"I think I might try my brassey again here," he said. "I have a nice lie."
"Is it wise?" I said.
He looked down the hill.
"What I was thinking," he said, "was that with it I might wing that man Bingham. I see he is standing right out in the middle of the fairway."
I followed his gaze. It was perfectly true. Ralph Bingham was leaning on his bicycle in the roadway, smoking a cigarette. Even at this distance one could detect the man's disgustingly complacent expression. Rupert Bailey was sitting with his back against the door of the Woodfield Garage, looking rather used up. He was a man who liked to keep himself clean and tidy, and it was plain that the cross-country trip had done him no good. He seemed to be scraping mud off his face. I learned later that he had had the misfortune to fall into a ditch just beyond Bayside.
"No," said Arthur. "On second thoughts, the safe game is the one to play. I'll stick to the putter."
We dropped down the hill, and presently came up with the opposition. I had not been mistaken in thinking that Ralph Bingham looked complacent. The man was smirking.
"Playing three hundred and ninety-six," he said, as we drew near. "How are you?"
I consulted my score-card.
"We have played a snappy seven hundred and eleven." I said.