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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/36682-8.txt b/36682-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3373a88 --- /dev/null +++ b/36682-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9647 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fore!, by Charles Emmett Van Loan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fore! + +Author: Charles Emmett Van Loan + +Release Date: July 9, 2011 [EBook #36682] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORE! *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + FORE! + + BY CHARLES E. VAN LOAN + +AUTHOR OF BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES, TAKING THE COUNT, SCORE BY +INNINGS, ETC. + + + GROSSET & DUNLAP + PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + + Made in the United States of America + + COPYRIGHT, 1918, + BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + Copyright, 1914, 1916, by P. F. Collier & Son + + Copyright, 1917, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + My dear Ed. Tufts:-- + + Once, when a mere child, I strayed as far away from home as + Pico Street, and followed that thoroughfare westward until the + houses gave way to open country, hedged by a dense forest of + real estate signs. + + In the midst of that wilderness I chanced upon a somewhat + chubby gentleman engaged in the pursuit of a small white ball, + which, when he came within striking distance, he beat savagely + with weapons of wood and iron. That, sir, was my first sight of + you, and my earliest acquaintance with the game of golf. I + remember scanning the horizon for your keeper. + + Times have changed since then. The old Pico Street course is + covered with bungalows and mortgages. Golf clubs are + everywhere. The hills are dotted with middle-aged gentlemen who + use the same weapons of wood and iron and the same red-hot + adjectives. A man may now admit that he commits golf and the + statement will not be used against him. Everybody is doing it. + The pastime has become popular. + + But it took courage to be a pioneer, to listen to the sneers + about "Cow-pasture pool" and to remain cool, calm and collected + when putting within sight of the country road and within + hearing of the comments of the Great Unenlightened. That + courage entitles you to this small recognition, and also + entitles you to purchase as many copies of this book as you can + afford. + + Yours as usual, + + CHARLES E. VAN LOAN + + To Mr. Edward B. Tufts of the Los Angeles Country Club. + + Los Angeles, Cal., January 17, 1918. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH + +LITTLE POISON IVY + +THE MAJOR, D.O.S. + +A MIXED FOURSOME + +"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR" + +A CURE FOR LUMBAGO + +THE MAN WHO QUIT + +THE OOLEY-COW + +ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND + + + + +GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH! + + +I + + There has been considerable argument about it--even a mention + of ethics--though where ethics figures in this case is more + than I know. I'd like to take a flat-footed stance as claiming + that the end justified the means. Saint George killed the + Dragon, and Hercules mopped up the Augean stables, but little + Wally Wallace--one hundred and forty-two pounds in his summer + underwear--did a bigger job and a better job when the betting + was odds-on-and-write-your-own-ticket that it couldn't be done. + I wouldn't mind heading a subscription to present him with a + gold medal about the size of a soup plate, inscribed as + follows, to wit and viz.: + + _W. W. Wallace--He Put the Fore in Foursome._ + +Every golfer who ever conceded himself a two-foot putt because he was +afraid he might miss it has sweated and suffered and blasphemed in the +wake of a slow foursome. All the clubs that I have ever seen--and I've +travelled a bit--are cursed with at least one of these Creeping +Pestilences which you observe mostly from the rear. + +You're a golfer, of course, and you know the make-up of a slow foursome +as well as I do: Four nice old gentlemen, prominent in business circles, +church members, who remember it even when they top a tee shot, pillars +of society, rich enough to be carried over the course in palanquins, but +too proud to ride, too dignified to hurry, too meek to argue except +among themselves, and too infernally selfish to stand aside and let the +younger men go through. They take nine practice swings before hitting a +shot, and then flub it disgracefully; they hold a prayer meeting on +every putting green and a _post-mortem_ on every tee, and a rheumatic +snail could give them a flying start and beat them out in a fifty-yard +dash. Know 