Cutting nodded.
“Well, well,” he exclaimed, “what a remarkable young man you must be! You see,” he added, “I’ve taken it up in a mild way myself. I’m afraid I shall never be able to get really interested, but it’s an excuse for keeping out of doors. I wish I had begun it at your age. Every afternoon on the links is so much health stored up for after life. Remember that!”
“They say it is wholesome,” said Cutting. “I gathered that you played. I saw a mashie on your desk. If you don’t think me rude, would you tell me where you got that thing? Or is it some sort of advertisement?”
Mr. Heminway looked surprised. “Advertisement?” he repeated. “Oh, no. That’s an idea of my own. You see, I need a heavy club to get distance. I had this made. It weighs fourteen ounces,” he went on. “What do you think of it?” He handed the thing over, and watched Cutting’s face.
“Do you want my honest opinion?” said Cutting.
The lawyer nodded.
“Then give it away, Mr. Heminway,” said the young man, respectfully, “or melt it into rails. You know you can’t play golf with that.”
The lawyer looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Why, distance isn’t a question of weight!” said Cutting. “It’s a fact that you get the best distance with the lightest clubs. Most professionals use ladies’ cleeks.”
The great lawyer looked thoughtful. “Is that so?” he asked. He was trying to account for this doctrine out of his experience. “It seems absurd,” he added.