“Here”—­he teed a ball—­“you do about every wrong thing you could.  You don’t overlook a single one.  Now I’ll show you.  Take your stance, address the ball!”

He had forgotten, in the heat of his real affection, all the difference in their stations.  He was talking crisply to this Whipple as if he were merely a Cowan twin.  Merle, silent, dazed, meek, did as he was directed.

“Now take your back swing slower.  You’ve been going up too quick—­go up slow—­stay there!  Wait—­bend that left wrist under your club—­not out but under—­here”—­he adjusted the limp wrist.  “Now keep your weight on the left foot and come down easy.  Don’t try to knock the ball a mile—­it can’t be done.  Now up again and swing—­easy!”

Merle swung and the topped ball went a dozen feet.

“There, now I suppose you’re satisfied!” he said, sulkily, but his instructor was not, it seemed, satisfied.

“Don’t be silly!  You lifted your head.  You have to do more than one thing right to hit that ball.  You have to stay down to it.  Here”—­he teed another ball—­“take your stance and see if you can’t keep down.  I’ll hold you down.”  In front of the player he grasped his own driver and rested it lightly upon the other’s head.  “Just think that club weighs a hundred pounds, and you couldn’t lift your head if you wanted to.  Now swing again, turn the left wrist under, swing easy—­there!”

They watched the ball go high and straight, even if not far.

“A Texas leaguer,” said Wilbur, “but it’s all right.  It’s the first time this afternoon you’ve stayed in the fairway.  Now again!”

He teed another ball, and the threesomes had become a mere golf lesson, plus a clash of personalities.  Wilbur Cowan did all the talking; he was grim, steely eyed, imperious.  His splendid brother was mute and submissive, after a few feeble essays at assertion that were brutally stifled.  Patricia danced disrespectfully in the background when neither brother observed her.  She had no wish to incur again the tightly drawn scowl of Wilbur.  The venom of that had made her uncomfortable.

“See now how you hit ’em out when you do what I tell you!” said the instructor at last, when Merle had a dozen clean drives to his credit.  But the sun had fallen low and the lesson must end.

“Awfully obliged, old chap—­thanks a heap!” said Merle, recovering slightly from his abjectness.  “I dare say I shall be able to smack the little pill after this.”

The old chap hurled a last grenade.

“You won’t if you keep thinking about form,” he warned.  “Best way to forget that—­quit talking so much about it.  After you make a shot, keep still, or talk to yourself.”

“Awfully good of you,” Merle responded, graciously, for he was no longer swinging at a ball, but merely walking back to the clubhouse, where one man was as good as another.  “There may be something in what you say.”

“There is,” said Wilbur.