“Take a flexible brassey, and at the ninth hole, if they deserve it, give them eighteen strokes across the legs with all your strength,” said Boswell. “But, as I said before, don't interrupt. I haven't much time left to talk with you.”
“But I must ask one more question,” I put in, for I was growing excited over a new idea. “You say give them eighteen strokes across the legs. Across whose legs?”
“Yours,” replied Boswell. “Just take your caddy up, place him across your knees, and spank him with your brassey. Spank isn't a good golf term, but it is good enough for the average caddy; in fact, it will do him good.”
“Go on,” said I, with a mental resolve to adopt his prescription.
“Well,” said Boswell, “Munchausen, having received an imaginary challenge from an imaginary opponent, accepted. He went out to the links with an imaginary ball, an imaginary bagful of fanciful clubs, and licked the imaginary life out of the colonel.”
“Still, I don't see,” said I, somewhat jealously, perhaps, “how that makes him king-pin in golf circles. Where did he play?”
“On imaginary links,” said Boswell.
“Poh!” I ejaculated.
“Don't sneer,” said Boswell. “You know yourself that the links you imagine are far better than any others.”
“What is Munchausen's strongest point?” I asked, seeing that there was no arguing with the man—“driving, approaching, or putting?”