"Five," I said again.
"Er—five. And yet you win the hole. It is rather absurd, isn't it?"
"I've often thought so," I admitted readily. "That is to say, when I've taken four putts. I'm two up."
On the third tee Thomson's health became positively alarming. He missed the ball altogether.
"It's ridiculous to try to play," he said, with a forced laugh. "I can't see the ball at all."
"It's still there," I assured him.
He struck at it again and it hurried off into a ditch.
"Look here," he said, "wouldn't you rather play the pro.? This is not much of a match for you."
I considered. Of course, a game with the pro. would be much pleasanter than a game with Thomson, but ought I to leave him in his present serious condition of health? His illness was approaching its critical stage, and it was my duty to pull him through if I could.
"No, no," I said. "Let's go on. The fresh air will do you good."