"We're showing him life to-day. He has come to see Simpson play golf."
"Doesn't he ever sit up?" asked Simpson, looking at him with interest. "I don't see how he's going to see anything if he's always on his back. Unless it were something in the air."
"Don't you ever get the ball in the air?" said Myra innocently.
"What will his Uncle Samuel show him if he does sit up?" I asked. "Let's decide first if it's going to be anything worth watching. Which hole are you for? The third?"
"The eighth. My last shot had a bit of a slice."
"A slice! It had about the whole joint. I doubt," I said to Myra, "if we shall do much good here; let's push on."
But Myra had put down the hood and taken some of the clothes off Peter. Peter stirred slightly. He seemed to know that something was going on. Then suddenly he woke up, just in time to see Simpson miss the ball completely. Instantly he gave a cry.
"Now you've done it," said Myra. "He's got to go in. And I'm afraid he'll go away with quite a wrong idea of the game."
But I was not thinking of the baby. Although I am to be his uncle by marriage I had forgotten him.
"If that's about Simpson's form to-day," I said to Myra, "you and I could still take them on and beat them."