The second hole was shorter. Gossett won it in three. The third he took
in six, the fourth in four. Archibald began to feel that he might just
as well not be there. He was practically a spectator.
At this point he reached in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch, to
console himself with smoke. To his dismay he found it was not there. He
had had it in the train, but now it had vanished. This added to his
gloom, for the pouch had been given to him by Margaret, and he had
always thought it one more proof of the way her nature towered over the
natures of other girls that she had not woven a monogram on it in
forget-me-nots. This record pouch was missing, and Archibald mourned
for the loss.
His sorrows were not alleviated by the fact that Gossett won the fifth
and sixth holes.
It was now a quarter past twelve, and Archibald reflected with moody
satisfaction that the massacre must soon be over, and that he would
then be able to forget it in the society of Margaret.
As Gossett was about to drive off from the seventh tee, a telegraph boy
approached the little group.
'Mr Gossett,' he said.
Gossett lowered his driver, and wheeled round, but Sigsbee had snatched
the envelope from the boy's hand.
'It's all right, old man,' he said. 'Go right ahead. I'll keep it safe
for you.'
'Give it to me,' said Gossett anxiously.
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