“He’s over there with Jack Simpson. I thought Wainwright might show up, but he hasn’t come yet.”
“Pete’s gone to Greenburg to the dentist. You’ll find someone, though. Come on, Curt. Here’s a ball for you. And here’s a driver. It is an old one of mine, but it’s a dandy.” He made Ned’s tee for him, placed him in position and pointed out the first hole. “Now then, just swing your club back as though you didn’t care, keep your eye on the ball and hit it.”
“I can’t,” muttered Kendall nervously, darting a glance at the little audience who were watching proceedings.
“Yes, you can. Now let me tell you something. These fellows have all had to learn just as you’re learning. You won’t do any worse than they did the first time. Go ahead now. I don’t care where the ball goes, only hit it. Easy back. That’s right. Now down—”
Kendall’s driver swished through the air and the ball, disturbed by the passing club, rolled off the tee. Kendall smiled foolishly. The onlookers smiled too, but more with Kendall than at him. Ned picked up the ball and replaced it.
“All right. Try again. But don’t try to kill it, Curt. Just give it a nice little rap. And keep your eyes on it all the time.”
Kendall, very flustered, raised his driver again, swung down, dug the head of it in the earth some four inches behind the ball.
“You weren’t looking at the ball,” said Ned severely. “Once more now, and keep your eyes on the ball.”
Perhaps it was only luck, but Kendall’s next attempt resulted in a very clean forty-yard drive, and the glow of satisfaction that came to him more than atoned for what had gone before.
“Good stuff!” said Ned, and the others murmured approval. Kendall tried to dissemble his delight and drew aside to make room for Ned.