On this particular Wednesday he worried me to such an extent, that I got
up at five simply to be rid of him. I did not know what to do with
myself. Our train did not leave till eight; all our luggage had been
packed and sent on the night before, together with the bicycles, to
Fenchurch Street Station. I went into my study; I thought I would put in
an hour's writing. The early morning, before one has breakfasted, is
not, I take it, a good season for literary effort. I wrote three
paragraphs of a story, and then read them over to myself. Some unkind
things have been said about my work; but nothing has yet been written
which would have done justice to those three paragraphs. I threw them
into the waste-paper basket, and sat trying to remember what, if any,
charitable institutions provided pensions for decayed authors.

To escape from this train of reflection, I put a golf-ball in my pocket,
and selecting a driver, strolled out into the paddock. A couple of sheep
were browsing there, and they followed and took a keen interest in my
practice. The one was a kindly, sympathetic old party. I do not think
she understood the game; I think it was my doing this innocent thing so
early in the morning that appealed to her. At every stroke I made she
bleated:

"Go-o-o-d, go-o-o-d ind-e-e-d!"

She seemed as pleased as if she had done it herself.

As for the other one, she was a cantankerous, disagreeable old thing, as
discouraging to me as her friend was helpful.

"Ba-a-ad, da-a-a-m ba-a-a-d!" was her comment on almost every stroke. As
a matter of fact, some were really excellent strokes; but she did it just