he can't be introduced to the game too early. Come on, Peter."
And we pushed into more open country.

The 9-hole course which Simpson planned a year ago is not yet used for
the Open Championship, though it is certainly better than it was last
summer. But it is short and narrow and dog-legged, and, particularly
when Simpson is playing on it, dangerous.

"We are now in the zone of fire," I said. "Samuel's repainted ninepenny
may whiz past us at any moment. Perhaps I had better go first." I tied
my handkerchief to Myra's sunshade and led the way with the white flag.

A ball came over the barn and rolled towards us, just reaching one of
the wheels. I gave a yell.

"Hallo!" bellowed Simpson from behind the barn.

"You're firing on the ambulance," I shouted.

He hurried up, followed leisurely by Thomas.

"I say," he said excitedly, "have I hurt him?"

"You have not even waked him. He has the special gift of--was it
Wellington or Napoleon?--that of being able to sleep through the
heaviest battle."

"Hallo!" said Thomas. "Good old boy! What's he been learning to-day?" he
added, with godfatherly interest.

"We're showing him life to-day. He has come to see Simpson play golf."

"Doesn't he ever sit up?" asked Simpson, looking at him with interest.
"I don't see how he's going to see anything if he's always on his back.
Unless it were something in the air."

"Don't you ever get the ball in the air?" said Myra innocently.

"What will his Uncle Samuel show him if he does sit up?" I asked. "Let's
decide first if it's going to be anything worth watching. Which hole are
you for? The third?"

"The eighth. My last shot had a bit of a slice."

"A slice! It had about the whole joint. I doubt," I said to Myra, "if we
shall do much good here; let's push on."

But Myra had put down the hood and taken some of the clothes off Peter.
Peter stirred slightly. He seemed to know that something was going on.
Then suddenly he woke up, just in time to see Simpson miss the ball
completely. Instantly he gave a cry.

"Now you've done it," said Myra. "He's got to go in. And I'm afraid
he'll go away with quite a wrong idea of the game."

But I was not thinking of the baby. Although I am to be his uncle by
marriage I had forgotten him.

"If that's about Simpson's form to-day," I said to Myra, "you and I
could still take them on and beat them."

Myra looked up eagerly.

"What about Peter?" she asked; but she didn't ask it very firmly