Then the two men seemed, for the first time, to have caught sight of Colonel Ashley. They noticed his attitude, the dangling line and his disappointed look.
“I beg pardon,” said the one who had already spoken, “but did we interfere with your fishing?”
“Did you interfere with it?” stormed the colonel. “You just naturally knocked it all to the devil, sir! That's what you did!” And then, as he saw a curious look on the faces of the two men, he added:
“I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. I'm an interloper, I realize—a trespasser. It's my own fault for fishing so near the golf course. But I—”
“Excuse me,” broke in the other man. “But you are Colonel Ashley, aren't you?”
“I am.”
“My name is Sharwell—Tom Sharwell, and this is Bruce Garrigan. I thought I had seen you at the club. Pray excuse our interruption of your sport. We had no idea any one was fishing here.”
“It's entirely my fault,” declared the colonel, as he removed his cap and bowed, a courtesy the two golfers, after a moment of hesitation, returned. “I was taking chances when I threw in here.”
“And did we scare the fish?” asked Garrigan. “I suppose so. Never was much of a fisherman myself. All I know about them is seventeen million, four hundred and eighty-eight thousand nine hundred and twenty one boxes of sardines were imported into the United States last year. I read it in the paper so it must be true. I know I ate the one box.”
“Be quiet, Bruce,” said Sharwell in a low voice, but the colonel smiled. There was no affront to his dignity, as the golfer had feared.