marrovale," Hawkins put in smoothly, "nor was he the greatest match player since Tait. The best match player of modern times was Ian Mulholland, and the greatest game I shall ever see was his match with Herbert Marrovale."

"Mulholland?" snapped the Colonel. "Never heard of him. But as Marrovale disappeared in 1906, when you were presumably at school, you must be mistaken."

"I am not mistaken," replied Hawkins easily. "I remember that match pretty distinctly. I had good reason to. Perhaps you'd like to hear the story?" The scraping of drawn up chairs was sufficient answer.

"I am sure we shall find it very interesting," remarked the Colonel coldly. "I think I may say, without flattering you, that your stories invariably are."

* * *

Mulholland and I (said Hawkins) were at Eton together and when he decided to go big game shooting he asked me to go with him.

We landed in Capetown, picked up a coastal boat, and a month later were in Uganda and nearing the finest game country in the world. And then the trouble came.

At noon a porter reported lame, and showed us a foot which had been gashed, so he said, with a sharp stone.

"That's funny," said Mulholland thoughtfully. "I haven't seen a stone for days."

The fellow let me dress the injury, limped painfully about, and then begged to be allowed to go back to his own people.

"I suppose it's the only thing to do," grumbled Mulholland. And five minutes later the big nigger was on his way, walking with a slight limp but with quite surprising rapidity.

That afternoon two more porters sidled up.

"Plenty sick, massa," declared the spokesman. And simultaneously they rubbed their backs and glistening stomachs.

"They've been rehearsing this," I whispered, and Mulholland nodded.

"Any more of this nonsense," he growled as he swung his foot menacingly, "and you will be sick—and sorry. Get out!"

The malingerers seemed about to protest, thought better of it, and dejectedly walked off.

"This becomes interesting," said Mulholland. "We'll see what turns up next."

We had not long to wait.

We had covered perhaps ten miles next day when I saw one boy stoop, pick up something, and drop it with a cry. His neighbours stared down as if fascinated, muttering, rolling their eyes and exhibiting every sign of mortal funk.

"What the devil's wrong with them now?" demanded Mulholland.

The guide began to babble. I caught something about a white devil, and gathered that he destroyed people by strange weapons and a special brand of magic. White men, foolish people, had gone this way before, so Sambo declared. Where were they now? He indicated the westward with a fearful gesture and rubbed his stomach.

"A pretty legend," observed Mulholland. "I wonder what they found just now."

He strolled across and picked something up.

"This is queer," he said. "Look here."

It was the rusty head of an old-fashioned, shallow-faced cleek.

* * *

I opened my eyes next morning to find black figures looming above me.

"Well, what—" I stopped. These were not our boys. Our boys did not stand above one with spears poised ready for a thrust. And as I rose to my feet with what show of courage I could muster, I realised that these fellows were half a foot taller than our boys, and three inches taller than myself.

Desperately I looked around me, but could see no escape. Mulholland was still sleeping. Our boys had disappeared.

"Mulholland," I called. He stirred, blinked and took in the situation at a glance.

"H'm. Who're your friends, Hawkins?" he enquired calmly. "Can't say I altogether take to them."

The leader of the band motioned to Mulholland to rise, pointed to the westward, and strode off, and, with spearheads uncomfortably near our shoulder blades, we walked glumly after him.

For an hour we pushed through dense jungle. Then, to our relief, we came upon a track, and quite suddenly emerged on green turf.

"Thank God for that," said Mulholland. "It's good to see the . . . "

He broke off. There was something wrong about that turf. Its shape was too rectangular, its borders too sharply defined, its grass too uniformly short. I looked at Mulholland and Mulholland looked at me.

"If we were not in Central Africa," he said slowly, "I should have said . . . Great Scott!"

I'd seen it too—a round patch of deeper green and a small white flag. It was a golf course.

Five minutes later they marched us up to a long lowT bungalow, and we found ourselves in a large room that looked, at first sight, something between a lounge and a museum: a fantastic blend of East and West, queer, even sinister. The cane armchairs were big and cosy, and the native weapons on the walls looked right enough; one expected them in such a setting. But what was that above the fireplace?

