Bert lay on the fairway, his eyes closed. His bag of clubs lay a few feet away. Mr. Fingerhaver rubbed his wrists and slapped his face, but he didn’t come out of it.
The doctor told Mr. Fingerhaver he could go in and see Bert. Bert’s face smiled wanly at Mr. Fingerhaver.
“Guess you’ll have to tell me what happened, George. The doc says I got a concussion. My memory’s shot. I can remember leaving the house before six, but I can’t remember another thing.”
Mr. Fingerhaver gulped. “You said — you mean you can’t remember?”
“That’s right. I even had a screwy dream — that I was plumbering every shot and you were shooting nothing but birdies. Imagine you shooting under par!”
Mr. Fingerhaver said, “I shot a fifty-eight.” His fingers were tight on the score card in his pocket.
Bert looked up at him and said, “Oh, I see. We played nine holes before I got hit?”
Mr. Fingerhaver smiled woodenly down at Bert and crumpled the score card in his red fist. “That’s right, Bert. Nine holes.”