“That’s better,” he said presently, “much better. You’re getting the trick.”
Mr. Heminway stopped for a minute, and straightened up. He was beginning to puff. “I think I begin to see how that’s done,” he said. “It’s simple when you get the knack of it. Cutting, come down and stop next Sunday with me in the country, and we’ll go over the course. I sha’n’t be able to give you much of a game, but there are some fellows down there who can; and I want you to show me how to get over that quarry-hole.”
“I should like to very much,” said Cutting. He meant this. The girl who was going to be Mrs. Cutting was stopping at the other Heminways’, who had the place next.
“The last time I played that quarry-hole,” the lawyer went on, “I took twenty-seven for it. And it’s all in that swing,” he muttered. He crossed over to the rug, and went to work again. “Criticize me now,” he said. “How’s this?”
Cutting leaned back in his chair.
“Oh, you must carry it through better,” he said. “Let your left arm take it right out. You’re cramped. You’re gripping too tightly. Try it without gripping with your right hand at all. You’ll get the idea of the finish. That’s better. Now right through with it! Oh, Lord!” he gasped.
There was a crash of glass, then a great thump, and a hubbub of screams and masculine exclamations. The heavy club had slipped from the lawyer’s hand and had sailed through the glass door into the middle of the waiting-room.
There was a crash of glass