"Mulholland," I said, "look at this." And I pointed to two old drivers, uncannily familiar looking, crossed on the wall.

"I'm more interested in this," he replied quietly; and he thrust something into my hand.

It was a skull. But it was not that which made me shiver. Upon the top of that bald pate a golf ball had been mounted; and on the middle of the forehead there was a silver plate inscribed:

H. H. Marriott-McGregor
(Royal and Ancient)
2 & 1

"My God, what do you make of that?" I whispered.

"Nothing very pleasant," he said grimly.

"A pretty trophy, is it not?" said a voice behind us.

The skull, as I spun upon my heel, dropped from my nerveless fingers and bounced, with a horrid clatter, across the floor. Before me stood a tall, muscular man of perhaps forty. His skin was almost black, his hair was yellow and his eyes, of palest blue, shone like bits of coloured glass. And his dress seemed odd too. The white flannel shirt was right enough; but his trousers were white plus fours.

"Forgive me if I startled you," said the stranger, as he picked up the grisly trophy. "You must also forgive me if the circumstances of your visit seem a little unusual. But one has few visitors hereabouts, and it is possible that we press our hospitality a shade too persistently, especially"—here he bowed —"when our guests are men of breeding and distinction."

"For this reception," returned Mulholland graciously, "we owe you much —more, I daresay, than we yet realise. But—excuse my curiosity—are there any conditions attached to our visit?"

Our host coughed.

"Perhaps," he said gently, "I had better explain the peculiar difficulties of my position. I am, as you have gathered, the King of this tribe—an excellent people, bu4, between ourselves, a trifle primitive. My subjects and I—again I speak in confidence— have not a great deal in common, but I have managed to interest them in golf, though mainly as spectators. At first I did try to teach them the elements, but," he shook his head, "it was uphill work. Their habit of staking not only their present wives, but those whom they had little prospect of acquiring, led to a reprehensible practice known on the Stock Exchange, I believe, as gambling in futures. They had a trick of pushing the ball through the rough with their toes until, sitting as a committee, I showed disapproval of this breach by removing the feet of the offenders and some others. And, worst of all, they would settle all disputes with their niblicks. Three valuable shafts were broken in this way; two or three times they neglected to remove the body; and once, in a particularly important match, my putt ran off on a divot from some idiot's skull. That was when I played— But, let me see, I have a souvenir somewhere."

He reached across the table and picked up a miniature bone putter. On it I read:—

A. J. Harkness
(Royal St. Georges)
1 down

"That, I think, was the closest match I have had in these parts. I don't know why, but I regret to say that the majority of my opponents have been a little below form. There was J. F. Anderson, for instance. The papers had a theory that he died in Somaliland of malaria. He did not, gentlemen. He died of a topped mashie shot at the fifteenth hole. That pen handle is part of his tibia. And there was Bettington—a fellow of Oriel. They said he was attacked by a lion. What really attacked him was a spasm of socketting which culminated fatally. Eight and six I believe the score was. That is the driver I lent him. And Lenox-Simpson—a charming fellow—was supposed to have heart trouble. I daresay they were right but the primary cause of death was habitual shortness with his putts. By the way, I can really recommend this whiskey."

"This," I said, when I'd gulped mine neat, "this is intensely interesting. But supposing your visitor doesn't play golf?"

"In that case," replied the king indifferently, "I hand him over to my men. After all, they have few pleasures."

"And I gather—" my lips were dry again,—"I gather that the men you defeat undergo the same process."

"Quite so," agreed the king pleasantly. "Another whiskey?"

"Thanks." I had never needed one more. And never before had I been so glad that I played golf, even though I was only a 10-handicap man.

"Then as I understand it," put in Mulholland cheerfully, "the position is this. Every—er—visitor, lias the choice of playing a round with you and being eaten, or of being eaten without playing a round."

"He may, if he can, defeat me and live. In that case, I should be the dish for the oven. I rule here, you see, as a magician, and my subjects would not, I feel, look sympathetically on any failure of my art. Besides, they are a singularly hungry race ... It is very gratifying to think," he added thoughtfully, "that so far I have not been beaten."

"Very gratifying, eh Hawkins?" agreed Mulholland.

