Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment:
"No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks. Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was a fizzer—a false alarm."
"Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw. "Might just as well put me in there against MacNeath! Fools!"
MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil.
"He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an' he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Come along, sir!"
I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie, an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly what his lunacy deserved—a much worse lie than before, close against the bank—and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his audience.
"What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four and picked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to be good."
I said I wanted to see how the other matches were coming on.
"Everybody seems to feel the same way," said the redhead, looking at the retreating gallery. "All because I slopped that drive! I'll have that audience back again—see if I don't! And I'll bet you I won't look up on another shot all day!"
"If ye do," grumbled MacQuarrie, "I'll never play wi'ye again as long as ye live!"