The golfer waved an arm as who should say, “You do not understand, but I forgive you,” and continued to advance towards the fire. And then Bealby, at the end of his tact, commenced hostilities.
He did so because he felt he had to do something, and he did not know what else to do.
“Wan’ nothin’ but frenly conversation sushus custm’ry webred peel,” the golfer was saying, and then a large fragment of turf hit him in the neck, burst all about him and stopped him abruptly.
He remained for some lengthy moments too astonished for words. He was not only greatly surprised, but he chose to appear even more surprised than he was. In spite of the brown-black mould upon his cheek and brow and a slight displacement of his cap, he achieved a sort of dignity. He came slowly to a focus upon Bealby, who stood by the turf pile grasping a second missile. The cleek was extended sceptre-wise.
“Replace the—Divot.”
“You go orf,” said Bealby. “I’ll chuck it if you don’t. I tell you fair.”
“Replace the—Divot,” roared the golfer again in a voice of extraordinary power.
“You—you go!” said Bealby.
“Am I t’ask you. Third time. Reshpect—Roos.... Replace the Divot.”
It struck him fully in the face.