'em? What golfer doesn't? + +But nobody knows why it is that the four slowest players in every club +always manage to hook up in a sort of permanent alliance. Nobody knows +why they never stage their creeping contests on the off days when the +course is clear. Nobody knows why they always pick the sunniest +afternoons, when the locker room is full of young men dressing in a +hurry. Nobody knows why they bolt their luncheons and scuttle out to the +first tee, nor where that speed goes as soon as they drive and start +down the course. Nobody knows why they refuse to walk any faster than a +bogged mooley cow. Nobody knows why they never look behind them. Nobody +knows why they never hear any one yell "Fore!" Nobody knows why they are +so dead set against letting any one through. + +Everybody knows the fatal effect of standing too long over the ball, all +dressed up with nowhere to go. Everybody knows of the tee shots that are +slopped and sliced and hooked; of the indecision caused by the long wait +before playing the second; of the change of clubs when the first choice +was the correct one; of the inevitable penalty exacted by loss of temper +and mental poise. Everybody knows that a slow foursome gives the +Recording Angel a busy afternoon, and leaves a sulphurous haze over an +entire course. But the aged reprobates who are responsible for all this +trouble--do they care how much grief and rage and bitterness simmers in +their wake? You think they do? Think again. Golf and Business are the +only games they have ever had time to learn, and one set of rules does +for both. The rest of the world may go hang! Golf is a serious matter +with these hoary offenders, and they manage to make it serious for +everybody behind them--the fast-walking, quick-swinging fellows who are +out for a sweat and a good time and lose both because the slow foursome +blocks the way. + +Yes, you recognise the thumb-nail sketch--it is the slow foursome which +infests your course; the one which you find in front of you when you go +visiting. You think that four men who are inconsiderate enough to ruin +your day's sport and ruffle your temper ought to be disciplined, called +up on the carpet, taken in hand by the Greens Committee. You think they +are the worst ever--but wait! You are about to hear of the golfing +renegades known as the Big Four, who used to sew us up twice a week as +regularly as the days came round; you are about to hear of Elsberry J. +Watlington, and Colonel Jim Peck, and Samuel Alexander Peebles, and W. +Cotton Hamilton--world's champions in the Snail Stakes, undisputed +holders of the Challenge Belt for Practice Swinging, and undefeated +catch-as-catch-can loiterers on the Putting Green. + +Six months ago we would have backed Watlington, Peck, Peebles and +Hamilton against the wide world, bet dollars against your dimes and +allowed you to select your own stakeholders, timekeepers and judges. +That's how much confidence we had in the Big Four. They were without +doubt and beyond argument the slowest and most exasperating quartette of +obstructionists that ever laid their middle-aged stomachs behind the +line of a putt. + +Do I hear a faint murmur of dissent? Going a little strong, am I? All +right, glad you mentioned it, because we may as well settle this +question of supremacy here and now. + +To save time, I will admit that your foursome is slower than Congress +and more irritating than the Senate. Permit me to ask you one question: +Going back over the years, can you recall a single instance when your +slow foursome allowed you to play through?... A lost ball, was it?... +Well, anyway, you got through them.... Thank you, and your answer puts +you against the ropes. I will now knock you clear out of the ring with +one well-directed statement of fact. Tie on your bonnet good and tight +and listen to this: The Big Four held up our course for seven long and +painful years, and during that period of time they never allowed any one +to pass them, lost ball or no lost ball. + +That stops you, eh? I rather thought it would. It stopped us twice a +week. + + +II + +Visitors used to play our course on Wednesdays and Saturdays--our big +days--and then sit in the lounging room and try hard to remember that +they were our guests. There were two questions which they never failed +to ask: + +"Don't they ever let anybody through?" + +And then: + +"How long has this been going on?" + +When we answered them truthfully they shook their heads, looked out of +the windows, and told us how much better their clubs were handled. Our +course was all right--they had to say that much in fairness. It was well +trapped and bunkered, and laid out with an eye to the average player; +the fair greens were the best in