This was lucky for Captain Puffin: he had thought it likely that he would say just that, and had got a stinger for him.
“And it worries you to find that your hopes are doomed to disappointment,” he swiftly said.
Major Flint stepped in a puddle which cooled his foot but not his temper.
“Most offensive remark,” he said. “I wasn’t called Sporting Benjy in the regiment for nothing. But never mind that. A worm-cast——”
“It wasn’t a worm-cast,” said Puffin. “It was sheep’s dung!”
Luck had veered here: the Major had felt sure that Puffin would reiterate that utterly untrue contention.
“I can’t pretend to be such a specialist as you in those matters,” he said, “but you must allow me sufficient power of observation to know a worm-cast when I see it. It was a worm-cast, sir, a cast of a worm, and you had no right to remove it. If you will do me the favour to consult the rules of golf——?”
“Oh, I grant you that you are more a specialist in the rules of golf, Major, than in the practice of it,” said Puffin brightly.
Suddenly it struck Sporting Benjy that the red signals of danger danced before his eyes, and though the odious Puffin had scored twice to his once, he called up all his powers of self-control, for if his friend was anything like as exasperated as himself, the breeze of disagreement might develop into a hurricane. At the moment he was passing through a swing-gate which led to a short cut back to the town, but before he could take hold of himself he had slammed it back in his fury, hitting Puffin, who was following him, on the knee. Then he remembered he was a sporting Christian gentleman, and no duellist.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, my dear fellow,” he said, with the utmost solicitude. “Uncommonly stupid of me. The gate flew out of my hand. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”