He drove the first half-dozen balls indifferently, but the next one was really a good one.
"There was a beaut!" he exclaimed, turning to us as the ball disappeared with a bound over the crest of the slope. "What's the matter with you folks? Why don't you applaud when a man makes a good shot?"
"That's balls enough, papa, dear," said Miss Harding. "By the time you have found them your time will be up."
"Right you are, Kid," he admitted. "I'm proud of that last one, and I'm going to pace it. Help me pick 'cm up, boys, I'll drive 'em back, and then we'll go on."
He started to pace the distance of the longer ball, counting as he strode along. When he reached the crest of the slope we could hear him droning, "one hundred twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three," etc. Carter was hunting for the balls to the right and Chilvers for those to the left.
The red coat and plaid cap disappeared over the hill. Miss Dangerfield was chattering about something, I know not what. I was looking at Miss Harding, and did not hear her.
I did hear some sound which resembled distant thunder. A moment later I saw the top of that plaid cap bob above the hill. Then I saw the shoulders of that red coat, and the huge figure of the railroad magnate fairly shot into view.
He was running as fast as his stout legs would carry him, waving his club and occasionally looking quickly to his rear.
I knew in an instant what was the matter.
"What is papa running for?" exclaimed Miss Harding. That question was speedily answered.