Or, again, David would make an astonishingly feeble putt, and Joynes again showed sympathy.
“Pity it wasn’t a little harder; it was dead on the line. I wish I could putt as straight as that. Hullo, you’ve missed the second one, too. That leaves me three for it. You’d much better make me putt them out. I can miss anything. Hullo, it’s gone in. Sorry.”
This sort of thing goaded David to madness, and presently he could bear it no longer.
“I say, would you mind not talking quite so much,” he said politely. “It’s awfully rotten of me, but I think it puts me off.”
Upon which Joynes hermetically sealed his lips, till they came to the fourteenth hole, where the match came to an abject end. . . .
All this was sufficiently depressing, and there was no quietly sympathetic Bags to be a comfort. Nor was there Bags to get tea ready, and it struck David really for the first time to-day how invariably Bags did that. And he could not find his milk-jug, and when he did it smelled sour, for it had not been washed up . . . and there was nothing to eat, and he would have to go up to school-shop to get a cake. It was all deplorable, and on the way he met Gregson, his victim in the third round.
“Suppose you disposed of Joynes all right, Blazes?” he asked.
“No, he disposed of me. Easily as anything,” said David.
“Hurrah!—I mean sorry. But you see I bet a shilling he would.”
“Congratters,” said David insincerely.