"Good shot!" remarks Number Two, and turns to play his own ball. It is lying very badly in some bents, half buried in sand. Number Two—he is a left-hander—rejects the proffered niblick and selects a ponderous driving-mashie. Then, with an opening of the shoulders and an upward lift that betray the cricketer in every movement, he gives a mighty slog, and propels a confused cloud of sand, bents, and ball into the bunker guarding the green sixty yards away.
"Too good that time, Pip," remarks his companion.
"Didn't think I could get so far," replied Pip. "However, I get a stroke from you this hole, so wait a bit."
He descended into the bunker, but the ball was reposing in a heel-mark, and it required two even of Pip's earth-compelling niblick shots to remove it. Colquhoun, plus one at St. Andrew's, consequently took the hole in four.
Pip was staying at the Station Hotel, by himself. The motive which had brought him to a distant part of Scotland, to play a game at which he was far from being first-class, will appear in due course. Sufficient to say that it was a strong motive, and an exceedingly ancient one,—a motive which has brought about even more surprising events than the abandonment of first-class cricket, on the eve of a Test Match, by the finest amateur bowler in England.
They finished their match half an hour later, Pip, who was in receipt of a half, being one down. As they turned to leave the last green Pip found himself confronted by a large man in a Panama hat.
"Pip!" cried the stranger—"Pip! Bless my soul! What the blazes are you doing in Scotland in August?"
"Hallo, Raven," replied Pip. "Fancy meeting you, old man!"
They turned and walked up the road together.
"Why aren't you playing for the County?" inquired Pip severely.