Thomas drove a good one.  I topped mine badly, and it settled down in the mud fifty yards off.  “Excuse me,” I shouted as I ran quickly after it, and I got my niblick on to it just as it was disappearing.  It was a very close thing.

“Well,” said Thomas, as he reached his ball, “that’s not what I call a brassy lie.”

“It’s what we call a corkscrew lie down here,” I explained.  “If you haven’t got a corkscrew, you’d better dig round it with something, and then when the position is thoroughly undermined—­Oh, good shot!”

Thomas had got out of the fairway in one, but he still seemed unhappy.

“My eye,” he said, bending down in agony; “I’ve got about half Middlesex in it.”

He walked round in circles saying strange nautical things, and my suggestions that he should (1) rub the other eye, and (2) blow his nose suddenly, were received ungenerously.

“Anything you’d like me to do with my ears?” he asked bitterly.  “If you’d come and take some mud out for me, instead of talking rot—­”

I approached with my handkerchief and examined the eye carefully.

“See anything?” asked Thomas.

“My dear Thomas, it’s full of turf.  We mustn’t forget to replace this if we can get it out.  What the Secretary would say—­There!  How’s that?”

“Worse than ever.”

“Try not to think about it.  Keep the other eye on the ball as much as possible.  This is my hole by the way.  Your ball is lost.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it losing itself.  It went into the bad place I told you about.  It’s gone to join the Secretary.  Oh, no, we got him out, of course; I keep forgetting.  Anyhow, it’s my hole.”

“I think I shall turn my trousers up again,” said Thomas, bending down to do so.  “Is there a local rule about it?”

“No; it is left entirely to the discretion and good taste of the members.  Naturally a little extra licence is allowed on a very muddy day.  Of course, if—­Oh, I see.  You meant a local rule about losing your ball in the mud?  No, I don’t know of one—­unless it comes under the heading of casual land.  Be a sportsman, Thomas, and don’t begrudge me the hole.”

The game proceeded, and we reached the twelfth tee without any further contretemps; save that I accidentally lost the sixth, ninth and tenth holes, and that Thomas lost his iron at the eighth.  He had carelessly laid it down for a moment while he got out of a hole with his niblick, and when he turned round for it the thing was gone.

At the twelfth tee it was raining harder than ever.  We pounded along with our coat-collars up and reached the green absolutely wet through.

“How about it?” said Thomas.

“My hole, I think; and that makes us all square.”

“I mean how about the rain?  And it’s just one o’clock.”

“Just as you like.  Well, I suppose it is rather wet.  All right, let’s have lunch.”