who seems to be caring for nothing except for his own welfare and is barely civil to you, and, lastly, the man with a total absence of humour. I am quite aware of the fact that in Scotland it is generally the practice not to talk or utter a sound during any part of the game. I can only say on this point that a game is a game, and if a reasonable amount of cheerful conversation can be indulged in without injury to the play so much the better.
When everything has been said, however, the fact remains that golf is a splendid game, and has, moreover, a charm impossible to describe or exaggerate. Why this is, what it consists of, is not easy to say. In the first place there is the glorious sensation of making a true hit. This is not only true of the drive. There is a right or wrong way of hitting a yard putt. The right way is bliss, the wrong purgatory. Of course the pleasure of the long drive or second shot through the green gives as fine an emotion as is possible for any sinner to receive on this earth, but there is satisfaction to be got out of every true hit of whatever length.
Then there is the charm of scenery, though I
