"Then what the f- - -, Leroy, give us the nine." Train pulled the iron out of the bag and the fat man gave him the thermos to put away.
He swung the club once, a slower, easy practice swing, then looked again at Mr. Packard, and then at Train. "You says the nine, sho enough?"
The fat man stood over the ball only a few seconds, not nearly as long as before, and then his stomach rolled up—Train glimpsing that awful pelt of hair—and then it dropped back over his belt and the ball came off the club straight and high, a bit of the divot still stuck to the face, and the fat man held a finishing pose while it was in the air. Showing Mr. Packard his real game now, let him feel the hook in his mouth.
"Be the stick," the fat man said.
Mr. Packard gave Train a quick look of amusedment, and the ball hung there in the sky, perfectly on line, right until it disappeared into the pond. About 10 feet short of the far bank. The fat man opened his hands and the club dropped behind his shoulder.
"The nine-iron," he said, almost like he was asking a question.
The wrong place at the wrong time, that was the expression.
"Yessir," Train said.
"Yessir? Yessir what? You seen where it went?"
Train looked at the pond and saw a line of bubbles.