"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated before the stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-lustre eyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand.
"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with this double-dash-blanked game."
Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a full heart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne's friends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement was received with calmness—not to say a certain amount of levity.
"We've all been there!" chuckled one of the listeners.
"Many's the time!" supplemented another.
"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'd been slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the damned shaft. Did me a lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual, and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that has been annoying you. Try it some time."
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Coyne. "I'd have to break 'em all!"
"Maybe you don't drink enough," hazarded another.
"Cheer up!" said the first speaker. "You'll be all right this afternoon."
The afflicted one lifted his head again and gazed mournfully at his friends.