Thomas had got out of the fairway in one, but he still seemed unhappy.
"My eye," he said, bending down in agony; "I've got about half Middlesex in it."
He walked round in circles saying strange nautical things, and my suggestions that he should (1) rub the other eye and (2) blow his nose suddenly were received ungenerously.
"Anything you'd like me to do with my ears?" he asked bitterly. "If you'd come and take some mud out for me, instead of talking rot——"
I approached with my handkerchief and examined the eye carefully.
"See anything?" asked Thomas.
"My dear Thomas, it's full of turf. We mustn't forget to replace this if we can get it out. What the secretary would say—There! How's that?"
"Worse than ever."
"Try not to think about it. Keep the other eye on the ball as much as possible. This is my hole, by the way. Your ball is lost."
"How do you know?"