And they did not touch me.  I was adamant.  The professor was waiting for me at the Club House, and greeted me with a cold and stately inclination of the head.

“Beautiful day for golf,” I observed in my gay, chatty manner.  He bowed in silence.

“Very well,” I thought.  “Wait.  Just wait.”

“Miss Derrick is well, I hope?” I added, aloud.

That drew him.  He started.  His aspect became doubly forbidding.

“Miss Derrick is perfectly well, sir, I thank you.”

“And you?  No bad effect, I hope, from your dip yesterday?”

“Mr. Garnet, I came here for golf, not conversation,” he said.

We made it so.  I drove off from the first tee.  It was a splendid drive.  I should not say so if there were any one else to say so for me.  Modesty would forbid.  But, as there is no one, I must repeat the statement.  It was one of the best drives of my experience.  The ball flashed through the air, took the bunker with a dozen feet to spare, and rolled on to the green.  I had felt all along that I should be in form.  Unless my opponent was equally above himself, he was a lost man.  I could toy with him.

The excellence of my drive had not been without its effect on the professor.  I could see that he was not confident.  He addressed his ball more strangely and at greater length than any one I had ever seen.  He waggled his club over it as if he were going to perform a conjuring trick.  Then he struck, and topped it.

The ball rolled two yards.

He looked at it in silence.  Then he looked at me—­also in silence.

I was gazing seawards.

When I looked round he was getting to work with a brassey.

This time he hit the bunker, and rolled back.  He repeated this manoeuvre twice.

“Hard luck!” I murmured sympathetically on the third occasion, thereby going as near to being slain with a niblick as it has ever been my lot to go.  Your true golfer is easily roused in times of misfortune; and there was a red gleam in the eye of the professor turned to me.

“I shall pick my ball up,” he growled.

We walked on in silence to the second tee.  He did the second hole in four, which was good.  I did it in three, which—­unfortunately for him —­was better.

I won the third hole.

I won the fourth hole.

I won the fifth hole.

I glanced at my opponent out of the corner of my eyes.  The man was suffering.  Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

His play had become wilder and wilder at each hole in arithmetical progression.  If he had been a plough he could hardly have turned up more soil.  The imagination recoiled from the thought of what he could be doing in another half-hour if he deteriorated at his present speed.

A feeling of calm and content stole over me.  I was not sorry for him.  All the viciousness of my nature was uppermost in me.  Once, when he missed the ball clean at the fifth tee, his eye met mine, and we stood staring at each other for a full half-minute without moving.  I believe, if I had smiled then, he would have attacked me without hesitation.  There is a type of golfer who really almost ceases to be human under stress of the wild agony of a series of foozles.