“Such larks!” thought Rollo, as he watched the two gentlemen place the small white balls on mounds like mole-hills, and then knock them far away.
“We are aiming at that little red flag,” said Mr. Robbins, whom Rollo had secretly nicknamed Robin-Redface.
“Thank you, sir,” said Rollo, “I should never have guessed it.”
For a time all went well. The two gentlemen hit the ball with great skill and seemed well pleased with their success. Rollo, too, delighted in the velvety lawns about him, and marvelled to see all the hay in so early in the season.
Thus the morning passed very quickly, but toward noon things began to turn out not so agreeably. First Mr. Bradley, and then Mr. Robbins, knocked their golf-balls into places where it was impossible to find them, search as they might. This was great fun for Rollo, who thought it was like looking for field-sparrows’ nests, and he kept fooling the two gentlemen, crying, “Oh, here it is!—No, it is only a stone! Oh, here it is!—No, it is only a mushroom,” until Mr. Bradley took him by the shoulder and spoke to him very roughly.
Then they came to a pretty little pond where Rollo longed to stop and fish. Mr. Robbins placed his ball on a little mound and very skilfully hit the pond right in the middle.
“Bravo!” cried Rollo.
To his surprise Mr. Robbins turned and said something which I cannot print, but which caused Rollo’s cheeks to turn a deep crimson. In fact he called Rollo a very bad name.