the state; the putting greens were like +velvet; the holes were sporty enough to suit anybody; but----And then +they looked out of the window again. + +You see, the trouble was that the Big Four practically ran the club as +they liked. They had financed it in its early days, and as a reward had +been elected to almost everything in sight. We used to say that they +shook dice to see who should be president and so forth, and probably +they did. They might as well have settled it that way as any other, for +the annual election and open meeting was a joke. + +It usually took place in the lounging room on a wet Saturday afternoon. +Somebody would get up and begin to drone through a report of the year's +activities. Then somebody else would make a motion and everybody would +say "Ay!" After that the result of the annual election of officers would +be announced. The voting members always handed in the printed slips +which they found on the tables, and the ticket was never scratched--it +would be Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton all the way. The only +real question would be whether or not the incoming president of the club +would buy a drink for all hands. If it was Peck's turn the motion was +lost. + +As a natural result of this sort of thing the Big Four never left the +saddle for an instant. Talk about perpetuation in office--they had it +down to a fine point. They were always on the Board of Directors; they +saw to it that control of the Greens Committee never slipped out of +their hands; they had two of the three votes on the House Committee, and +no outsider was even considered for treasurer. They were dictators with +a large D, and nobody could do a thing about it. + +If a mild kick was ever made or new blood suggested, the kicker was made +to feel like an ingrate. Who started the club anyway? Who dug up the +money? Who swung the deal that put the property in our hands? Why, +Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton, to be sure! Could any one blame +them for wanting to keep an eye on the organisation? Cer-tain-ly not. +The Big Four had us bluffed, bulldozed, buffaloed, licked to a whisper. + +Peck, Peebles and Hamilton were the active heads of the Midland +Manufacturing Company, and it was pretty well known that the bulk of +Watlington's fortune was invested in the same enterprise. Those who knew +said they were just as ruthless in business as they were in golf--quite +a strong statement. + +They seemed to regard the Sundown Golf and Country Club as their private +property, and we were welcome to pay dues and amuse ourselves five days +a week, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays we were not to infringe on the +sovereign rights of the Big Four. + +They never entered any of the club tournaments, for that would have +necessitated breaking up their foursome. They always turned up in a +body, on the tick of noon, and there was an immediate scramble to beat +them to Number One tee. Those who lost out stampeded over to Number Ten +and played the second nine first. Nobody wanted to follow them; but a +blind man, playing without a caddie, couldn't have helped but catch up +with them somewhere on the course. + +If you wonder why the club held together, you have only to recall the +story of the cow-puncher whose friend beckoned him away from the faro +layout to inform him that the game was crooked. + +"Hell!" said the cow-puncher. "I know that; but--it's the only game in +town, ain't it?" + +The S.G. & C.C. was the only golf club within fifty miles. + + +III + +When Wally Wallace came home from college he blossomed out as a regular +member of the club. He had been a junior member before, one of the +tennis squad. + +Wally is the son of old Hardpan Wallace, of the Trans-Pacific +outfit--you may have heard of him--and the sole heir to more millions +than he will ever be able to spend; but we didn't hold this against the +boy. He isn't the sort that money can spoil, with nothing about him to +remind you of old Hardpan, unless it might be a little more chin than +he really needs. + +Wally's first act as a full-fledged member of the club was to qualify +for the James Peck Annual Trophy--a pretty fair sort of cup, considering +the donor. + +He turned in a nice snappy eighty-one, which showed us that a college +education had not been wasted on him, and also caused several of the +Class-A men to sit up a bit and take notice. + +He came booming through to the semi-finals with his head up and his tail +over the dash-board. It was there that he ran into me. Now I am no Jerry +Travers, but there are times when I play to my handicap, which is ten, +and I had been going fairly well. I had won four matches--one of them by +default. Wally had