The Wrecking Crew, meanwhile, had come to life again. They had stopped twittering about Chesters brassie-shot and were thinking of resuming their own game. Even in foursomes where fifty yards is reckoned a good shot somebody must be away, and the man whose turn it was to play was the one who had acquired from his brother-members of the club the nickname of the First Grave-Digger. A word about this human wen. He was — if there can be said to be grades in such a sub-species — the star performer of the Wrecking Crew. The lunches of fifty-seven years had caused his chest to slip down into the mezzanine floor, but he was still a powerful man, and had in his youth been a hammer-thrower of some repute. He differed from his colleagues — the Man With the Hoe, Old Father Time, and Consul, the Almost Human — in that, while they were content to peck cautiously at the ball, he never spared himself in his efforts to do it a violent injury. Frequently he had cut a blue dot ahnost in half with his niblick. He was completely muscle-bound, so that he seldom achieved anything beyond a series of chasms in the turf... - Chester Forgets Himself
Posted on: Sun, 17 Aug 2014 08:44:22 +0000
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