"I think ten would be about right," said he calmly.
"Ten!" barked Waddles. "The suffering Moses! Ten! Henry, are you sure you're quite well—not overexcited or anything?"
"All I had was four lemonades."
"Ah!" said Waddles. "Four lemonades—and Sam Totten winked at the bar boy every time. Why, if I cut you from eighteen to ten that'll put you in Class A!"
"I think that's where I belong."
"I'll have to talk with the head bar boy," said Waddles. "He shouldn't be so reckless with that gin. It costs money these days. Listen to me, Henry. Take hold of your head with both hands and try to get what I say. You went out to-day and shot your fool head off. You played the best round of golf in your long and sinful career. You made an eighty-two. You'll never make an eighty-two again as long as you live. It would be a crime to handicap you on to-day's game, Henry. It would be manslaughter to put you in Class A. You don't belong there. If you want me to cut you I'll put you down to sixteen, and even then you won't play to that mark unless you're lucky."
"I think I belong at ten," said Peacock. I began to appreciate that line about the terrible insistence of the meek.
"Get out of here!" ordered Waddles, suddenly losing his patience. "Go home and pray for humility, Henry. Lay off the lemonade when Sam Totten is in the crowd. Lemonade is bad for you. It curdles the intelligence and warps the reasoning faculties. Shoo! Scat! Mush on! Vamose! Beat it! Hurry up! Wiki-wiki! Chop-chop! Schnell!"
"Then you won't cut me to ten?"
"I—will—not!"