“Laddie,” said John McTavish, “if I but had the lost-ball pur-r-rivilege of yon sweet courr-r-se and could insu-r-r-e deliver-r-r-y!”

For the better sort of Newbern, despite conscientious warnings for which they paid John McTavish huge sums, would insist upon pressing the ball in the face of constant proof that thus treated it would slice into the rough to cuddle obscurely at the roots of tall grass.

Wilbur Cowan became a shrewd hunter and a successful merchandiser of golf balls but slightly used.  Newbern’s better sort denounced the scandal of this, but bought of him clandestinely, for even in that far day, when golf balls in price were yet within reach of the common people, few of them liked to buy a new ball and watch it vanish forever after one brilliant drive that would have taken it far down the fairway except for the unaccountable slice.

* * * * *

On the whole his season was more profitable than that of the year before, when he had nursed the truck of Trimble Cushman through the traffic jams of River Street, and he was learning more about the world of men if less about gas engines.  Especially did the new sport put him into closer contact with old Sharon Whipple.  Having first denounced the golf project as a criminal waste of one hundred and seventy-five acres of prime arable land, Sharon had loitered about the scene of the crime to watch the offenders make a certain kind of fools of themselves.  From the white bench back of the first tee this cynic would rejoice mirthfully at topped or sliced drives or the wild swing that spends all its vicious intent upon the imponderable air.  His presence came to be a trial to beginning players, who took no real pleasure in the game until they reached the second tee, beyond the ken of the scoffer.

But this was perilous sport for Sharon Whipple.  Day after day, looking into the whirlpool, he was—­in a moment of madness—­himself to leap over the brink.  On an afternoon had come his brother Gideon and Rapp, Senior, elated pupils of John McTavish, to play sportingly for half a ball a hole.  They ignored certain preliminary and all-too-pointed comments of the watcher.  They strode gallantly to the tee in turn and exhibited the admirable form taught them by John.  They took perfect practice swings.  They addressed the ball ceremoniously, waggled the club at it, first soothingly, then with distinct menace, looked up to frown at a spot far down the fairway, looked back, exhaled the breath, and drove.  Rapp, Senior, sliced into the rough.  Gideon Whipple hooked into the rough.

Sharon Whipple mocked them injuriously.  His ironic shouts attracted the notice of arriving players.  Gideon Whipple stayed placid, smiling grimly, but Rapp, Senior, was nettled to retort.

“Mebbe you could do a whole lot better!” he called to Sharon in tones unnecessarily loud.

Sharon’s reply, in a voice eminently soothing and by that calculated further to irritate the novice, was in effect that Rapp, Senior, might safely wager his available assets that Sharon Whipple could do better.