I took another club from that impudent lad. I was hot--more, I was indignant. It galled me to be compelled to suspect that it could be possible that I was providing unintentional amusement for a number of persons, not one of whom, under ordinary circumstances, I should have thought worthy of my serious attention. Again I made my stroke. And this time I not only hit the ball, but, in consequence, I presume, of the almost frenzy with which I was actuated, the club itself slipped from my hand, and went careering through the air.
"You hit the ball that time," admitted Hollis. "But--you are a remarkable golfer, Short, and it's an extraordinary fact that your club should have gone farther than the ball."
"We'll give you this match, Hollis," growled Mr Pickard, with an air which I could only call uncouth. "I'm off."
"My good Pickard, we'll give it you. Or--should we postpone it to a day on which we can all get up early, say at sunrise, so that we can have the whole day before us, and the links to ourselves?"
"No thank you, I've had enough."
"I am sorry, gentlemen," I observed, "if I have spoilt your game."
No statement, as coming from me, could have been handsomer, bearing in mind that I was the principal sufferer. But Mr Pickard was incapable of saying anything handsome.
"I didn't know we'd had a game."
"Come, Pickard," suggested the vacuous Barstow, "it hasn't been so bad as that. I've enjoyed it--as far as it's gone, thanks to Mr Short. I'm sorry, Mr Short, that I'm not staying down here long enough to enable us to finish it."
I said nothing. I was not disposed to cross swords in what he might imagine to be a duel of repartee with a man like Barstow. The two men marched off with their caddies without another word. I walked off with Hollis.