"Where's your ball?" he growled.
"A long way on," I said reproachfully. "I wish you'd hurry up. The poor
thing will be getting cold."
He got to work again. We had another count together up to fifteen.
Sometimes there would be a gleam of white at the top of the heather for
a moment and then it would fade away.
"How many?" I asked some minutes later.
"About thirty. But I don't care, I'm going to get the little beast into
the hole if it takes me all night." He went on hacking.
I had lost interest in the performance, for the Cup was mine, but I did
admire his Colonial grit.
"Got it," he cried suddenly, and the ball sailed out on to the pretty.
Another shot put him level with me.
"Thirty-two?" I asked.
"About," he said coldly.
I began to look for my ball. It had got tired of waiting and had hidden
itself. Smith joined gloomily in the search.
"This is absurd," I said after three or four minutes.
"By Jove!" said Smith, suddenly brightening up. "If your ball's lost I
win after all."
"Nonsense; you've given the hole up," I protested. "You don't know how
many you've played. According to the rules if I ask you how many, and
you give wrong information----"
"It's thirty-five," he said promptly.
"I don't believe you counted."
"Call it forty-five then. There's nothing to prevent my calling it more
than it really is. If it was really only forty, then I'm counting five
occasions when the ball rolled over as I was addressing it. That's very
generous of me. Actually I'm doubtful if the ball did roll over five
times, but I say it did in order to be on the safe side." He looked at
his watch. "And if you don't find your ball in thirty seconds you lose
the hole."
It was ingenious, but the Mother Country can be ingenious too.
"How many have you played exactly?" I asked. "Be careful."
"Forty-five," he said. "Exactly."
"Right." I took my niblick and swung at the heather. "Bother," I said.
"Missed it. Two."
"Hallo! Have you found it?"
"I have. It's somewhere in this field. There's no rule which insists
that you shall hit the ball, or even that you shall hit near the ball,
or even that you shall see the ball when you hit at it. Lots of old
gentlemen shut their eyes and miss the sphere. I've missed. In five
minutes I shall miss again."
"But what's the point?"
"The point, dear friend," I smiled, "is that after each stroke one is
allowed five minutes in which to find the ball. I have forty-three
strokes in hand; that gives me three hours and thirty-five minutes in
which to look for it. At regular intervals of five minutes I shall swing
my club and probably miss. It's four-thirty now; at eight o'clock,
unless I find my ball before, I shall be playing the like. And if you
are a sportsman," I added, "you will bring me out some tea in
half-an-hour."
At six-thirty I was still looking--and swinging. Smith then came to
terms and agreed to share the cup with me for the first year. He goes
back to Canada to-morrow, and will spread the good news there that the
Old Country can still hold its own in resource, determination and
staying power. But next year we are going to play friendly golf again.