is the matter with me. It is the same thing at whist--but of this
hereafter. My Caddie, or arm-bearer, has his own views about the
causes of my incompetence.

"Ye're no standing richt. Ye haud yer hands wrang. Ye tak' yer ee off
the ba'. Ye're ower quick up. Ye're ower slow doun. Ye dinna swing.
Ye fa' back. Ye haud ower ticht wi' yer richt hand. Ye dinna let your
arms gang easy. Ye whiles tap, and whiles slice, and whiles heel, or
ye hit her aff the tae. Ye're hooking her. Ye're no thinking o' what
ye're doing. Ye'll never be a Gowfer. Lord! ony man can lairn Greek,
but Gowf needs a heid."

Here are fifteen ways of going wrong, and there is only one way of
going right! Fifteen things to think of, every time you take a driver
in hand. And, remember, that is not nearly all. These fifteen fatal
errors apply to long driving. You may (or at least _I_ may, and do)
make plenty of other blunders with the other weapons. Say the ball
lies in sand--"a bunker," technically. If you hit it whack on the top,
it disappears in a foot-mark. If you "tak' plenty o' sand," why, you
_get_ plenty of sand in your mouth, your eyes, down the back of your
neck, and the ball is no forwarder. If you strike her quite clean,
she goes like a bullet against the face of the bunker, soars in the
air, falls on your head, and you lose the hole! Oh, Golf is full of
bitterness!

Suppose we play a round. The ball is neatly "tee'd" on a patch of
sand. I approach, I shuffle with my feet for a secure footing, I
waggle my club in an airy manner. Then I take it up and whack it down.
A variety of things _may_ occur. I may smite the top of the hall, when
it runs on for twenty yards and lies in a rut on the road. I may hit