. . . Over the
drink the Golf Major, who had known Biarritz for twenty years,
explained the difference between its old and its new
golf-course, and informed Farrell that in the old one there had
used to be the most sporting hole anywhere--for a beginner.
You drove slap across a chasm of the sea: if you didn't land
your ball neatly you were in the devil of a hole, and if you
foozled you saw your ball dropping down, down, to the beach and
the Atlantic. 'Too expensive for duffers altogether, especially
when the price of balls rose. Only the caddies thrived on it,
at the risk of their necks. . . . After this tiffin we'll stroll
over and have a look at it.'
"So thither they strolled, and by and by started to amuse
themselves with pot-shot drives from the old tee. The Major
whacked his ball across to a neat lie time after time.
Farrell muffed and foozled, wasting his substance in riotous
slogging. The height of the cliff, maybe, dizzied his head.
"In this way I suppose he expended all his ammunition.
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