It took a disproportionate amount of Jeremy Robson’s, too, which, to do him justice, he did not begrudge. As a corollary to the morning lessons he took to dropping in at the Pritchard mansion of an evening to discuss some of the more abstruse points of the game, where he found himself in active competition with the picked youth of the University and the town, for Miss Marcia gathered a court as irresistibly as a flower gathers bees. Quite unjustifiably Jeremy was inclined to sulk a bit over this, unmindful of the favor of the gods in affording him her undivided companionship in those early morning hours. Whereupon the gods, as is their custom, withdrew their unappreciated bestowals. Buddy Higman discovered the golf practice and straightway volunteered as caddy. Jealousy as well as desire to be of service to the liege lady prompted his offer, which was straightway accepted. So the morning practice continued while bobolink from his daisied choir-loft (no longer invaded by balls wandering from the straight and narrow path which leads to the House of Bogie) alternately cheered and jeered at this chaperoned companionship.
One stroke, two strokes, and finally five strokes were subtracted from the aspirant’s nine-hole score. Her master gave her his blessing and told her to go in and win. In the Varsity competition, she qualified with a highly respectable round, and in the play-off for the team, won her place. The team captain posted the choice for the yearly match against Kirk College on the athletic bulletin, one line of which read:
No. 4—M. Ames.
In special celebration of the event, the pupil accepted an invitation to dine at the Country Club that evening with the instructor.
“Will you make an agreement?” she asked, as they faced each other across the little table, pleasantly remote in a far corner of the veranda.
“Unsight-unseen?” he smiled. “All right. I’ll swap.”
“That is quite too American for me. But you agree. Then let us not speak the word ‘golf’ all this evening. I am tired of it.”
“Stale,” commented the expert. “You must lay off for a week. Well, let’s forget it. What shall we talk about?”
“What are you doing here in Fenchester?”
He smiled at the directness of the question. “Plain and fancy reporting.”