He was playing a nice
easy game, getting the full face of the putter on to each shot.
At the top of the slope that drops down into Woodfield High Street he
paused.
"I think I might try my brassey again here," he said. "I have a nice
lie."
"Is it wise?" I said.
He looked down the hill.
"What I was thinking," he said, "was that with it I might wing that man
Bingham. I see he is standing right out in the middle of the fairway."
I followed his gaze. It was perfectly true. Ralph Bingham was leaning
on his bicycle in the roadway, smoking a cigarette. Even at this
distance one could detect the man's disgustingly complacent expression.
Rupert Bailey was sitting with his back against the door of the
Woodfield Garage, looking rather used up. He was a man who liked to
keep himself clean and tidy, and it was plain that the cross-country
trip had done him no good. He seemed to be scraping mud off his face. I
learned later that he had had the misfortune to fall into a ditch just
beyond Bayside.
"No," said Arthur. "On second thoughts, the safe game is the one to
play.
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