“If they were married, and he could give his mind to the game he’d learn it, Mr. McNab.”
The professional brightened. “Maybe. Maybe,” he said. “He has the body of the gowfer. If he does that, we’ll say na mair, Miss Carberry.”
And, do what we would, Mr. McNab stood firm on that point. The thought of his failure with Bobby Anderson had rankled, and now he made it a condition of his silence on the day’s events that he have a free hand with him that summer.
“Gie him to me for a month,” he said, “and he’ll be a gowfer, and na care whether he’s married or no.”
We ate our dinner that night in a depressed silence, although Tish’s silver cup graced the center of the table. Before we had finished, Bobby Anderson came bolting in and kissed us each solemnly.
“It’s all fixed,” he said. “She has solemnly sworn never to play golf again, and I’ve brought her clubs down to follow mine into the lake.”
“You’d better keep them,” Tish said. “You’re going to need them.”
She then broke the news to him, and considering the months she had spent to help him he was very ungrateful, I must say. Indeed, his language was shocking.
“Me learn golf?” he shouted. “You tell McNab to go to perdition and take his cursed golf links with him. I won’t do it! This whole scheme was to eliminate golf from my life. It has pursued me for three years. I have nightmares about it. I refuse. Tell McNab I’ve broken my leg. Wait a minute and I’ll go out and break it.”
But he could not refuse, and he knew it.