face, he took out his niblick....

I stayed by him and helped him count up to eight.

"Where's your ball?" he growled.

"A long way on," I said reproachfully. "I wish you'd hurry up. The poor
thing will be getting cold."

He got to work again. We had another count together up to fifteen.
Sometimes there would be a gleam of white at the top of the heather for a
moment and then it would fade away.

"How many?" I asked some minutes later.

"About thirty. But I don't care, I'm going to get the little beast into
the hole if it takes me all night." He went on hacking.

I had lost interest in the performance, for the cup was mine, but I did
admire his Colonial grit.

"Got it," he cried suddenly, and the ball sailed out on to the pretty.
Another shot put him level with me.

"Thirty-two?" I asked.

"About," he said coldly.

I began to look for my ball. It had got tired of waiting and had hidden
itself. Smith joined gloomily in the search.