"'Morning," said James.
"'Morning," said Peter.
Peter sat down and toyed absently with a slice of bacon.
"I've got an idea," he said.
"One isn't many," said James, bringing his knife down with a jerk-shot
on a fried egg. "What is your idea?"
"Got it last night as I was lying awake. It struck me that, if either
of us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fair
chance. You know what I mean--with Her. At present we've got each other
stymied. Now, how would it be," said Peter, abstractedly spreading
marmalade on his bacon, "if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, the
loser to leg out of the neighbourhood and stay away long enough to give
the winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood?"
James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye with
his fork.
"That's exactly the idea I got last night, too."
"Then it's a go?"
"It's the only thing to do."
There was silence for a moment. Both men were thinking. Remember, they
were friends. For years they had shared each other's sorrows, joys, and
golf-balls, and sliced into the same bunkers.
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