“Not very well,” admitted the clerk, with a polite smile. “Now, if you like a heavy club—”
He was interrupted by another customer. The golf goods were on the basement floor, and a short flight of steps led to the basement from the main floor, and the new customer had come down the stairs. He was a big, bluff, hearty man, with a cheerful manner and a rather red face, and Mr. Wellaway immediately remembered having met him sometime and somewhere. He nodded his head with the ready comradeship of a fellow-golfer.
“Hello!” exclaimed the new-comer, heartily. “Well! well! so you are at it too, are you? Got the golf fever?” Then to the clerk: “Got my brassy mended?”
“What name, sir?” asked the clerk.
“Didn’t leave any name,” said the big man. “It’s a mahogany brassy, the only real mahogany brassy you ever saw. I had it made to order,” he said to Mr. Wellaway, as the clerk hurried away to the repair department. “So you’ve taken up golf, have you? It’s a great game.”
“It is a great game,” said Mr. Wellaway; “but I’ve been at it a long time. Not that I’m much good at it.”
“No one is ever any good at it except the crack players,” said the other. “I’m as bad as they make ’em; but I love it. Where do you play?”
“Van Cortlandt,” said Mr. Wellaway.
“Ever play Westcote?”
“No,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I’ve been in the village, but I didn’t know there was a course there.”