"Well, he can't be introduced to the game too early. Come on, Peter." And we pushed into more open country.
The 9-hole course which Simpson planned a year ago is not yet used for the Open Championship, though it is certainly better than it was last summer. But it is short and narrow and dog-legged, and, particularly when Simpson is playing on it, dangerous.
"We are now in the zone of fire," I said. "Samuel's repainted ninepenny may whiz past us at any moment. Perhaps I had better go first." I tied my handkerchief to Myra's sunshade and led the way with the white flag.
A ball came over the barn and rolled towards us, just reaching one of the wheels. I gave a yell.
"Hallo!" bellowed Simpson from behind the barn.
"You're firing on the ambulance," I shouted.
He hurried up, followed leisurely by Thomas.
"I say," he said excitedly, "have I hurt him?"
"You have not even waked him. He has the special gift of—was it Wellington or Napoleon?—that of being able to sleep through the heaviest battle."
"Hallo!" said Thomas. "Good old boy! What's he been learning to-day?" he added, with godfatherly interest.