It is amusing to study the way in which different players go about this game.  The railway station is only a few hundred yards away, and as I watched those men who came on the 1:42 train from the city the thought occurred to me that I could have picked out the good players even had I been a stranger to those who approached the club house.  You can class the various types of golfers by their mannerisms, even if you have never seen them with a club in their hands.  For instance there were two members who left the station platform at the same time—­Duff and Monahan.  Both are men of standing in the community, and both are charter members.  They started to learn the game at the same period, and both play at least five afternoons during the season, yet Monahan plays consistently in eighty-two, while Duff is fortunate to score in ninety-five.  Why this woeful inferiority of Duff?

They are great friends and always play together, and they go through the same performance every time they reach the grounds.

The moment Monahan left the train he headed for the club house as if it were on fire and all of his money in its lockers.  Duff says Monahan is perfectly quiet and sane until he catches the first glimpse of the links, but that his blood then begins to boil, and that he burns in a fever of haste to get a club in his hands.

Monahan barely nodded to me as he passed and rushed up stairs.  In less than two minutes he was back and ready to play.  As he tore out he met Duff, who had strolled complacently up the walk, stopping now and then to speak to a friend or to watch a shot.

Duff’s clothes were the model of fashion and good taste.  In his hand was twirled a cane, and in his lapel was the inevitable boutonniere.  He had paused to chat with Miss Ross—­Duff is married and has a daughter older than Miss Ross—­and was engaged in a discussion concerning a new play when Monahan approached.  Monahan had on a golf suit which would cause his arrest as a tramp if he wandered from the links.

“Did you come up here to play golf or to pose on the veranda?” demanded the indignant Monahan, grasping Duff by the shoulder and swinging him half way around.  “Please go away from him, Miss Ross; he will talk you to death.”

Twenty minutes later Duff wandered leisurely out to the first tee, where Monahan had been waiting, glaring every few seconds at the club house, and swearing under his breath.  Duff looked even neater than in his street clothes.  His shirts, scarfs, trousers, shoes and caps form combinations which are sartorial poems.

Duff smiled complacently during the tongue lashing administered by the irate Monahan.  This happens regularly every time they play.  One would think that the calm, unruffled Duff would defeat the nervous and impatient Monahan, but nothing of the kind happens.  The latter exacts revenge by beating Duff to a frazzle.

I do not mean to infer that the slow or deliberate person will not make a good player, but with deliberation he must have that keen interest which dominates all of his faculties.