"That proves nothing to me," he said, looking me over, "but you're a pretty husky-appearing chap at that. You're nearly six feet, aren't you, Smith?"
"A quarter of an inch more than six feet in my stockings," I said.
"And how much do you weigh?"
"One hundred and eighty-five."
"You'd ought to be able to drive a ball farther than you do," he said, with the air of one who had mastered the game in all its details. There is not a man in the club who can consistently out-drive me, and I'll wager that Kirkaldy himself cannot average ten yards more than I do, but what was the use of arguing with Harding?
It was easy to see that this magnate actually believed that his first stroke at a golf ball was no accident, and was confident that with a little practice he could far surpass that terrific drive of two hundred and seventy yards. But though I well knew what was coming to him I held my peace.
I asked Kirkaldy if he had ever known of a happening similar to Harding's now famous drive. He said he could not recall when a duffer had reached so great a distance, but it was not unusual for a husky novice to drive a few good balls before he began to attempt an improvement of a natural, but of course crude, stroke.
"But," I asked Kirkaldy, "how did Harding manage to drive it so far?"
"Strength and luck, mon," said our Scotch professional, "the more luck. It war th' same as when ye won a match with me by makin' th' last three holes in less than bogy. Luck, mon, is yer truest friend."
I think Kirkaldy is right.