The newcomer seemed to consider the ceremony of introduction completed. “_I_ done care for goff,” he said, almost vaingloriously. He waved his cleek to express his preference. “Natua,” he said with a satisfaction that bordered on fatuity. He prepared to come down from the little turfy crest on which he stood to the encampment. “’Ere!” said Bealby. “This is Private.” The golfer indicated by solemn movements of the cleek that this was understood but that other considerations overrode it. “You—You got to go!” cried Bealby in a breathless squeak. “You get out of here.” The golfer waved an arm as who should say, “You do not understand, but I forgive you,” and continued to advance towards the fire. And then Bealby, at the end of his tact, commenced hostilities. He did so because he felt he had to do something, and he did not know what else to do. “Wan’ nothin’ but frenly conversation sushus custm’ry webred peel,” the golfer was saying, and then a large fragment of turf hit him in the neck, burst all about him and stopped him abruptly. He remained for some lengthy moments too astonished for words. He was not only greatly surprised, but he chose to appear even more surprised than he was. In spite of the brown-black mould upon his cheek and brow and a slight displacement of his cap, he achieved a sort of dignity. He came slowly to a focus upon Bealby, who stood by the turf pile grasping a second missile. The cleek was extended sceptre-wise. “Replace the—Divot.” “You go orf,” said Bealby. “I’ll chuck it if you don’t. I tell you fair.” “Replace the—DIVOT,” roared the golfer again in a voice of extraordinary power. “You—you go!” said Bealby. “Am I t’ask you. Third time. Reshpect—Roos.... Replace the Divot.” It struck him fully in the face. He seemed to emerge through the mould. He was blinking but still dignified. “Tha’—was intentional,” he said. He seemed to gather himself together.... Then suddenly and with a surprising nimbleness he discharged himself at Bealby. He came with astonishing swiftness. He got within a foot of him. Well, it was for Bealby that he had learnt to dodge in the village playground. He went down under the golfer’s arm and away round the end of the stack, and the golfer with his force spent in concussion remained for a time clinging to the turf pile and apparently trying to remember how he got there. Then he was reminded of recent occurrences by a shrill small voice from the other side of the stack. “You gow away!” said the voice. “Can’t you see you’re annoying a lady? You gow away.” “Nowish—’noy anyone. Pease wall wirl.” But this was subterfuge. He meant to catch that boy. Suddenly and rather brilliantly he turned the flank of the turf pile and only a couple of loose turfs at the foot of the heap upset his calculations. He found himself on all fours on ground from which it was difficult to rise. But he did not lose heart. “Boy—hic—scow,” he said, and became for a second rush a nimble quadruped.