“One down,” said Gladstone Bott.
“And two to play,” trilled Bradbury.
It was with a light heart that Bradbury Fisher teed up on the seventeenth. The match, he felt, was as good as over. The whole essence of golf is to discover a way of getting out of rough without losing strokes; and with this sensible, broad-minded man of the world caddying for him he seemed to have discovered the ideal way. It cost him scarcely a pang when he saw his drive slice away into a tangle of long grass, but for the sake of appearances he affected a little chagrin.
“Tut, tut!” he said.
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Gladstone Bott. “You will probably find it sitting upon an india-rubber tee which some one has dropped there.”
He spoke sardonically, and Bradbury did not like his manner. But then he never had liked Gladstone Bott’s manner, so what of that? He made his way to where the ball had fallen. It was lying under a bush.
“Caddie,” said Bradbury.
“Sir?” said the caddie.
“A hundred?”
“And fifty.”