“And fifty,” said Bradbury Fisher.
Gladstone Bott was still toiling along the fairway when Bradbury reached the green.
“How many?” he asked, eventually winning to the goal.
“On in two,” said Bradbury. “And you?”
“Playing seven.”
“Then let me see. If you take two putts, which is most unlikely, I shall have six for the hole and match.”
A minute later Bradbury had picked up his ball out of the cup. He stood there, basking in the sunshine, his heart glowing with quiet happiness. It seemed to him that he had never seen the countryside looking so beautiful. The birds appeared to be singing as they had never sung before. The trees and the rolling turf had taken on a charm beyond anything he had ever encountered. Even Gladstone Bott looked almost bearable.
“A very pleasant match,” he said, cordially, “conducted throughout in the most sporting spirit. At one time I thought you were going to pull it off, old man, but there—class will tell.”
“I will now make my report,” said the caddie with the walrus moustache.
“Do so,” said Gladstone Bott, briefly.