Harry, a golfing enthusiast if there ever was one, arrived home from the club to an irate, ranting wife.

"I'm leaving you, Harry," his wife announced bitterly. "You promised me faithfully that you'd be back before six and here it is almost nine. It just can't take that long to play 18 holes of golf."

"Honey, wait," said Harry. "Let me explain. I know what I promised you, but I have a very good reason for being late. Fred and I tee'd off right on time and everything was find for the first three holes. Then, on the fourth tee Fred had a stroke. I ran back to the clubhouse but couldn't find a doctor. And, by the time I got back to Fred, he was dead. So, for the next 15 holes, it was hit the ball, drag Fred, hit the ball, drag Fred...