"Then there's only one thing for it." I pointed to the window at the other end of the barn. "Go straight on."
Myra gave a little gurgle of delight.
"But we shall have to save up our pocket-money," she said.
Her ball hit the wood in between two panes and bounded back. My next shot was just above the glass. Myra took a niblick and got the ball back into the middle of the floor.
"It's simply sickening that we can't break a window when we're really trying to. I should have thought that anyone could have broken a window. Now then."
"Oh, good SHOT!" cried Myra above the crash. We hurried out and did the hole in nine.
At lunch, having completed eighteen holes out of the thirty-six, we were seven strokes behind the leaders, Simpson and Thomas. Simpson, according to Thomas, had been playing like a book. Golf Faults Analysed—that book, I should think.
"But I expect he'll go to pieces in the afternoon," said Thomas. He turned to a servant and added, "Mr Simpson won't have anything more."
We started our second round brilliantly; continued (after an unusual incident on the fifth tee) brilliantly; and ended up brilliantly. At the last tee we had played a hundred and thirty-seven. Myra got in a beautiful drive to within fifty yards of the circle.
"How many?" said the others, coming up excitedly.