also won four matches, but the best showing made +against him was five down and four to go. His handicap was six, so he +would have to start me two up; but I had seen enough of his game to know +that I was up against the real thing, and would need a lot of luck to +give the boy anything like a close battle. He was a strong, heady match +player, and if he had a weakness the men whom he had defeated hadn't +been able to spot it. Altogether it wasn't a very brilliant outlook for +me; but, as a matter of fact, I suppose no ten-handicap man ever ought +to have a brilliant outlook. It isn't coming to him. If he has one it is +because the handicapper has been careless. + +Under our rules a competitor in a club tournament has a week in which +to play his man, and it so happened that we agreed on Wednesday for our +meeting. Wally called for me in his new runabout, and we had lunch +together--I shook him and stuck him for it, and he grinned and remarked +that a man couldn't be lucky at everything. While we were dressing he +chattered like a magpie, talking about everything in the world but golf, +which was a sign that he wasn't worrying much. He expected easy picking, +and under normal conditions he would have had it. + +We left the first tee promptly at one-forty-five P.M., our caddies +carrying the little red flags which demand the right of way over +everything. I might have suggested starting at Number Ten if I had +thought of it, but to tell the truth I was a wee mite nervous and was +wondering whether I had my drive with me or not. You know how the +confounded thing comes and goes. So we started at Number One, and my +troubles began. Wally opened up on me with a four-four-three, making the +third hole in a stroke under par, and when we reached the fourth tee we +were all square and my handicap was gone. + +It was on the fourth tee that we first began to notice signs of +congestion ahead of us. One foursome had just driven off and beckoned us +to come through, another was waiting to go, and the fair green on the +way to the fifth looked like the advance of the Mexican standing army. + +"Somebody has lost the transmission out of his wheel chair," said Wally. +"Well, we should worry--we've got the red flags and the right of way. +Fore!" And he proceeded to smack a perfect screamer down the middle of +the course--two hundred and fifty yards if it was an inch. I staggered +into one and laid my ball some distance behind his, but on the direct +line to the pin. Then we had to wait a bit while another foursome putted +out. + +"There oughtn't to be any congestion on a day like this," said Wally. +"Must be a bunch of old men ahead." + +"It's the Big Four," said I. "Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. +They always take their time." + +From where we were we could see the seventh and eighth fair greens. +There wasn't a player in sight on either one. + +"Good Lord!" said Wally. "They've got the whole United States wide open +ahead of 'em. They're not holding their place on the course." + +"They never do," said I, and just then the foursome moved off the +putting green. + +"Give her a ride, old top!" said Wally. + +I claim that my second shot wasn't half bad--for a ten-handicap man. I +used a brassy and reached the green about thirty feet from the pin, but +the demon Wally pulled a mid-iron out of his bag, waggled it once or +twice, and then made my brassy look sick. When we reached the top of the +hill, there was his ball ten feet from the cup. I ran up, playing it +safe for a par four, but Wally studied the roll of the green for about +ten seconds--and dropped a very fat three. He was decent enough to +apologise. + +"I'm playing over my head," said he. + +I couldn't dispute it--two threes on par fours might well be over +anybody's head. One down and fourteen to go; it had all the earmarks of +a massacre. + +We had quite an audience at the fifth tee--two foursomes were piled up +there, cursing. "What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Wally. "Can't you +get through?" + +"Nobody can get through," said Billy Williams. "It's the Big Four." + +"But they'll respect the red flags, won't they?" + +It was a perfectly natural question for a stranger to ask--and Wally was +practically a stranger, though most of the men knew who he was. It +brought all sorts of answers. + +"You think they will? I'll bet you a little two to one, no limit, that +they're all colour-blind!" + +"Oh, yes, they'll let you through!" + +"They'll _ask_ you to come through--won't they, Billy? They'll insist on +it, what?" + +"They're full of such tricks!" + +Wally was puzzled. He didn't quite know what to make of it. "But a red +flag," said he, "gives you the right of way." + +"Everywhere but