"I mean the
blighters whose best club is the book of rules. You know the sort of
excrescences. Every time you think you've won a hole, they dig out Rule
eight hundred and fifty-three, section two, sub-section four, to prove
that you've disqualified yourself by having an ingrowing toe-nail.
Well, take my case." The young man's voice was high and plaintive. "I
go out with that man Hemmingway to play an ordinary friendly
round--nothing depending on it except a measly ball--and on the seventh
he pulls me up and claims the hole simply because I happened to drop my
niblick in the bunker. Oh, well, a tick's a tick, and there's nothing
more to say, I suppose."
The Sage shook his head.
"Rules are rules, my boy, and must be kept. It is odd that you should
have brought up this subject, for only a moment before you came in I
was thinking of a somewhat curious match which ultimately turned upon a
question of the rule-book. It is true that, as far as the actual prize
was concerned, it made little difference. But perhaps I had better tell
you the whole story from the beginning.
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