“Would you think the sight of me would cut ten yards off a drive, or a foot off a putt?” he demanded.
“You look very nice, I’m sure,” Aggie replied. But he only got up and shook the sand off himself and stared after the girl.
“That’s it,” he said. “Very nice! You’ve hit it.” Then he turned on her savagely, to her great surprise. “If I weren’t so blamed nice I’d set off a dozen sticks of dynamite on this crazy links and blow myself up with the last one.”
Aggie thought he was a little mad.
We saw him frequently after that, never with the girl, but he began to play the game himself. He took some lessons, too, but Tish had to protest for the way he and the professional talked to each other. Mr. McNab would show him how to fix his feet and even arrange his fingers on the club handle. Then he would drive, and the ball would roll a few feet and stop.
“Well, I suppose I waggled my ear that time, or something,” he would say.
“Keep your eye on the ball!” Mr. McNab would yell, dancing about. “Ye’ve got no strength of character, mon.”
“Let me kick it, then. I’ll send it farther.”
After that they would quarrel, and Tish would have to close the windows.
But Tish’s interest in golf was still purely that of the onlooker. This is shown by the fact that at this time and following the incident of the dock she decided that we must all learn to swim. That this very decision was to involve us in the fate of the young man, whose name was Bobby Anderson, could not have been foreseen, or that that involvement would land us in various difficulties and a police station.