matters,” he said, “but you must allow me sufficient power of observation to know a worm-cast when I see it. It was a worm-cast, sir, a cast of a worm, and you had no right to remove it. If you will do me the favour to consult the rules of golf—?”
“Oh, I grant you that you are more a specialist in the rules of golf, Major, than in the practice of it,” said Puffin brightly.
Suddenly it struck Sporting Benjy that the red signals of danger danced before his eyes, and though the odious Puffin had scored twice to his once, he called up all his powers of self-control, for if his friend was anything like as exasperated as himself, the breeze of disagreement might develop into a hurricane. At the moment he was passing through a swing-gate which led to a short cut back to the town, but before he could take hold of himself he had slammed it back in his fury, hitting Puffin, who was following him, on the knee. Then he remembered he was a sporting Christian gentleman, and no duellist.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, my dear fellow,” he said, with the utmost solicitude. “Uncommonly stupid of me. The gate flew out of my hand. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
Puffin had just come to the same conclusion as Major Flint: magnanimity was better than early trains, and ever so much better than bullets. Indeed there was no comparison....
“Not hurt a bit, thank you, Major,” he said, wincing with the shrewdness of the blow, silently cursing his friend for what he felt sure was no accident, and limping with both legs. “It didn’t touch me. Ha! What a brilliant sunset. The town looks amazingly picturesque.”
