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In the caskets of memory I shall ever cherish the picture of a particularly hairy gentleman, apparently of Russian extraction, who patronized our hotel in Venice one evening. He was what you might call a human hazard a golf-player would probably have thought of him in that connection.
The golf-player smites these things with force, covering himself with ridicule and spores, and so disseminating this far-sighted and ingenious fungus far and wide about the links. The amateur nature-lover passes off the down, and towards Banstead village.
Then I slipped behind the curtain that partly divided the hall, poised the concussor as a golf-player poises his club, and gathered in the slack of the fishing-line. "The burglar's head appeared dimly in silhouette against the faint light from within. He listened for a moment and then peered out into the dark hall. The opportunity seemed excellent if I could only lure him a little farther out.
Neither was there any way to awaken the girl and drag her from peril, for the slightest movement upon her part would bring the poisoned fangs upon her. He cast his eyes about for some weapon, but there was not a stick or a stone in sight. He was a good golf-player; if he had a loaded stick, he could easily take the serpent's head off, he thought; but there was no stick.
"I," said Indiman, gravely, "am a mathematician by instinctive preference and early training, but I have never been able to cross the 'Ass's Bridge, the Forty-seventh problem of Euclid. Incidentally, I may mention that I am a golf-player with a handicap of eighteen." "A double first," commented the proprietor of the Utinam Club. "I perceive, Mr.
She stood a moment longer drinking in the keen, stinging freshness, then turned to retrace her steps, still with that unseen companion at her side. The vast, undulating green and white expanse, save for a distant golf-player with the inevitable ragged following, seemed bare of human figures. The veering breeze shepherded flocks of white clouds across the harebell-tinted meadows of the sky.
Bean loathed golf and gathered the strange power to say so. "Sooner be a mail-carrier than a golf-player," he answered stoutly. "Looks more fun, anyway." "My word!" exclaimed the waster, "aren't you even keen on watching it?" "Sooner watch a lot of Italians tearing up a street-car track," Bean persisted. "Oh, come!" protested the waster. "Like to have another fumed egg," said Bean.
She is a scratch golf-player, plays a good game of tennis, rides to hounds, and visits the poor. And that is by no means a complete list. I don't wonder that she gives the little brown girl indigestion. Her perfection is almost nauseating at times." Scott laughed again. It was a relief to have diverted his brother's attention from more personal subjects.
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