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s my uncle. Even if he wasn't he might give me a game of golf. "Excuse me," I said politely, "but are you by any chance my Uncle Edward?" "Your _what_?" "I was almost certain you weren't, but I thought I'd just ask. I'm sorry." "Not at all. Naturally one wants to find one's uncle. Have you--er--lost him long?" "Years," I said sadly. "Er--I wonder if you would care to adopt me--I mean, give me a game this afternoon. My man hasn't turned up." "By all means. I'm not very great." "Neither am I. Shall we start now? Good." I was sorry to miss Edward, but I wasn't going to miss a game of golf on such a lovely day. My spirits rose. Not even the fact that there were no caddies left and I had to carry my own clubs could depress me. The Major drove. I am not going to describe the whole game; though my cleek shot at the fifth hole, from a hanging lie to within two feet of the---- However, I mustn't go into that now. But it surprised the Major a good deal. And when at the next hole I laid my brassie absolutely dead, he---- But I can tell you about that some other time. It is sufficient to say now that, when we reached the seventeenth tee, I was one up. We both played the seventeenth well. He was a foot from the hole in four. I played my third from the edge of the green, and was ridiculously short, giving myself a twenty-foot putt for the hole. Leaving my clubs I went forward with the putter, and by the absurdest luck pushed the ball in. "Good," said the Major. "Your game." I went back for my clubs. When I turned round the Major was walking carelessly off to the next tee, leaving the flag lying on the green and my ball still in the tin. "Slacker," I said to myself, and walked up to the hole. And then I had a terrible shock. I saw in the tin, not my ball, but a moustache! "Am I going mad?" I said. "I could have sworn that I drove off with a 'Colonel,' and yet I seem to have holed out with a Major's moustache!" I picked it up and hurried after him. "Major," I said, "excuse me, you've dropped your moustache. It fell off at the critical stage of the match; the shock of losing was too much for you; the strain of----" He turned his clean-shaven face round and grinned at me. "On second thoughts," he said, "I _am_ your long-lost uncle." THE RENASCENCE OF BRITAIN Peter Riley was one of those lucky people who take naturally to games. Actually he got his blue for cricket, rugger, and boxin
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