"I saw it losing itself. It went into the bad place I told you about. It's gone to join the secretary. Oh, no, we got him out, of course; I keep forgetting. Anyhow, it's my hole."
"I think I shall turn my trousers up again," said Thomas, bending down to do so. "Is there a local rule about it?"
"No; it is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the members. Naturally a little extra license is allowed on a very muddy day. Of course, if—Oh, I see. You meant a local rule about losing your ball in the mud? No, I don't know of one, unless it comes under the heading of casual land. Be a sportsman, Thomas, and don't begrudge me the hole."
The game proceeded, and we reached the twelfth tee without any further contretemps; save that I accidentally lost the sixth, ninth and tenth holes, and that Thomas lost his iron at the eighth. He had carelessly laid it down for a moment while he got out of a hole with his niblick, and when he turned round for it the thing was gone.
At the twelfth tee it was raining harder than ever. We pounded along with our coat-collars up and reached the green absolutely wet through.
"How about it?" said Thomas.
"My hole, I think, and that makes us all square."
"I mean how about the rain? And it's just one o'clock."
"Just as you like. Well, I suppose it is rather wet. All right, let's have lunch."
We had lunch. Thomas had it in the only dry things he had brought with him—an ulster and a pair of Vardon cuffs, and sat as near the fire as possible. It was still raining in torrents after lunch, and Thomas, who is not what I call keen about golf, preferred to remain before the fire. Perhaps he was right. I raked up an old copy of Stumers with the Niblick for him, and read bits of the Telephone Directory out aloud.