He looked up.
By the 13th, “The Devil’s Elbow,” we had lost the ball three times, found it twice in badger sets, and once in the open mouth of a dead crow. Chip’s hands were bleeding. My knee sang with a cold, old agony.
I teed up the black gutty. It looked like a clot of night. My first swing was a prayer. The ball vanished. hurleypurley foursome ts07-54 Min
“Find it,” I said.
We didn’t finish the round. We picked up the ball, walked back to the clubhouse in silence, and left the niblick and brassie on the first tee. By morning, they were gone. So was the leather rule-sheet. He looked up
“There are no flags,” I said. “You hear the pin. It’s a shepherd’s bell, hung six feet high. You’ll know it when you ring it.”
Ding.
I felt the hair on my neck rise.
Chip swung. He didn’t hit the ball. He hit the air, and the air hit him back. He flew six feet, landed in a patch of bog myrtle, and came up spitting peat. My knee sang with a cold, old agony