“I said Mighty Join you,” the golfer repeated. His voice was richly excessive. He was a big heavy man with a short-cropped moustache, a great deal of neck and dewlap and a solemn expression.
“Prup. Be’r. Introzuze m’self,” he remarked. He tried to indicate himself by waving his hand towards himself, but finally abandoned the attempt as impossible. “Ma’ Goo’ Soch’l Poshishun,” he said.
Bealby had a disconcerting sense of retreating footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Miss Philips standing at the foot of the steps that led up to the fastnesses of the caravan. “Dick,” she cried with a sharp note of alarm in her voice, “get rid of that man.”
A moment after Bealby heard the door shut and a sound of a key in its lock. He concealed his true feelings by putting his arms akimbo, sticking his legs wider apart and contemplating the task before him with his head a little on one side. He was upheld by the thought that the yellow caravan had a window looking upon him....
The newcomer seemed to consider the ceremony of introduction completed. “I done care for goff,” he said, almost vaingloriously.
He waved his cleek to express his preference. “Natua,” he said with a satisfaction that bordered on fatuity.
He prepared to come down from the little turfy crest on which he stood to the encampment.
“’Ere!” said Bealby. “This is Private.”
The golfer indicated by solemn movements of the cleek that this was understood but that other considerations overrode it.
“You—You got to go!” cried Bealby in a breathless squeak. “You get out of here.”