And the subject of this kindly comment had blushed pink out of sheer gratification.
A pretty good bunch, those fellows out at the club! If it had done nothing else for him, Coyne reflected, golf had widened his circle of friends. Suddenly there came to him the realisation that he would have a great deal of spare time on his hands in the future. Wednesdays and Saturdays would be long days now; and Sundays——Coyne sighed deeply and swung the rusty mid-iron back and forth as if in the act of studying a difficult approach.
"But what's the use?" he asked himself. "I haven't got a shot left—not a single shot!"
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mid-iron between his knees and his head in his hands. At the end of twenty minutes he rose and began to prowl about the house, looking into corners, behind doors, and underneath beds and bureaus.
"Seems to me I saw it only the other day," said he. "Of course Bobby might have been playing with it and lost it."
It was in the children's playroom that he came upon the thing, which he told himself he found by accident. It was much the worse for wear; nearly all the paint had been worn off it and its surface was covered with tiny dents. Bob Junior had been teaching his dog to fetch and carry and the dents were the prints of sharp puppy teeth.
"Well, what do you think of that!" ejaculated Mr. Coyne, pretending to be surprised. "As I live—a golf ball! Yes; a golf ball!"
He stood looking at it for some time; but at last he picked it up. With the rusty mid-iron in one hand and the ball in the other, he went downstairs, passed through the house, unlocked the back door and went into the yard. Behind the garage was a smooth stretch of lawn, fifty feet in diameter, carefully mowed and rolled. In the centre of this emerald carpet was a hole, and in the hole was a flag. This was Mr. Coyne's private putting green.
"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. All confounded foolishness!"
So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his works dropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The lie did not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted his disreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron a few times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attempted that most difficult of all performances—the chip shot. The ball hopped across the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolled straight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from the hole.