Redford shrugged his shoulders and went off to get the professional to go round with him.
The next man to drop in was Pobson. He is a Grand Knight Imperial (or something similar) of the Primrose League, and makes speeches between the ventriloquist and the step-dancer at their meetings. He has signed the Covenant, and reads every column Mr. Garvin writes. In fact, I attribute it entirely to Mr. Garvin's effect on the nerves that his handicap has been increased from plus two to scratch.
"Want a round? Give you eight strokes," he began.
"No, Sir; not with a man, who tampers with the Army."
"You're either mad," said Pobson, "or else you've been reading The Daily News."
I will say this for Pobson—he seemed inclined to believe in my madness as the more credible alternative.
"Enough of this. Do you think I will be seen playing with a man who ruins our noble Army to gratify petty political spite? Every Conservative vote means an Army mutineer."
"Mad," said Pobson, still charitable, as he left me.
Then there entered a dear old stranger and my heart opened to him at once.
"I don't know whether you're waiting for a game, Sir," he began.