I noted that he had given Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson the lowest mark—10. Beth Rogers and Bill Hawley were next with 16, and the other couples ranged on upward to the blue sky.
"Of course," I suggested, "the low handicap is something of a compliment, but haven't you slipped Davidson a bit the worst of it?"
"Not at all," growled Waddles. "He was just crazy to get into this thing, and he wouldn't have been unless he figured to have a cinch; consequently, hence and by reason of which I've given him a mark that'll make him draw right down to his hand. He won't play any four-flush here." Waddles then arranged the personnel of the foursomes, and jotted down the order in which they would leave the first tee. When I saw which quartette would start last I offered another suggestion.
"You're not helping Bill's game any," said I. "You know that he doesn't like Davidson, and——"
Waddles stopped me with his frozen-faced, stuffed-owl stare. In deep humiliation I confess that at the time I attributed it to his distaste for criticism. I realise now that it must have been amazement at my stupidity.
"Excuse me for living," said I with mock humility.
"There is no excuse," said Waddles heavily.
Bill turned up on the tee at the last moment, and if he didn't like the company in which he found himself he masked his feelings very well.
"How do, Mary? Beth, this is a pleasure. How are you, Davidson? Ladies first, I presume?"
"Drive, Miss Rogers," said Davidson.