"Oh, yes," said the city man. "Why, I'm really unwinding down here. This air is just great. I'm sleeping like a top. Once I hit that old pillow I'm gone."
Bolt shook his head. "Pal," he said, "there's the cause of all your ailments."
"I haven't got any ailments," protested the city man.
"I'm referring to pillows," said Tommy. "Never sleep on a pillow, pal. It's the worst thing you can do. It leads to backaches and stiff neck. Now you listen to me. Get those pillows off your bed tonight. You call for the hotel maid and get you a bed board to put under the mattress."
"I'll do that," said the city man, rubbing the back of his neck and moving his head around in a circle.
"Or better yet," said Tommy, "get out of that bed altogether. Spread out your sheet on the floor and sleep there."
Tommy walked over to his son, still struggling with the man-size golf club. He leaned over and adjusted the child's grip. "Son," he said, "pretty soon you're going to have your own set of clubs. This old driver is just too big for you. But you keep on practicing there."
He straightened up and examined his own hands, clenching his fist, then extending his fingers and examining them closely. "I got to get in some practice this afternoon. I got to get in maybe 18. I've been doing too much automobile driving these past few days." He spread his fingers and showed them around. "You see there?" he said. "I am plainly suffering from steering-wheel grip."
"Tommy," said Jim Wright, "about this new gasoline-engine golf cart. If Mary Lou intends to use it to go shopping, we'll have to get a license plate for it. We could drive over to Inverness and pick it up right now."
"Whoa, Jimbo," said Tommy. "Let's not get stampeded here. No sweat, pal. Take it easy."