"I've handled a club."
So I had. I had once been round some fields with six balls and a club. I brought the club back--that is, most of it; the man from whom I had borrowed it seemed to be tolerably satisfied, on the whole; though I had, as it were, scattered the balls about me as I went. Amazing the capacity those six golf balls had for losing themselves. I was without a caddie. Grass was long. Even when I managed to hit one, I seldom saw where it went. That is, with sufficient precision to be able to lay my hand upon it afterwards. With balls at a shilling apiece I concluded that golf might prove expensive.
Hollis read more meaning into my words than I actually intended.
"That's all right. I didn't know you'd gone as far as that." I did not propose to correct him; though without an adequate understanding of what it was that he might mean. "What's your handicap?"
"I can't say that I have one."
"I suppose you belong to a club."
"Well, not exactly."
"Not exactly? What do you mean? Either you do or you don't. Speak up, man, and say what you mean."
His manner was positively warm. I endeavoured to explain. It was not the last explanation I did endeavour to make.
"You see, it was this way. I thought of putting up for a club--"