Why Didn’t They Ask Evans – Agatha Christie
Bobby attacked his ball fiercely with a niblick. The third time was successful. The ball lay a short distance from the green which Dr Thomas had reached with two creditable iron shots.
‘Your hole,’ said Bobby.
They proceeded to the next tee.
The doctor drove first – a nice straight shot, but with no great distance about it.
Bobby sighed, teed his ball, reteed it, waggled his club a long time, took back stiffly, shut his eyes, raised his head, depressed his right shoulder, did everything he ought not to have done and hit a screamer down the middle of the course.
He drew a deep breath of satisfaction. The well-known golfer’s gloom passed from his eloquent face to be succeeded by the equally well-known golfer’s exultation.
‘I know now what I’ve been doing,’ said Bobby – quite untruthfully.
A perfect iron shot, a little chip with a mashie and Bobby lay dead. He achieved a birdie four and Dr Thomas was reduced to one up.
Full of confidence, Bobby stepped on to the sixteenth tee.
He again did everything he should not have done, and this time no miracle occurred. A terrific, a magnificent, an almost superhuman slice happened! The ball went round at right angles.
‘If that had been straight – whew!’ said Dr Thomas.
‘Hell,’ said Bobby bitterly. ‘Hullo, I thought I heard a shout!
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