Our friend grew violently red in the face, and he said—but, on second thoughts, it doesn't really matter what he said. There are times when even the best of men.....
We followed meekly as he strode after the offending spherule with a homicidal gleam in his eye. Hurling his bag of clubs to the ground, after he had picked out a thing with an iron head which no man should be allowed to carry around in a law-abiding country, he sneaked up on the ball and hit it a clout which drove it clear out of sight over an intervening hill.
"Ha! ha!" he said, with a chortle of maniacal glee, "that's better. That's more in my style." But personally we felt as though we had aided and abetted a murder.
Then we both went and looked for that blessed ball. We hunted under every bush and blade of grass, but it had crawled away wounded to die alone. Fifteen minutes later he decided to drop one on the edge of the green. He finally got it into the hole all right after several lovely putts.
We have no intention of giving a minute description of our friend's game. We have since found reason to believe that it was not exactly an awe-inspiring exhibition. But, as he explained to us several times in the course of play, we should have been there earlier to see his work during his first round. So far as we could judge from his description, it would have made Harry Vardon jealous enough to quit the game and get a job delivering meat.
"You should have seen my shot from the third tee—the Devil's Drive, we call it. It was a lallapaloosa! By the way, what is the record drive? I've forgotten for the moment."
We told him not to ask us, as we wotted not of such things. He smiled at us with what seemed an expression of great relief, as though he felt he could speak with confidential frankness.
"Well, whatever it is," said he, "mine was at least three hundred and sixty yards! How about that?"
We said that it was very fine; and no doubt it is. But we noticed that he lowered his voice as he spoke—perhaps because of the impressive nature of the statement, perhaps because he was afraid someone would overhear him, someone who knew better.
As we said above, it is not our intention to enter into the details of our friend's game, or to give a verbatim report of the language he was led to use on several regrettable occasions. Our whole purpose in writing this article is to tell what we ourself did in a moment of recklessness. We are telling it to serve as a warning to others who still are unbitten by the dread microbe of "gawf."