here," said Billy Williams. + +"But in this case it's a rule!" argued Wally. + +"Those fellows in front make their own rules." + +"But the Greens Committee----" And this was where everybody laughed. + +Wally stooped and teed his ball. + +"Look here," said he, "I'll bet you anything you like that they let us +through. Why, they can't help themselves!" + +"You bet that they'll let you through of their own accord?" asked Ben +Ashley, who never has been known to pass up a plain cinch. + +"On our request to be allowed to pass," said Wally. + +"If you drive into 'em without their permission you lose," stipulated +Ben. + +"Right!" said Wally. + +"Got you for a dozen balls!" said Ben. + +"Anybody else want some of it?" asked Wally. + +Before he got off the tee he stood to lose six dozen balls; but his +nerve was unshaken and he slammed out another tremendous drive. I sliced +into a ditch and away we went, leaving a great deal of promiscuous +kidding behind us. It took me two shots to get out at all, and Wally +picked up another hole on me. + +Two down--murder! + +On the sixth tee we ran into another mass meeting of malcontents. Old +Man Martin, our prize grouch, grumbled a bit when we called attention to +our red flags. + +"What's the use?" said he. "You're on your way, but you ain't going +anywhere. Might just as well sit down and take it easy. Watlington has +got a lost ball, and the others have gone on to the green so's nobody +can get through. Won't do you a bit of good to drive, Wally. There's two +foursomes hung up over the hill now, and they'll be right there till +Watlington finds that ball. Sit down and be sociable." + +"What'll you bet that we don't get through?" demanded Wally, who was +beginning to show signs of irritation. + +"Whatever you got the most of, sonny--provided you make the bet this +way: they got to _let_ you through. Of course you might drive into 'em +or walk through 'em, but that ain't being done--much." + +"Right! The bet is that they let us through. One hundred fish." + +Old Martin cackled and turned his cigar round and round in the corner of +his mouth--a wolf when it comes to a cinch bet. + +"Gosh! Listen to our banty rooster crow! Want another hundred, sonny?" + +"Yes--grandpa!" said Wally, and sent another perfect drive soaring up +over the hill. + +Number Six is a long hole, and the ordinary player never attempts to +carry the cross-bunker on his second. I followed with a middling-to-good +shot, and we bade the congregation farewell. + +"It's ridiculous!" said Wally as we climbed the hill. "I never saw a +foursome yet that wouldn't yield to a red flag, or one that wouldn't let +a twosome through--if properly approached. And we have the right of way +over everything on the course. The Greens Committee----" + +"Is composed," said I, "of Watlington, Peck and Peebles--three members +of the Big Four. They built the club, they run the club, and they have +never been known to let anybody through. I'm sorry, Wally, but I'm +afraid you're up against it." + +The boy stopped and looked at me. + +"Then those fellows behind us," said he, "were betting on a cinch, eh?" + +"It was your proposition," I reminded him. + +"So it was," and he grinned like the good game kid he is. "The Greens +Committee, eh? 'Hast thou appealed unto Cæsar? unto Cæsar shalt thou +go.' I'm a firm believer in the right method of approach. They wouldn't +have the nerve----" + +"They have nerve enough for anything," said I, and dropped the subject. +I didn't want him to get the idea that I was trying to argue with him +and upset his game. One foursome was lying down just over the hill; the +other was piled up short of the bunker. Watlington had finally found his +ball and played onto the green. The others, of course, had been standing +round the pin and holding things up for him. + +I took an iron on my second and played short, intending to pitch over +the bunker on my third. Wally used a spoon and got tremendous height and +distance. His ball carried the bunker, kicked to the right and stopped +behind a sandtrap. It was a phenomenal shot, and with luck on the kick +would have gone straight to the pin. + +I thought the Big Four would surely be off the green by the time I got +up to my ball, but no, Peck was preparing to hole a three-foot putt. Any +ordinary dub would have walked up to that pill and tapped it in, but +that wasn't Peck's style. He got down on all fours and sighted along the +line to the hole. Then he rose, took out his handkerchief, wiped his +hands carefully, called for his putter and took an experimental stance, +tramping about like a cat "making bread" on a woollen rug. + +"Look at him!" grunted Wally. "You don't mind if I go ahead to my ball? +It won't bother you?" + +"Not in