I had never supposed till that
moment that men ever really sneered at one another outside the movies,
but these two were indisputably doing so. They were in the mood when
men say "Pshaw!"
They tossed for the honour, and Arthur Jukes, having won, drove off
with a fine ball that landed well down the course. Ralph Bingham,
having teed up, turned to Rupert Bailey.
"Go down on to the fairway of the seventeenth," he said. "I want you to
mark my ball."
Rupert stared.
"The seventeenth!"
"I am going to take that direction," said Ralph, pointing over the
trees.
"But that will land your second or third shot in the lake."
"I have provided for that. I have a fiat-bottomed boat moored close by
the sixteenth green. I shall use a mashie-niblick and chip my ball
aboard, row across to the other side, chip it ashore, and carry on. I
propose to go across country as far as Woodfield. I think it will save
me a stroke or two."
I gasped. I had never before realized the man's devilish cunning. His
tactics gave him a flying start. Arthur, who had driven straight down
the course, had as his objective the high road, which adjoins the waste
ground beyond the first green.
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