"Fore!" said Mary again—and whacked the ball straight into the bunker—straight into the middle of it.
"Now, you see?" Russell was aggravated, and showed it. "If you had changed your stance and put that ball somewhere to the left you might have given me a chance to reach the green. As it is——"
He was still enlarging upon her offence as they moved away from the tee. Mary did not answer him, but she gave Beth a bright smile, as much as to say, "What care I?" Bill trailed along in the rear, juggling a niblick, his homely face wiped clean of all expression.
There wasn't much to choose between the second shots—both lies were about as bad as could be—but Russell got out safely and Bill duplicated the effort.
Beth then elected to use her brassy, and sliced the ball into the long grass. Of course she had to wail about it.
"Isn't that just too maddening? Partner, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't you care," grinned Bill. "That's just my distance with a mashie. And as for long grass, I dote on it."
Mary was taking her brassy out of the bag when Russell butted in again—with excellent advice, I must confess.
"You can't reach the green anyway," said he, "so take an iron and keep on the course."
There was a warning flash in Mary's eye which a wiser man would not have ignored.