When I looked round, he was getting to work with a brassy.
This time he hit the bunker and rolled back. He repeated this maneuver
twice.
"Hard luck!" I murmured sympathetically on the third occasion, thereby
going as near to being slain with an iron as it has ever been my lot
to go. Your true golfer is easily roused in times of misfortune, and
there was a red gleam in the eye the professor turned to me.
"I shall pick my ball up," he growled.
We walked on in silence to the second tee.
He did the second hole in four, which was good. I won it in three,
which--unfortunately for him--was better.