gorse, the larks singing overhead, not to mention the whole system
of the universe. He forgets to keep his eye on the ball, in devoting
his energy to holding tight with his left, and being slow up. Or
he remembers to keep his eye on the ball, and forgets the other
essentials. Then an awful moment comes when he loses his temper.
Thereby all is lost, honour (not to mention "the honour,") and
everything. People in front, old people, are so provoking. They potter
tardily along, pass ten minutes in considering a putt, shout and swear
if you hit into them, and are not pleased if you sit down and smoke
while you wait. The only entity that I don't lose my temper with is my
partner. The worse he plays, the better am I pleased to have a brother
in adversity. The subjective Golfer, however, is certainly a bore. He
is "put off" by every simple circumstance, by his opponent wearing an
unbecoming cap and the like. Afterwards, he will hold forth for hours
on all his sorrows and all the sins of others. The Duffer is more
modest and less apologetic. He is kept always playing (as I said)
by the diabolical circumstance that he has lucid intervals, though
rarely, when he plays like other people for three or four holes.
I once, myself did the long hole in--but never mind. Nobody would
believe me. The most amiable of Duffers was he who, after ten strokes
in a bunker, cut his ball into three parts. "I am bringing it out," he
said, "in penny numbers."

The born Duffer, I speak feelingly, is incurable. No amount of odds
will put him on the level even of Scotch Professors. For the learned
have divided Golf into several categories. There is Professional
Golf, the best Amateur Golf, Enthusiasts' Golf, Golf, Beginners'
Golf, Ladies' Golf, Infant Golf, Parlour Golf, the Golf of Scotch
Professors. But the true Duffer's Golf is far, far below that. A
Duffer like me is too bad for hanging. He should be condemned to play