Free The Golf Omnibus by P.G. Wodehouse Page B

something on my mind. So has Peter. You mustn’t think too hardly of him. We have been playing an important match, and it must have got on his nerves. You didn’t happen by any chance to be watching us?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAh! I wish you had seen me at the lake-hole. I did it one under par.”
    â€œWas your father playing?”
    â€œYou don’t understand. I mean I did it in one better than even the finest player is supposed to do it. It’s a mashie-shot, you know. You mustn’t play too light, or you fall in the lake; and you mustn’t play it too hard, or you go past the hole into the woods. It requires the nicest delicacy and judgment, such as I gave it. You might have to wait a year before seeing anyone do it in two again. I doubt if the ‘pro’ often does it in two. Now, directly we came to this hole today, I made up my mind that there was going to be no mistake. The great secret of any shot at golf is ease, elegance, and the ability to relax. The majority of men, you will find, think it important that their address should be good.”
    â€œHow snobbish! What does it matter where a man lives?”
    â€œYou don’t absolutely follow me. I refer to the waggle and the stance before you make the stroke. Most players seem to fix in their minds the appearance of the angles which are presented by the position of the arms, legs, and club shaft, and it is largely the desire to retain these angles which results in their moving their heads and stiffening their muscles so that there is no freedom in the swing. There is only one point which vitally affects the stroke, and the only reason why that should be kept constant is that you are enabled to see your ball clearly. That is the pivotal point marked at the base of the neck, and a line drawn from this point to the ball should be at right angles to the line of flight.”
    James paused for a moment for air, and as he paused Miss Forrester spoke.
    â€œThis is all gibberish to me,” she said.
    â€œGibberish!” gasped James. “I am quoting verbatim from one of the best authorities on golf.”
    Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably.
    â€œGolf,” she said, “bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest game ever invented!”
    The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble a means of depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist has the advantage over the historian. Were I an artist, I should show James at this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyes shut, with a semi-circular dotted line marking the progress of his flight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. There are no words that can adequately describe the sheer, black horror that froze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears.
    He had never inquired into Miss Forrester’s religious views before, but he had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she was polluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. It would be incorrect to say that James’s love was turned to hate. He did not hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What he felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blend of the two.
    There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then, without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away.
    Peter was working moodily in the twelfth bunker when his friend arrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other was alone, he came forward hesitatingly.
    â€œAm I to congratulate you?”
    James breathed a deep breath.
    â€œYou are!” he said. “On an escape!”
    â€œShe refused you?”
    â€œShe didn’t get the chance. Old man, have you ever sent one right up the edge of that bunker in front of the seventh and just not gone in?”
    â€œVery rarely.”
    â€œI did once. It was my second shot, from a good lie, with