It ran too swiftly! Herring, in desperation, had overplayed! But no--it lost momentum as it topped a rise, then gathered speed, all but died at the edge of the cup and--toppled in amid a salvo of handclaps and roar of "Bravo!" That was nerve, courage, skill! That was golf! The miracle had happened! Another hole to decide the match.
Quickly the crowd became still again as McLeod, his teeth set upon the stem of his pipe, his stony face masking a murderous disappointment, stepped forward to run down his four.
The silence was broken by a cry.

Out of the air overhead came the sound of a disturbance, and every face turned.

A most amazing thing was in the way of happening, a phenomenon unique in the history of tournaments, for a man was being thrust forth from one of the hotel windows, perhaps twenty-five feet above the ground--a writhing, struggling, kicking man with fawn-colored spats.

He was being ejected painlessly but firmly, and by a girl--a grim-faced young woman of splendid proportions.

For a moment she allowed him to dangle; then she dropped him into a handsome Dorothy Perkins rosebush.