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Jack Hartington surveyed his topped drive*
ruefully. Standing by the ball, he looked back to
the tee,* measuring the distance. His face was
eloquent of the disgusted contempt which he felt.
With a sigh he drew out his iron, executed two
vicious swings with it, annihilating in turn a dande-
lion and a tuft of grass, and then addressed himself
firmly to the ball.
It is hard when you are twenty-four years of
age, and your one ambition in life is to reduce
your handicap* at golf, to be forced to give time
and attention to the problem of earning your living.
Five and a half days out of the seven saw Jack
imprisoned in a kind of mahogany tomb in the
city. Saturday afternoon and Sunday were
religiously devoted to the real business of life, and
in an excess of zeal he had taken rooms at the
small hotel near Stourton Heath links, and rose
daily at the hour of six a.m. to get in an hours
practice before catching the 8:46 to town.
The only disadvantage to the plan was that he
seemed constitutionally unable to hit anything at
that hour in the morning. A foozled* iron succeeded
a muffed* drive. His mashie shots* ran merrily along
the ground, and four putts* seemed to be the
minimum on any green.*