“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Afraid you'll have to wait a while,” said Clayton and achieved a well-nigh perfect long putt.
“I'd just like to get a whack at them Germans,” offered the boy, and getting no response, trudged along again at his heels.
Suddenly it struck Clayton as rather strange that, in all the time since his return from Europe, only four people had shown any but a sort of academic interest in the war, and that, ironically enough, a German had been the first to make a sacrifice for principle. Chris had gone, to get out of trouble. The little caddie wanted to go, to get a “whack” at the madmen of Europe. And Jackson, the chauffeur, was going, giving up his excellent wages to accept the thirty-odd dollars a month of a non-com, from a pure sense of responsibility.
But, among the men he knew best, in business and in the clubs, the war still remained a magnificent spectacle. A daily newspaper drama.
Suddenly Clayton saw Audrey Valentine. She was swinging toward him, her bag with its clubs slung over her shoulder, her hands in the pockets of an orange-colored sweater. In her black velvet tam and short skirt she had looked like a little girl, and at first he did not recognize her. She had seen him, however, and swung toward him.
“Hello, Clay,” she called, when they were within hailing distance. “Bully shot, that last.”
“Where's your caddie?”
“I didn't want one. I had a feeling that, if I took one, and he lost a ball in these impecunious times of mine, I'd murder him. Saw you at the fifth hole. I'd know your silhouette anywhere.”