"If you remember," I said, "I told you long ago that that was all there
was room for, but you would persist in making it nine."

"The hole," said James, "is the water-butt. You have to get into that.
By the way, your balls are floaters, I hope?"

"Only six of 'em," I said. "However, I dare say you won't mind if I grub
up a few potatoes to carry on with afterwards. So we hole out in the
water-butt? That's the tiddleywinks part of it, I suppose? Go on."

"There are various penalties," he explained. "If you get among the
potatoes, you add ten to your strokes and start again at the tee. If you
are bunkered in the raspberries, you lift out--"

"Step back three paces out of sight and pick one over your left
shoulder?" I inquired hopefully. "I shall often find myself in the
raspberry hazard."

"And if," concluded James sternly, "you are so clumsy as not to avoid
the cucumber-frames--"

"Say no more," I begged. "I understand. I shall ask for the time-table,
shake hands, thank you for a most delightful visit, and express my
regrets that any little _contretemps_ should have arisen to hasten my
departure."

"--you add fifty to your strokes. Five for the marrows and the
rhubarb--in each case returning to the tee."

"And the artichokes," I asked, surveying a thick forest of them guarding