“The gentleman’s a golf-player, maybe?” remarked a voice by his side, in familiar dialect. Mr. Sabin turned around to find himself confronted by a long, thin Scotchman, who had strolled out of a little shed close at hand.
“I am very fond of the game,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “You appear to me to have a magnificent course here.”
“It’s none so bad,” Mr. James Green admitted. “Maybe the gentleman would like a round.”
“There is nothing in this wide world,” Mr. Sabin answered truthfully, “that I should like so well. But I have no clubs or any shoes.”
“Come this way, sir, come this way,” was the prompt reply. “There’s clubs here of all sorts such as none but Jimmy Green can make, ay, and shoes too. Mr. Wilson, will you be sending me two boys down from the house?”
In less than ten minutes Mr. Sabin was standing upon the first tee, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, and a new gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes. He modestly declined the honour, and Mr. Green forthwith drove a ball which he watched approvingly.
“That’s no such a bad ball,” he remarked.
Mr. Sabin watched the construction of his tee, and swung his club lightly. “Just a little sliced, wasn’t it?” he said. “That will do, thanks.” He addressed his ball with a confidence which savoured almost of carelessness, swung easily back and drove a clean, hard hit ball full seventy yards further than the professional. The man for a moment was speechless with surprise, and he gave a little gasp.
“Aye, mon,” he exclaimed. “That was a fine drive. Might you be having a handicap, sir?”