"Awfully obliged, old chap—thanks a heap!" said Merle, recovering slightly from his abjectness. "I dare say I shall be able to smack the little pill after this."
The old chap hurled a last grenade.
"You won't if you keep thinking about form," he warned. "Best way to forget that—quit talking so much about it. After you make a shot, keep still, or talk to yourself."
"Awfully good of you," Merle responded, graciously, for he was no longer swinging at a ball, but merely walking back to the clubhouse, where one man was as good as another. "There may be something in what you say."
"There is," said Wilbur.
He waved them a curt farewell as they entered the latest Whipple car.
"But, you know, the poor kid after all hasn't any form," the convalescent Merle announced to Patricia when they were seated.
"He has nice hair and teeth," said the girl, looking far ahead as the car moved off.
"Oh, hair—teeth!" murmured Merle, loftily careless, as one possessing hair and teeth of his own. "I'm talking about golf."
"He lines 'em out," said Patricia, cattishly.