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room, with a button on top, a hideous bow tie, a button-up sweater with striped sleeves which were held back by elastic armbands, limp, voluminous knickers of wild plaid, short socks, and three or four-toned shoes with inch-long spikes. Even so, he was in better shape than his caddy, whom he always selected carefully as being the most grotesque employee available, and dwarfed or otherwise malformed if possible. The caddy's ensemble, a compendium of links outrages of every land, was built around a tam-o'-shanter slightly smaller than an umbrella.
Fields' manner as he approached the tee was one of solemn consecration. He marked out a place for the caddy to stand, selected a ball with great care, scrubbed it up, and placed it on one of his patented tees; then he tested the wind. Absently, he reached back and drew out a club, but it turned out to be the hoe, and he gave an agitated start when he saw it. He took the line that he had somehow been victimized by the caddy, whom he beat vigorously about the head and shoulders before proceeding. Then he took a driver and assumed a kind of stance. He sawed away for a few minutes, but each time he started to drive he turned to the caddy and shouted, "Stand clear and keep your eye on the ball!" Before readdressing the ball, Fields changed clubs, and the new one, on the backswing, proved to have a pliable shaft and looped clear around his neck. He fought his way out, flailing the air savagely and uttering threatening cries; then he beat up the caddy again.
The climactic prop of his golf act was a piece of paper that blew across the course and fastened around one of his feet as he prepared at last to drive. Beginning in a tolerant humor, he kicked it loose, but it transferred to his other foot. With a violent wrench, he succeeded in kicking it back to the first foot, and then he picked it off with the head of his golf club, where it stuck snugly. He jabbed the club into the air, whipped it back and
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