FullReads

“Anything you’d like me to do with my ears?” he asked bitterly. “If you’d come and take some mud out for me, instead of talking rot–“

I approached with my handkerchief and examined the eye carefully.

“See anything?” asked Thomas.

“My dear Thomas, it’s FULL of turf. We mustn’t forget to replace this if we can get it out. What the Secretary would say–There! How’s that?”

“Worse than ever.”

“Try not to think about it. Keep the OTHER eye on the ball as much as possible. This is my hole by the way. Your ball is lost.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it losing itself. It went into the bad place I told you about. It’s gone to join the Secretary. Oh, no, we got him out, of course; I keep forgetting. Anyhow, it’s my hole.”

“I think I shall turn my trousers up again,” said Thomas, bending down to do so. “Is there a local rule about it?”

“No; it is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the members. Naturally a little extra licence is allowed on a very muddy day. Of course, if–Oh, I see. You meant a local rule about losing your ball in the mud? No, I don’t know of one–unless it comes under the heading of casual land. Be a sportsman, Thomas, and don’t begrudge me the hole.”

The game proceeded, and we reached the twelfth tee without any further contretemps; save that I accidentally lost the sixth, ninth and tenth holes, and that Thomas lost his iron at the eighth. He had carelessly laid it down for a moment while he got out of a hole with his niblick, and when he turned round for it the thing was gone.

At the twelfth tee it was raining harder than ever. We pounded along with our coat-collars up and reached the green absolutely wet through.

“How about it?” said Thomas.

“My hole, I think; and that makes us all square.”

“I mean how about the rain? And it’s just one o’clock.”

“Just as you like. Well, I suppose it is rather wet. All right, let’s have lunch.”

We had lunch. Thomas had it in the only dry things he had brought with him–an ulster and a pair of Vardon cuffs, and sat as near the fire as possible. It was still raining in torrents after lunch, and Thomas, who is not what I call keen about golf, preferred to remain before the fire. Perhaps he was right. I raked up an old copy of Strumers with the Niblick for him, and read bits of the Telephone Directory out aloud.

After tea his proper clothes were dry enough in places to put on, and as it was still raining hard, and he seemed disinclined to come out again, I ordered a cab for us both.

“It’s really rotten luck,” said Thomas, as we prepared to leave, “that on the one day when I take a holiday, it should be so beastly.”

“Beastly, Thomas?” I said in amazement. “The ONE day? I’m afraid you don’t play inland golf much?”

“I hardly ever play round London.”

“I thought not. Then let me tell you that to-day’s was the best day’s golf I’ve had for three weeks.”

“Golly!” said Thomas.

AN INFORMAL EVENING

DINNER was a very quiet affair. Not a soul drew my chair away from under me as I sat down, and during the meal nobody threw bread about. We talked gently of art and politics and things; and when the ladies left there was no booby trap waiting for them at the door. In a word, nothing to prepare me for what was to follow.

We strolled leisurely into the drawing-room. A glance told me the worst. The ladies were in a cluster round Miss Power, and Miss Power was on the floor. She got up quickly as we came in.

“We were trying to go underneath the poker,” she explained. “Can you do it?”

I waved the poker back.

“Let me see you do it again,” I said. “I missed the first part.”