ardent golfer to sink through the earth.
“If MacDonald has been guilty of cruelty to Cootes, which I strongly suspect,” said Bundle, “he’s being punished now.”
“Why shouldn’t I do as I like in my own garden?” demanded her father. “MacDonald ought to be interested in the way my game is coming on—the Scotch are a great golfing nation.”
“You poor old man,” said Bundle. “You’ll never be a golfer—but at any rate it keeps you out of mischief.”
“Not at all,” said Lord Caterham. “I did the long sixth in five the other day. The pro was very surprised when I told him about it.”
“He would be,” said Bundle.
“Talking of Cootes, Sir Oswald plays a fair game—a very fair game. Not a pretty style—too stiff. But straight down the middle every time. But curious how the cloven hoof shows—won’t give you a six-inch putt! Makes you put it in every time. Now I don’t like that.”
“I suppose he’s a man who likes to be sure,” said Bundle.
“It’s contrary to the spirit of the game,” said her father. “And he’s not interested in the theory of the thing either. Says he just plays for exercise and doesn’t bother about style. Now, that secretary chap, Bateman, is quite different. It’s the theory interests him. I was slicing badly with my spoon; and he said it all came from too much right arm, and he evolved a very interesting theory. It’s all left arm in golf—the left arm is the arm that counts. He says he plays tennis left handed but golf with ordinary clubs because there his superiority with the left arm tells.”
“And did he play very marvellously?” inquired Bundle.