"Shall I drive off?" I inquired desperately of Amanda.
"Drive off? Where to? Why are you going away?" asked Aunt Susannah. "Besides, you can't go—the carriage is out of sight."
"The way you begin is called driving off," I explained laboriously. "Like this." I drove nervously, because I felt her eye upon me. The ball went some dozen yards.
"That seems easy enough," said Aunt Susannah. "Give me a stick, child."
"Not that end—the other end!" cried Amanda, as our relative prepared to make her stroke with the butt-end.
"Dear me! Isn't that the handle?" she remarked cheerfully; and she reversed her club, swung it, and chopped a large piece out of the links. "Where is it gone? Where is it gone?" she exclaimed, looking wildly round.
"It—it isn't gone," said Amanda nervously, and pointed to the ball still lying at her feet.
"What an extraordinary thing!" cried Aunt Susannah; and she made another attempt, with a precisely similar result. "Give me another stick!" she demanded. "Here, let me choose for myself—this one doesn't suit me. I'll have that flat thing."
"But that's a putter," Amanda explained agonisedly.