We thought a great deal, but nobody offered any advice.
"Well," said Windy, getting up and stretching, "he's got to start me 2 up, on handicap, and I'm drivin' like a fool. I should worry about his technicalities!"
III
Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player is very well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot. It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, rough to the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guarding the green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee.
"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts. I always drive best when people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, they say. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when I address the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this: 'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! And the little white devil certainly took a ride—long, low, and straight up the middle of the course—the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it to make it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixty yards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pill beside that one—if you think you can!"
"You're a 12-handicap man—and you drive like that!" said Kitts, which was, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot.
"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. I really play to a 6."
Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversational leads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberate players who must make just so many motions before they pull off their shots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he moved up on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forth over it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out a nice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all, he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker.
"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot! Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of a contest——"
"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windy winked at the rest of us.