"But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house over there?"
He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards down the fairway.
"In that case," I replied, "the owner comes out in his pyjamas and offers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar."
He seemed reassured, and began to address the ball. Then he paused again.
"Isn't there something you say before you start?" he asked. "'Five', or something?"
"You may say 'Fore!' if it makes you feel any easier. But it isn't necessary."
"If I am going to learn this silly game," said Mortimer, firmly, "I am going to learn it right. Fore!"
I watched him curiously. I never put a club into the hand of a beginner without something of the feeling of the sculptor who surveys a mass of shapeless clay. I experience the emotions of a creator. Here, I say to myself, is a semi-sentient being into whose soulless carcass I am breathing life. A moment before, he was, though technically living, a mere clod. A moment hence he will be a golfer.
While I was still occupied with these meditations Mortimer swung at the ball. The club, whizzing down, brushed the surface of the rubber sphere, toppling it off the tee and propelling it six inches with a slight slice on it.
"Damnation!" said Mortimer, unravelling himself.