On the morning of May 4th Jopp came into the office, looking, I
fancied, a little thoughtful. He sat for some moments staring before
him with his brow a trifle furrowed; then he seemed to come to himself.
He rapped his desk.
"Hi! You!" he said. It was thus that he habitually addressed me.
"Mr. Jopp?" I replied.
"What's golf?"
I had at that time just succeeded in getting my handicap down into
single figures, and I welcomed the opportunity of dilating on the
noblest of pastimes. But I had barely begun my eulogy when he stopped
me.
"It's a game, is it?"
"I suppose you could call it that," I said, "but it is an offhand way
of describing the holiest----"
"How do you play it?"
"Pretty well," I said. "At the beginning of the season I didn't seem
able to keep 'em straight at all, but lately I've been doing fine.
Getting better every day. Whether it was that I was moving my head or
gripping too tightly with the right hand----"
"Keep the reminiscences for your grandchildren during the long winter
evenings," he interrupted, abruptly, as was his habit.
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