In Winter Quarters 



It was a Scotchman, in fact, who in- 

 veigled me into this one John Clay. 

 Some of you ranchmen and Stock 

 Yard people and bankers and red foxes 

 will perhaps have heard of him before, 

 for he has been a very familiar figure, 

 for lo! these many years, wherever 

 round-ups, livestock conventions and 

 packing-houses abound in this coun- 

 try. Also wherever border sportsmen 

 meet along the Teviot or the Tweed 

 to give poor Reynard chase. John 

 could beat almost anyone when it was 

 a little matter of shrewd use of grass on 

 the Belle Fourche range. And Tom 

 Wilson or Edward Swift or Mr. Forgan 

 will tell you candidly he is "canny" 

 in the realm of high finance. More- 

 over, any fox-hunter between the 

 Cheviots and the Hills of Lammermoor 

 will have tall stories of how he used 

 to ride to hounds, rain or shine, from 

 Monday morning until Saturday night. 



But he can't play good golf. I know 

 he can't play good golf because I have 

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