the least," said I. + +"I want to play as soon as they get out of the way," he explained. + +The Colonel's first stance did not suit him, so he had to go all through +the tramping process again. When he was finally satisfied, he began +swinging his putter back and forth over the ball, like the pendulum of a +grandfather's clock--ten swings, neither more nor less. Could any one +blame Wally for boiling inside? + +After the three-footer dropped--he didn't miss it, for a wonder--they +all gathered round the hole and pulled out their cards. Knowing each +other as well as they did, nobody was trusted to keep the score. + +"Fore!" called Wally. + +They paid not the slightest attention to him, and it was fully half a +minute before they ambled leisurely away in the direction of the seventh +tee. + +I played my pitch shot, with plenty of back-spin on it, and stopped ten +or twelve feet short of the hole. Wally played an instant later, a +mashie shot intended to clear the trap, but he had been waiting too long +and was burning up with impatience. He topped the ball, hit the far edge +of the sandtrap and bounced back into a bad lie. Of course I knew why he +had been in such a hurry--he wanted to catch the Big Four on the seventh +tee. His niblick shot was too strong, but he laid his fifth dead to the +hole, giving me two for a win. Just as a matter of record, let me state +that I canned a nice rainbow putt for a four. A four on Number Six is +rare. + +"Nice work!" said Wally. "You're only one down now. Come on, let's get +through these miserable old men!" + +Watlington was just addressing his ball, the others had already driven. +He fussed and he fooled and he waggled his old dreadnaught for fifteen +or twenty seconds, and then shot straight into the bunker--a wretchedly +topped ball. + +"Bless my heart!" said he. "Now why--why do I always miss my drive on +this hole?" + +Peck started to tell him, being his partner, but Wally interrupted, +politely but firmly. + +"Gentlemen," said he, "if you have no objection we will go through. We +are playing a tournament match. Mr. Curtiss, your honour, I believe." + +Well, sir, for all the notice they took of him he might have been +speaking to four graven images. Not one of them so much as turned his +head. Colonel Peck had the floor. + +"I'll tell you, Wat," said he, "I think it's your stance. You're playing +the ball too much off your right foot--coming down on it too much. Now +if you want it to rise more----" They were moving away now, but very +slowly. + +"_Fore!_" + +This time they had to notice the boy. He was mad clear through, and his +voice showed it. They all turned, took one good look at him, and then +toddled away, keeping well in the middle of the course. Peck was still +explaining the theory of the perfect drive. Wally yelled again; this +time they did not even look at him. "Well!" said he. "Of all the damned +swine! I--I believe we should drive anyway!" + +"You'll lose a lot of bets if you do." Perhaps I shouldn't have said +that. Goodness knows I didn't want to see his game go to pieces behind +the Big Four--I didn't want to play behind them myself. I tried to +explain. The kid came over and patted me on the back. + +"You're perfectly right," said he. "I forgot all about those fool bets, +but I'd gladly lose all of 'em if I thought I could hit that long-nosed +stiff in the back of the neck!" He meant the Colonel. "And so that's the +Greens Committee, eh? Holy jumping Jemima! What a club!" + +I couldn't think of much of anything to say, so we sat still and watched +Watlington dig his way out of the bunker, Peck offering advice after +each failure. When Watlington disagreed with Peck's point of view he +took issue with him, and all hands joined in the argument. Wally was +simply sizzling with pent-up emotion, and after Watlington's fifth shot +he began to lift the safety-valve a bit. The language which he used was +wonderful, and a great tribute to higher education. Old Hardpan himself +couldn't have beaten it, even in his mule-skinning days. + +At last the foursome was out of range and I got off a pretty fair tee +shot. Wally was still telling me what he thought of the Greens Committee +when he swung at the ball, and never have I seen a wider hook. It was +still hooking when it disappeared in the woods, out of bounds. His next +ball took a slice and rolled into long grass. + +"Serves me right for losing my temper," said he with a grin. "I can play +this game all right, old top, but when I'm riled it sort of unsettles +me. Something tells me that I'm going to be riled for the next half hour +or so. Don't mind what I say. It's all meant for those hogs ahead of +us." + +I helped him find his ball, and even then we had to wait on