“IT’S a dashed fine lie, upon my word it is. I have never seen such a fine lie in all my life,” said Colonel Rickaby, as he gazed at his ball perched on a little worm-cast in the middle of the fairway of the last hole.
Constance hastened to agree with him. They were approaching the end of a close match. The Colonel, an erratic player, had won the seventeenth hole and was consequently all square. Unfortunately for him, however, he had cracked at the last hole, and he was now about to play five, his ball being still twenty yards from the green. Constance was on the edge in three and so could feel pretty certain of the hole.
The Colonel, whom four bad shots had depressed, became suddenly triumphant. Such a good lie was really remarkable. He gazed at the ball earnestly from several angles, a
