“Oh, well, that gets us nowhere, does it? One of the most puerile pursuits that the human creature indulges in is weeping on the graves of dead actions. There’s nothing in it, Harven. Just clang the cemetery gate, stick your hands in your pockets, pucker your lips and whistle bravely. And then tackle the next job. Of course we do learn by past mistakes—at least we ought to and some of us do—but there’s nothing to be gained by beating the breast and putting ashes in the hair. Now then, what are you doing?”
“Doing?” asked Stuart vaguely.
“Yes. You’re out of football. What’s taking its place? I’m fairly certain it’s not English A!”
Stuart smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry about this morning, sir. I—I didn’t even look at the stuff yesterday.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” laughed Mr. Moffit. “Well, if it isn’t study that’s occupying your mind and time, what is it?”
“I guess nothing much. I’ve been walking around. And I tried golf, but——”
“There! I knew you had some intelligence, Harven!” the instructor beamed. “Golf ought to be just the thing for you.”
Stuart shook his head. “I’m no good at it, sir.”
“Who is? I’m probably the poorest player that ever swung a club. But I don’t let that worry me. Not too much, anyhow. I promise myself that some day I’ll know so much golf that I’ll have to write a book about it to keep from bursting! You’re eighteen—Seventeen, is it? Well, of course you’re starting perhaps ten years too late, but you’ve a good chance to make good. My misfortune is that I never heard of the game until I was nearly thirty. Got any clubs?”
“No, sir, I borrowed some from a fellow.”