"What? Oh, very gratifying indeed," I mumbled.

"Then shall we say tomorrow afternoon? That will give you the morning to have a run over the course."

"With pleasure, on one condition," Mulholland said. "My friend here is a little out of form just now. I would like him to caddy for me and share my fate, win or lose."

I felt those terrible pale eyes upon me.

"This is a little disappointing," murmured the king regretfully. "I had reckoned on two games out of this. But it is, I suppose, more or less sanctioned by the rules. Besides, if he's a duffer I would derive no amusement from him anyway .... Now, if I have your word that you will not attemp to escape, may I suggest that we have a bath and go in to dinner?"

* * *

"Surprisingly good course," observed Mulholland, as we strode towards the last green. "You know I've an idea I've seen that beggar before. I wonder where?"

"Well, one thing is certain," said I, for the twentieth time. "He's as mad as a hatter and as dangerous as a tiger."

"My dear chap, he's a perfect maniac," agreed Mulholland. "Have you noticed his eyes?"

I shivered and wondered wildly what chance we'd have if we took to that monstrous jungle. But I knew that, even if I broke my parole, Mulholland wouldn't.

The king was in high spirits at lunch, and Mulholland was just as cheerful. I said little and ate less. At half past two the king tossed his cigar over the rail and looked at us enquiringly.

"Ready whenever you are," Mulholland told him. And a minute later, with Mulholland's clubs on my shoulder, and a black boy performing a similar office for the king, we set out for the first tee.

As we came in sight of the links my heart sank. All around the teeing ground and lining the fairway were hundreds of armed warriors, their skins glistening like coal tar in the blazing sun.

"I think I know one reason why His Majesty always wins/' Mulholland whispered, as I handed him his driver; and I fancied that even he was a little disturbed by the sea of savage faces.

The king won the toss, and with a sudden spasm of fear I saw the beautiful swing of the born golfer, heard a joyous roar, and saw the ball sail 220 yards down the middle of that green strip and run perhaps 30 yards further.

"Good ball, sir," said Mulholland. "I'll have it here, Tony."

I saw Mulholland swing, watched the ball swoop away and heard the silence broken by an exultant roar. The ball had curved away to the left and finished in dense low bushes.

"Hope I'm not in for an attack of hooking," smiled Mulholland.

The ball was lying atrociously and he took two to hack it out and just failed to reach the green with his brassie. The king, amidst howls of delight, got his four and led the way to the second tee one up.

"I've got it," whispered Mulholland. "Now I've seen his swing, with that curious finish, I'm sure of it. It may comfort you to know, Tony, that the fellow I'm playing for our lives is Mr. Herbert Marrovale, twice amateur champion of Britain. Oh, very pretty."

The king had just played a three-quarter iron shot to within two yards of the second hole.

Mulholland was well on, ran up beside the hole with his second, and then stood back to watch the king try for his two. The ball rolled smoothly across the turf, hesitated on the brink, and then disappeared.

"Hm. Two down," said Mulholland. "This really must not go on."

But somehow it did. A series of small but costly slips, and we reached the sixth five down.

Five down! I tried to convince myself that it was all a nightmare but could not. The king's eyes shone curiously, the horde of savages rolled along the edges of the fairway and. whenever they caught our eyes ground their teeth and rubbed their oily stomachs. And Mulholland now had a steely look in his blue eyes and an iron set to his jaw.

I muttered a word of encouragement and despairingly watched them play the short sixth. Both were nicely on the green with their tee shots and the king, putting first, stopped a foot away for a safe three. Mulholland, going for a two, ran five feet past the hole; and a moment later another shattering roar proclaimed that he had missed the return putt and was six down.

"Tony, old boy, you must feel like kicking me," he growled. "Well, it's neck or nothing now, so here goes!"

And he walked to the seventh tee with a smile I did my best to return.

Once more the king's tee shot finished a good 250 yards down the fairway. There came a crisp, clear impact of club and ball, the staring savages craned forward, and there were gasps as Mulholland's ball went away like a bullet, rose in a graceful curve, dropping beside the other ball, and ran on another twenty yards.

"You drive a long ball," observed the king.

"Really hit one at last," said Mulholland to me. "That extra bit may be useful here."

