They drove from the next tee. One hundred and fifty yards ahead the fairway was intersected by a ditch. It was deep, and its cruel maw yawned hungrily for golf balls. These it was fed in abundance daily.
"Rottenly placed, that ditch!" complained Merle as he prepared to drive.
"Only because you think so," replied his brother. "Forget it's there, and you'll carry it every time. That's what Sharon Whipple does. It's what they call psychology. It's a mental hazard. Sharon Whipple says that's another thing about golf that's like real life. He says most all things that scare us are just mental hazards."
"Stuff!" said Merle. "Stuffy stuffness! The ditch is there, isn't it, psychology or no psychology? You might ignore a hungry tiger, but calling him a mental hazard wouldn't stop him from eating you, would it? Sharon Whipple makes me tired." He placed a drive neatly in the ditch. "There!" he exploded, triumphantly. "I guess that shows you what the old gas bag knows about it."
"Oh, you'll soon learn to carry that hole!" his brother soothed. "Now let's see what you can do with that niblick." He grinned again as they went on to the ditch. "Sharon Whipple calls his niblick his 'gitter'." Merle, however, would not join in the grin. Sharon Whipple still made him tired.
In the course of their desultory playing they discussed the other Whipples.
"Of course they're awfully fond of me," said Merle.
"Of course," said Wilbur.
"I guess Harvey D.—Father—would give me anything in the world I asked for, ever since I was a kid. Horses, dogs, guns, motor cars—notice the swell little roadster I'm driving? Birthday! You'd almost think he looks up to me. Says he expects great things of me."
"Why wouldn't he?" demanded the other.