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course.’
    â€˜I wasn’t told anything about perks,’ murmured Edmund Pemberton. ‘I thought I just got the money for caddying.’
    â€˜Balls,’ said Shipley pithily.
    Edmund Pemberton was still of an age to flush and did so as only the young and freckled can. ‘Balls?’ he echoed uncertainly.
    â€˜Golf balls, lost, stolen and strayed,’ explained Shipley. ‘Mostly strayed, and mostly into the Gulf Stream …’
    â€˜But that’s in …’ began Edmund.
    â€˜The Gulf Stream, boy,’ said another caddie, taking pity on him, ‘is the name of the wee tributary of the River Aim that runs across the fairway at the fifth.’
    â€˜Which is not what golfers call it when their balls go in it, I can tell you,’ said Shipley. ‘You just wait until you hear some of ’em carrying on about it.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of an older man sitting at a distance. ‘The only one who doesn’t mind what they say is old Belloes over there.’
    â€˜Broad-minded?’ suggested Pemberton innocently.
    â€˜Stone-deaf.’ He grinned. ‘His real name is Beddoes.’
    â€˜So where does this Bobby Curd come in, then?’ asked Edmund Pemberton hastily. His capacity for sticking to the point had always stood him in good stead when writing his essays at College.
    â€˜Where he comes in is through the bridleway beyond the
sixth,’ said Shipley literally.
    â€˜And when he comes in,’ said another man, ‘is during the night.’
    â€˜To steal the balls, you mean?’ asked Edmund.
    â€˜Quick, isn’t he?’ marvelled Shipley, who considered formal education a waste of time and money.
    â€˜For a student,’ said the other caddie, straight-faced.
    Pemberton searched wildly for a new subject. ‘If Major Bligh beats Mr Hopland in this round …’
    â€˜If …’
    â€˜And then his match against Mr Gilchrist …’
    â€˜A bigger “if”, that,’ said Dickie Castle, pursing his lips. ‘Gilchrist’s a good player.’
    â€˜Got a lot on his mind, though, with things in the trade being what they are,’ said Bert Hedges. ‘I heard he was laying folk off at his plant.’
    â€˜Will the Major then go on to win this Plate thing?’ persisted a terrier-like Pemberton.
    â€˜Should do, young Edmund,’ said one of the men, ‘always supposing that Fred’s advice to him is better than yours would have been.’
    â€˜And always bearing in mind,’ said someone else slyly, ‘that Fred here plays off four himself.’
    â€˜Mine?’ squawked Pemberton in alarm. ‘I couldn’t advise anybody. I thought all I had to do was to carry a man’s clubs round. That’s what Matt told me.’
    â€˜You thought caddying was a doddle, didn’t you?’ Fred Shipley pointed a bony finger towards Edmund Pemberton’s chest. ‘Well, let me tell you, young Ginger, that it isn’t. Especially when it’s a needle match like the Pletchford Plate or the Clarembald Cup.’
    Edmund flushed to the roots of his hair again. ‘But Matt said there was nothing to it …’
    â€˜Ah, but Matt’s not here, is he?’ said Shipley. ‘Matt’s off
enjoying his precious gap year in some God-forsaken spot …’
    â€˜Lasserta, actually …’ said Pemberton, adding pedantically, ‘and as it happens they’ve got gods there, lots of them, actually. And,’ he hurried on, catching sight of Shipley’s expression, ‘it isn’t exactly a gap year either – it’s part of his degree course at Uni. He’s reading business studies and economics and he needs to get more language experience.’
    â€˜ …That he said he wanted all his caddying money for,’ finished Shipley, showing an equal capacity for sticking to the point.
    â€˜Gap year!’