* * * * *

Late that summer Merle and Patricia Whipple came by appointment to play the course with him.  Merle, too, had become a man—­he would enter college that fall.  Apparently no one was bothering about the plan of his life.  And Patricia had become, if not a woman, at least less of a girl, though she was still bony and utterly freckled.  They drove off, Patricia not far but straight, and Merle, after impressive preliminaries that should have intimidated any golf ball, far but not straight.  After his shot he lectured instructively upon its faults.  When he had done they knew why he had sliced into the miry fen on the right.  Then with an expert eye he studied his brother’s stance and swing.  The ball of Wilbur went low and straight and far, but the shot was prefaced, apparently, by no nice adjustment of the feet or by any preliminary waggles of the club.

“No form,” said Merle.  “You ought to have form by this time, but you don’t show any; and you put no force into your swing.  Now let me show you just one little thing about your stance.”

With generous enthusiasm he showed his brother not only one little thing, but two or three that should be a buckler to him in time of need; and his brother thanked him, and so authoritative was the platform manner of Merle that he nearly said “Yes, sir.”  After which Patricia played a brassy shot, and they all went to find Merle’s ball among the oaks.  After that they went on to Wilbur’s ball, which—­still without a trace of form—­he dropped on the green with a mashie, in spite of Merle’s warning that he would need a mid-iron to reach it.

They drove, and again Merle lectured upon the three reasons why his ball came to rest in a sand trap that flanked the fairway.  He seemed to feel this information was expected from him, nor did he neglect a generous exposition of his brother’s failure to exhibit form commensurate with his far, straight drive.  His brother was this time less effusive in his thanks, and in no danger whatever of replying “Yes, sir!” He merely retorted, “Don’t lunge—­keep down!” advice which the lecturer received with a frowning, “I know—­I know!” as if he had lunged intentionally, with a secret purpose that would some day become known, to the confusion of so-called golf experts.  Wilbur and Patricia waited while Merle went to retrieve his ball.  They saw repeated sand showers rise over the top of a bunker.  From where they stood the player seemed to be inventing a new kind of golf, to be played without a ball.  A pale mist hung over the scene.

“I know just what he’s saying,” Patricia told Wilbur.

“Shame on you!” said he, and they both laughed, after which Patricia glanced at him oftener.

It should be said that he was now arrayed as Winona would have him, in summer sports attire of careless but expensive appearance, including a silk shirt alleged by the maker to be snappy, and a cap of real character.  The instinct of the male for noticeable plumage had at last worked the reform that not all of Winona’s pleading had sufficed for.  Wilbur Cowan at the moment might, but for his excellent golf, have been mistaken for a genuine Whipple.