~ CHAPTER I. ~ In 1892. Well, my game was not so very bad after all. It was that fellow Brown’s infernal luck. The way he holed long putts would have put a saint off his game. So ran my thoughts after dinner. When I first came in I had sworn that I had never played a worse game—vowed that I couldn’t hit a ball, and that I'd have a bonfire of my clubs in the back green, or give them away without a pound of tea. I was sick of the sight of them. Brown himself came in by and by, however, and after sundry whiskies, hot, I began to think I had been playing quite a good game after all—indeed, I finished up by challenging him to play me once more on the morrow. Ah! that to-morrow! How many matches have been fixed for it that are still things of the future! How “many a slip” there is! In my own case, for instance——But I must not anticipate, à nos moutons, « as they say in the land of “the darned Mounseer.” « When Brown left I had another pipe (and—shall I say?—another half-one) before turning in. Next —but I think what happened next morning requires a new chapter.
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