"A what?"
"A handicap. That means—well, it is a number of strokes allowed to a player."
"A handicap. Ah, yes, I am handicapped; but not in that way, signore. I am afraid I do not play well enough even to have a handicap."
"Won't you join us?" asked Purvis. "We can easily make a threesome."
The stranger darted a look, not at Purvis, but at Sprague, and he saw that he did not take the proposition kindly. Both Purvis and Sprague were good players, and especially the latter did not wish the game spoiled.
"I cannot refuse such a kind invitation," said Signor Ricordo. "But I will not interfere with your play. Let the match be between you two, while I will struggle on as best I may. If—if I do not prove such a—a—what do you call it?—duffer as I fear, then I might sometimes enter into the competition; but that, I imagine, will not be. Still, I cannot refuse such courtesy."
He looked a striking figure as he stood by them. His clothes, although not very different from those worn by the others, were somewhat foreign in style; while his fez, surmounting his dark, Oriental-looking face, would single him out anywhere as an Eastern.
"Will you proceed, gentlemen?" he continued; "as for me, I will bring up the rear. If I find I am spoiling your game, I will drop out."
Purvis and Sprague tossed for the honour, and the former, having won it, drove first. His ball flew straight as an arrow towards the distant flag. Sprague followed next, and sent his ball within a dozen yards of the one which Purvis had driven.
"Ah," said Signore Ricordo, "I feel humbled before I begin. I see I shall not long deserve your society."