Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

The ball started on a grotesquely wrong line, turned on a rise in the ground, cannoned off a worm-cast and plopped into the tin. Mabel gave a shriek of joy, and Lucy—well, I regret to say that Lucy made use of a terse expression the French equivalent of which her employer had been at great pains to remember. Haynes and I lay flat on the ground, overcome as much by emotion as by our physical weakness.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

The thirteenth is a short hole. You drive from a kind of pulpit, and the green is below you, protected by large stiff-backed bunkers like pews.
"Last hole, thank Heaven," panted Haynes. "I couldn't bear much more. I'm all of a dither as it is."
Mabel, twittering with excitement, teed up. I looked at the green lying invitingly below and took that gigantic putter. The ball, struck with all my little remaining strength, flew straight towards the biggest bunker, scored a direct hit on the top of it, bounced high in the air—and trickled on to the green.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

But how were they to know that? When a Latin misses his train he doesn't sit down stolidly and think slowly.
I went to his aid. From the manner in which he rose to salute me they guessed that I was the Commander-in-Chief of all the English, and were for giving me an ovation. Thomas explained his trouble to me in half-a-dozen words; I solved it for him in even fewer. Thomas and I quite understood each other, and there was no want of sympathy and fellow-feeling between us. To the small crowd, however, this was the extreme of brutal curtness.
Source: Gutenberg

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