It was. With a beautiful brassie shot he reached the green and won the hole in four to five.

"Thank God," I cried, above the groans of the savages. "The tide's turned."

But my flicker of hope soon died. The eighth was halved in threes, the ninth in fours, the tenth in fives, and the eleventh in fours, and we were five down with only seven to play.

At the twelfth, a 320-yard hole, guarded by deep hunkers, the king made his first mistake. He pushed out his drive into the rough, and Mulholland, laying a mashie stop stone dead, won the hole in a glorious three.

"We still live," said Mulholland, and once more I dared to hope. But the next was halved in fours, and we were four down and five to play. One more hole lost, or two halved, and it was all over.

At the long fourteenth the king was again outdriven, and just failed to reach the green with his second. Mulholland, swinging his brassie with loose-jointed ease, hit a shot which thrills me yet. For a second I thought he had half-topped it. Then it rose like a bird, hovered, dropped just short of the green, rolled on and disappeared in a little hollow near the flag.

The pushing, gibbering blacks swarmed ahead and in their excitement even crowded us a little until a snarl from the king drove them back like scared jackals.

"I must apologise for my subjects," he said. "I've drilled a little etiquette into them, hut they are still, as you see, a trifle primitive."

Just how he had taught them became clear a moment later. Anxious to see where Mulholland's hall lay, the blacks rushed forward, and one excited youth, not noticing that the king had taken his stance for that critical shot, kept up his shrill chatter. There was a cry, a leap, a glint of steel in the sunshine and a sharp crack. Something like a divot flew to one side, and the boy, no longer black of head, but red, tottered, fell, wriggled once or twice, and lay still.

The fifteenth was a short hole. A half swing, a thump on the turf, and Mulholland's ball pitched three yards short of the pin and a yard to the left, clawed at the ground like a live thing as the "cut" took effect, and finished beside the hole. A two to the king's three and we were two down and three to play.

At the sixteenth both men drove beautiful balls down the lane of grotesque faces. The king, a few yards behind, took a spoon for the 220-yard second shot, and with fear tugging at my heart, I saw the ball soar high, fall twenty yards short and roll well on.

Mulholland, while the niggers roared with joy, was coolly measuring the distance with his eyes. Then he took a driving iron. I saw the king's eyes gleam. I guessed what he was thinking—that Mulholland, unfamiliar with the course, had chosen too weak a club; and I almost committed the folly of offering advice. But before I could speak there came that smooth, unhurried swing. The hall went away dead straight, dropped on the edge of the green, rolled on and on, and God! There it lay beside the hole. A minute later Mulholland had won back yet another hole, and we were one down and two to play!

The natives were almost silent now; but one big fellow pointed to his gaping throat; another felt the edge of a knife with his thumb and grinned horribly.

"A charming gallery," was Mulholland's comment, as I teed the ball with shaking fingers. "A really good one might just reach the green."

For the moment it seemed that he had hit a beauty. Then the ball came round to the left and vanished amidst stunted shrubs.

"Sorry, Tony," said Mulholland; and God knows I must have been looking pretty sickly. One down and two to play, and it would soon be two down and one to play. . . . The oven seemed very near just then.

"Just a chance; depends on how it's lying. By Jove! they've found it. That's a good sign."

But there was mockery in the grins that greeted us; and I saw the ball stuck in the fork of a shrub, a good three feet from the ground.

For the first time Mulholland swore. "Shouldn't be surprised if they put it there," he said. "Still, it's just playable. Give me the mashie."

Very cautiously, for fear of shaking the ball from its position, he took his stance. There was a thud, a flying bough momentarily distracted my eye, a plop broke that deadly stillness, and there was the ball beside the flag.

Almost hysterical with joy, I bawled incoherencies in Mulholland's ear; but they were lost in the sullen roar of the crowd.

The king glanced at us and then at the faces around him; and somehow he had changed.

"I believe he's losing his nerve," whispered Mulholland. "There, what did I tell you?"

Almost unable to believe my eyes, I saw that the king had completely duffed his approach. He walked forward, essayed the hopeless task of holding a 20 yard approach, and with a curious twitching of his face, strode on.

