He abandoned photography and took to golf. He showed people how,
by digging a hole here and putting a brickbat or two there, they
could convert a tennis-lawn into a miniature golf link,--and did it
for them. He persuaded elderly ladies and gentlemen that it was
the mildest exercise going, and would drag them for miles over wet
gorse and heather, and bring them home dead beat, coughing, and
full of evil thoughts.
The last time I saw him was in Switzerland, a few months ago. He
appeared indifferent to the subject of golf, but talked much about
whist. We met by chance at Grindelwald, and agreed to climb the
Faulhorn together next morning. Half-way up we rested, and I
strolled on a little way by myself to gain a view. Returning, I
found him with a "Cavendish" in his hand and a pack of cards spread
out before him on the grass, solving a problem.
THE MAN WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN LUCK
He got in at Ipswich with seven different weekly papers under his
arm. I noticed that each one insured its reader against death or
injury by railway accident. He arranged his luggage upon the rack
above him, took off his hat and laid it on the seat beside him,
mopped his bald head with a red silk handkerchief, and then set to
work steadily to write his name and address upon each of the seven
papers.
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