“You’ve played your last gowf on these links, Miss Carberry, and it’s a crying shame the bad name you’ve gien us,” was the way he finished, all the time holding to Aggie’s arm. It was thus I found them.
“Very well,” Tish said in her coldest tone. “I shall be very glad to state before the board my reasons, which are excellent. Also to register a protest against using the lake front before my cottage for the cooling of beer, et cetera. I dare say I may go home first?”
“I’ll be going with you, then.”
“Very well,” Tish replied. “And be good enough to release Miss Pilkington. She was merely obeying my instructions.” Thus our lion-hearted Tish, always ready to assume responsibility, never weakening, always herself.
I come now to a painful portion of this narrative, and the reason for Nettie Lynn cutting us dead on the street. For things moved rapidly within the next few moments. Mr. McNab settled himself like a watchdog on our cottage steps, and there Tish herself carried him some blackberry cordial and a slice of coconut cake. There, too, in her impressive manner she told him the story of the plot.
“Think of it, Mr. McNab,” she said. “Two young and loving hearts yearning for each other, and separated only by the failure of one of them to learn the game of golf!”
Mr. McNab was profoundly moved.
“He wouldna keep his eye on the ball,” he said huskily. “I like the lad fine, but he would aye lift his heid.”
“If this brings them together you would not part them, would you?”
“He wouldna fallow through, Miss Carberry. He juist hit the ball an’ quit.”