"That'll do," said Waddles; and Tom went back to his work. There was a long silence. By his laboured breathing I judged that Waddles was lacing his shoes. Once more he thought aloud.
"Tom wouldn't lie to me, so it wasn't gin. Now, I wonder.... I wonder if that old coot has got what they call 'delusions of grandeur'?"
III
On the Monday following the contest for the Hemmingway Cup I met the Bish at the country club. We arrived there between nine and ten in the morning, and the first man we saw was Mr. Henry Peacock. He was out on the eighteenth fairway practising approach shots, and the putting green was speckled with balls.
"Hello!" said the Bish. "Look who's here! Practising too. You don't suppose that old chump is going to try to make a golfer of himself, this late along?"
I said that it appeared that way.
"One-club practise is all right for a beginner," said the Bish, "because he hasn't any bad habits to overcome, but this poor nut didn't take up the game till he was forty, and when he learned it he learned it all wrong. He can practise till he's black in the face and it won't do him any good. Don't you think we'd better page Doc Osler and have him put out of his misery?"
It was then that I told the Bish about Henry's desire to break into Class A, and he whistled.
"It got him quick, didn't it?" said he. "Well, there's no fool like an old fool."
Half an hour later this was made quite plain to us. Henry came into the clubhouse to get a drink of water. Now I did not know him very well, and the Bish had only a nodding acquaintance with him, but he greeted us as long-lost brothers. I did not understand his cordiality at first, but the reason for it was soon apparent. Henry wanted to know whether we had a match up for the afternoon.