"And I'll do it," I said to Bob, who had trotted up.
I often make Bob the recipient of my confidences. He listens
appreciatively and never interrupts. And he never has grievances of
his own. If there is one person I dislike, it is the man who tries to
air his grievances when I wish to air mine.
"Bob," I said, running his tail through my fingers, "listen to me. If
I am in form this afternoon, and I feel in my bones that I shall be, I
shall nurse the professor. I shall play with him. Do you understand
the principles of match play at golf, Robert? You score by holes, not
strokes. There are eighteen holes. I shall toy with the professor,
Bob. I shall let him get ahead, and then catch him up. I shall go
ahead myself, and let him catch me up. I shall race him neck and neck
till the very end. Then, when his hair has turned white with the
strain, and he's lost a couple of stone in weight, and his eyes are
starting out of his head, I shall go ahead and beat him by a hole.
_I'll_ teach him, Robert. He shall taste of my despair, and learn by
proof in some wild hour how much the wretched dare. And when it's all
over, and he's torn all his hair out and smashed all his clubs, I
shall go and commit suicide off the Cob. Because, you see, if I can't
marry Phyllis, I shan't have any use for life."
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