"If that happens," he said, "you'll have to report it, I'm afraid, to the Green Committee. Who are you going around with?"
"I haven't got anybody to go around with," said the major. "I didn't know there was going to be a tournament till it was too late to ask any one to play with me."
This conversation took place in the new shop, a place all windows, sunshine, labels, varnishes, vises, files, grips, and clubs of exquisite workmanship. At one of the benches a grave-eyed young negro, aproned and concentrated, was enamelling the head of a driver with shellac. Sudden cannon fire would not have shaken his hand. In one corner a rosy lad with curly yellow hair dangled his legs from the height of a packing-case and chewed gum. He had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, and was learning golf from the inside. Sometimes he winked with one eye. But these silent comments were hidden from the major.
"I don't care about the tournament," said the latter, his loose lip trembling slightly. "I'll just practice a little."
"Don't be in a hurry, sir," said Jimmie sympathetically; "General Bullwigg hasn't any one to go around with either. And if you don't mind——"
"Bullwigg," said the major vaguely; "I used to know a Bullwigg."
"He's a very fine gentleman indeed, sir," said Jimmie. "Same handicap as yourself, sir, and if you don't mind——"
"Where is he from?" asked the major.
"I don't know, sir. Mr. Bowers extended the privileges of the club to him. He's stopping at the Park in the Pines."
"Oh!" said the major, and then with a certain dignity and resolution: "If Mr. Bowers knows him, and if he doesn't mind, I'm sure I don't. Is he here?"