Peebles and +Hamilton, who were churning along down the middle of the course in easy +range. I lighted a cigarette and thought about something else--my income +tax, I think it was. I had found this a good system when sewed up behind +the Big Four. I don't know what poor Wally was thinking about--man's +inhumanity to man, I suppose--for when it came time to shoot he failed +to get down to his ball and hammered it still deeper into the grass. + +"If it wasn't for the bets," said he, "I'd pick up and we'd go over to +Number Eight. I'm afraid that on a strict interpretation of the terms of +agreement Martin could spear me for two hundred fish if we skipped a +hole." + +"He could," said I, "and what's more to the point, he would. They were +to let us through--on request." + +Wally sighed. + +"I've tried one method of approach," said he, "and now I'll try another +one. I might tell 'em that I bet two hundred dollars on the suspicion +that they were gentlemen, but likely they'd want me to split the +winnings. They look like that sort." + +Number Seven was a gift on a golden platter. I won it with a frightful +eight, getting into all sorts of grief along the way, but Wally was +entirely up in the air and blew the short putt which should have given +him a half. + +"All square!" said he. "Fair enough! Now we shall see what we shall +see!" + +His chin was very much in evidence as he hiked to Number Eight tee, and +he lost no time getting into action. Colonel Peck was preparing to drive +as Wally hove alongside. The Colonel is very fussy about his drive. He +has been known to send a caddie to the clubhouse for whispering on the +bench. Wally walked up behind him. + +"Stand still, young man! Can't you see I'm driving?" + +It was in the nature of a royal command. + +"Oh!" said Wally. "Meaning me, I presume. Do you know, it strikes me +that for a golfer with absolutely no consideration for others, you're +quite considerate--of yourself!" + +Now I had always sized up the Colonel for a bluffer. He proved himself +one by turning a rich maroon colour and trying to swallow his Adam's +apple. Not a word came from him. + +"Quiet," murmured old Peebles, who looks exactly like a sheep. "Absolute +quiet, please." + +Wally rounded on him like a flash. + +"Another considerate golfer, eh?" he snapped. "Now, gentlemen, under the +rules governing tournament play I demand for my opponent and myself the +right to go through. There are open holes ahead; you are not holding +your place on the course----" + +"Drive, Jim," interposed Watlington in that quiet way of his. "Don't pay +any attention to him. Drive." + +"But how can I drive while he's hopping up and down behind me? He puts +me all off my swing!" + +"I'm glad my protest has some effect on you," said Wally. "Now I +understand that some of you are members of the Greens Committee of this +club. As a member of the said club, I wish to make a formal request that +we be allowed to pass." + +"Denied," said Watlington. "Drive, Jim." + +"Do you mean to say that you refuse us our rights--that you won't let us +through?" + +"Absolutely," murmured old Peebles. "Absolutely." + +"But why--why? On what grounds?" + +"On the grounds that you're too fresh," said Colonel Peck. "On the +grounds that we don't want you to go through. Sit down and cool off." + +"Drive, Jim," said Watlington. "You talk too much, young man." + +"Wait a second," said Wally. "I want to get you all on record. I have +made a courteous request----" + +"And it has been refused," said old Peebles, blinking at both of us. +"Gentlemen, you can't go through!" + +"Is that final?" + +"It is--absolutely." + +And Watlington and Peck nodded. + +"Drive, Jim!" + +This time it was Hamilton who spoke. + +"Pardon me," said Wally. He skipped out in front of the tee, lifted his +cap and made a low bow. "Members of the Greens Committee," said he, "and +one other hog as yet unclassified, you are witnesses that I default my +match to Mr. Curtiss. I do this rather than be forced to play behind +four such pitiable dubs as you are. Golf is a gentleman's game, which +doubtless accounts for your playing it so poorly. They tell me that you +never let any one through. God giving me strength, the day will come +when you will not only allow people to pass you, but you will _beg_ them +to do it. Make a note of that. Come along, Curtiss. We'll play the last +nine--for the fun of the thing." + +"Oh, Curtiss!" It was Watlington speaking. "How many did you have him +down when he quit?" + +The insult would have made a saint angry, but no saint on the calendar +could have summoned the vocabulary with which Wally replied. It was a +wonderful exhibition of blistering invective. Watlington's thick hide +stood him in good stead. He did