Wolfenden was in no particularly cheerful frame of mind when, a few moments after the half hour was up, Mr. Sabin appeared upon the pavilion tee, followed by a tall, dark young man carrying a bag of golf clubs. Mr. Sabin, on the other hand, was inclined to be sardonically cheerful.
“Your handicap,” he remarked, “is two. Mine is one. Suppose we play level. We ought to make a good match.”
Wolfenden looked at him in surprise.
“Did you say one?”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“Yes; they give me one at Pau and Cannes. My foot interferes very little with my walking upon turf. All the same, I expect you will find me an easy victim here. Shall I drive? Just here, Dumayne,” he added, pointing to a convenient spot upon the tee with the head of his driver. “Not too much sand.”
“Where did you get your caddie?” Wolfenden asked. “He is not one of ours, is he?”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“I found him on some links in the South of France,” he answered. “He is the only caddie I ever knew who could make a decent tee, so I take him about with me. He valets me as well. That will do nicely, Dumayne.”
Mr. Sabin’s expression suddenly changed. His body, as though by instinct, fell into position. He scarcely altered his stand an inch from the position he had first taken up. Wolfenden, who had expected a half-swing, was amazed at the wonderfully lithe, graceful movement with which he stooped down and the club flew round his shoulder. Clean and true the ball flew off the tee in a perfectly direct line—a capital drive only a little short of the two hundred yards. Master and servant watched it critically.