They brought to the royal and ancient game
a spirit of Bohemian irreverence and banter that offended his serious
enthusiasm.
When Wessels made a convulsive stab at his ball and luckily achieved
good distance, Pollock remarked behind his hand, "A good shot, damn it!"
Wessels stationed himself in a hopefully deprecatory attitude and
watched Pollock build a monument of sand, balance his ball, and
whistling nervously through his teeth, lunge successfully down.
Whereupon, in defiance of etiquette, he swore with equal fervor, and
they started off.
Pickings glanced at Booverman in a superior and critical way, but at
this moment a thin, dyspeptic man with undisciplined whiskers broke in
serenely without waiting for the answers to the questions he propounded:
"Ideal weather, eh? Came over from Norfolk this morning; ran over at
fifty miles an hour. Some going, eh? They tell me you've quite a course
here; record around seventy-one, isn't it? Good deal of water to keep
out of? You gentlemen some of the cracks? Course pretty fast with all
this dry weather? What do you think of the one-piece driver? My friend,
Judge Weatherup.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175