I'll stick to the putter."
We dropped down the hill, and presently came up with the opposition. I
had not been mistaken in thinking that Ralph Bingham looked complacent.
The man was smirking.
"Playing three hundred and ninety-six," he said, as we drew near. "How
are you?"
I consulted my score-card.
"We have played a snappy seven hundred and eleven." I said.
Ralph exulted openly. Rupert Bailey made no comment. He was too busy
with the alluvial deposits on his person.
"Perhaps you would like to give up the match?" said Ralph to Arthur.
"Tchah!" said Arthur.
"Might just as well."
"Pah!" said Arthur.
"You can't win now."
"Pshaw!" said Arthur.
I am aware that Arthur's dialogue might have been brighter, but he had
been through a trying time.
Rupert Bailey sidled up to me.
"I'm going home," he said.
"Nonsense!" I replied. "You are in an official capacity. You must stick
to your post. Besides, what could be nicer than a pleasant morning
ramble?"
"Pleasant morning ramble my number nine foot!" he replied, peevishly.
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