All square! Laughing hysterically, I wrung Mulholland's hand, and found myself repeating it idiotically. All square! All square! All square!

"Quite a good finish," grinned Mulholland.

There were whisperings amongst the savages, and low, excited murmurs, and curious glances at Mulholland and the king.

It may be that his miraculous recovery had made Mulholland overconfident, or he may at last have been shaken by the strain. With the roar of the savages in my ears, and a chill in my heart, I saw his drive come round like a boomerang and bound into the rough behind some trees.

"Oh, bad luck," said the king when the tumult had died away, and he swung his driver with all his old certainty. The ball finished far down the green fairway, and I knew that now the end was near.

Silently Mulholland and I approached the clump of trees, and a party of blacks pointed to the ball.

"This time I've really done it in," murmured Mulholland.

"Never mind, old boy," I mumbled miserably.

"My God," he cried, "there's a sporting chance yet."

He dropped to his knees, and following his example, I saw, about two feet from the ground, a small opening in the foliage. It was no bigger than a plate, but through it one could see a patch of green, and the gently moving flag.

"The iron, Tony," cried Mulholland. "No, I must have a short shaft in this mess, and I must keep it low. Give me the putting cleek."

Back on the fairway, I could see nothing but the trees and the figures of the savages, still as idols. Then came a faint thump, and a flash of white as the ball skimmed over the turf, pitched a hundred yards ahead, and ran on towards the green. On and on it ran until, meeting the curve of the green, it curled lazily to the left and stopped ten yards above the hole. Again there came a roar, but this time it held a new note.

"I believe they think you're a miracle-worker," I said as I studied the respect, even awe, written on those ugly faces.

"Looks like it," grinned Mulholland.

There was dead silence as the king swung his iron.

"God be praised! Bunkered!" cried Mulholland in my ear. "Hi—Tony! look there!"

Behind the bushes I saw a party of niggers, and in their midst a huge cauldron from which a thin vapour rose. Faint and sick I looked away, only to catch the eye of a great buck nigger whose left hand fondled a dagger while his right rubbed a shining paunch.

"I see now why most of His Majesty's opponents seemed to have finished rather badly," said Mulholland dryly. "Oh, well out, sir!"

The king, recovering well, had pitched seven or eight yards from the pin.

"Yours, I fancy," he said.

Mulholland agreed, and I held my breath.

Again he was too venturesome, and again the ball finished a yard past the hole.

The king judged it better. His ball ran around the lip and stopped six inches beyond, directly between Mulholland and the hole. One for the match and our lives, and a dead stymie!

"Hell!" said Mulholland softly. "What's it to be, Tony—play safe for a half and go on to the nineteenth or go for a four and take the risk of knocking him in? Safely or sudden death?"

"S-sudden death," I stammered, feeling that that was what he expected of me.

"Good man! I knew you would. The niblick, Tony."

I watched him practice the shot two or three times, and, looking up, shivered despite the clammy heat. The king's teeth were bared, his unnaturally pale eyes shone wolfishly.

Mulholland stooped, and there was a hush. I saw the niblick nip forward, saw the ball rise and drop and disappear, heard, as in a dream, a wild yell which must have been my own, and sprang forward to wring Mulholland's hand.

The next instant I was flung aside by charging bodies. I saw Mulholland seized by half a dozen warriors and thrust aloft, and heard a mighty shout. There came, too, a maniacal scream from behind me and I wheeled in time to see the fallen king, snarling like a beast, go down before a swarm of savages. A knife rose and fell and rose again; and then—for madman though he was, he was an Englishman—I turned away.

* * *

There was a pause in the clubhouse while Hawkins struck a match.

"There's a little more to tell," he said. "They wanted us to stay, of course—Mulholland as King and me as Prime Minister. As courteously as may be, we declined these exalted offices, and next day, with a strong bodyguard, we were on the way to Mombassa. After that—By the way, have you ever been to East Africa, Colonel ?"

For a full minute there was no sound but the ticking of the clock. Then the Colonel, apparently stifling some strong emotion with difficulty, tossed away his cigar, rose heavily and turned towards the window.

"I think the worst's past," he said. "Anyway, thank God the wind's dropped."