He was taking a well-earned rest after playing his eleven hundred and
fifth, a nice niblick shot with lots of wrist behind it, when out of
Bridle Street there trickled a weary-looking golf-ball, followed in the
order named by Ralph Bingham, resolute but going a trifle at the knees,
and Rupert Bailey on a bicycle. The latter, on whose face and limbs the
mud had dried, made an arresting spectacle.
"What are you playing?" I inquired.
"Eleven hundred," said Rupert. "We got into a casual dog."
"A casual dog?"
"Yes, just before the bridge. We were coming along nicely, when a stray
dog grabbed our nine hundred and ninety-eighth and took it nearly back
to Woodfield, and we had to start all over again. How are you getting
on?"
"We have just played our eleven hundred and fifth. A nice even game." I
looked at Ralph's ball, which was lying close to the kerb. "You are
farther from the hole, I think. Your shot, Bingham."
Rupert Bailey suggested breakfast. He was a man who was altogether too
fond of creature comforts. He had not the true golfing spirit.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221