not turn a hair or bat an eye, but +waited for Wally to run out of breath. Then: + +"Drive, Jim," said he. + +Now I did not care to win that match by default, and I did everything in +my power to arrange the matter otherwise. I offered to play the +remaining holes later in the day, or skip the eighth and begin all +square on the ninth tee. + +"Nothing doing," said Wally. "You're a good sport, but there are other +men still in the tournament, and we're not allowed to concede anything. +The default goes, but tell me one thing--why didn't you back me up on +that kick?" + +I was afraid he had noticed that I had been pretty much in the +background throughout, so when he asked me I told him the truth. + +"Just a matter of bread and butter," said I. "My uncle's law firm +handles all the Midland's business. I'm only the junior member, but I +can't afford----" + +"The Midland?" asked Wally. + +"Yes, the Midland Manufacturing Company--Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. +Watlington's money is invested in the concern too." + +"Why," said Wally, "that's the entire gang, isn't it--Greens Committee +and all?" + +"The Big Four," said I. "You can see how it is. They're rather +important--as clients. There has been no end of litigation over the site +for that new plant of theirs down on Third Avenue, and we've handled all +of it." + +But Wally hadn't been listening to me. + +"So all the eggs are in one basket!" he exclaimed. "That simplifies +matters. Now, if one of 'em had been a doctor and one of 'em a lawyer +and one of 'em----" + +"What are you talking about?" I demanded. + +"Blest if I know!" said Wally. + +So far as I could learn no official action was taken by the Big Four +because of conduct and language unbecoming a gentleman and a golfer. +Before I left the clubhouse I had a word or two with Peebles. He was +sitting at a table in the corner of the lounging room, nibbling at a +piece of cheese and looking as meek as Moses. + +"We--ah--considered the source," said he. "The boy is young and--rash, +quite rash. His father was a mule-skinner--it's in the blood--can't help +it possibly. Yes, we considered the source. Absolutely!" + +I didn't see very much of Wally after that, but I understood that he +played the course in the mornings and gave the club a wide berth on +Wednesdays and Saturdays. His default didn't help me any. I was +handsomely licked in the finals--four and three, I believe it was. About +that time something happened which knocked golf completely out of my +mind. + + +IV + +I was sitting in my office one morning when Atkinson, of the C. G. & N., +called me on the phone. The railroad offices are in the same building, +on the floor above ours. + +"That you, Curtiss? I'll be right down. I want to see you." + +Now, our firm handles the legal end for the C. G. & N., and it struck me +that Atkinson's voice had a nervous worried ring to it. I was wondering +what could be the matter, when he came breezing in all out of breath. + +"You told me," said he, "that there wouldn't be any trouble about that +spur track along Third Avenue." + +"For the Midland people, you mean? Oh, that's arranged for. All we have +to do is appear before the City Council and make the request for a +permit. To-morrow morning it comes off. What are you so excited about?" + +"This," said Atkinson. He pulled a big red handbill out of his pocket +and unfolded it. "Possibly I'm no judge, Curtiss, but this seems to be +enough to excite anybody." + +I spread the thing out on my desk and took a look at it. Across the top +was one of those headlines that hit you right between the eyes: + + SHALL THE CITY COUNCIL + LICENSE CHILD MURDER? + +Well, that was a fair start, you'll admit, but it went on from there. I +don't remember ever reading anything quite so vitriolic. It was a bitter +attack on the proposed spur track along Third Avenue, which is the +habitat of the down-trodden workingman and the playground of his +children. Judging solely by the handbill, any one would have thought +that the main idea of the C. G. & N. was to kill and maim as many +toddling infants as possible. The Council was made an accessory before +the fact, and the thing wound up with an appeal to class prejudice and a +ringing call to arms. + +"Men of Third Avenue, shall the City Council give to the bloated +bondholders of an impudent monopoly the right to torture and murder your +innocent babes? Shall your street be turned into a speedway for a modern +car of Juggernaut? Let your answer be heard in the Council Chamber +to-morrow morning--'No, a thousand times, no!'" + +I read it through to the end. Then I whistled. + +"This," said I, "is hot stuff--very hot stuff! Where did it come from?" + +"The whole south end of town is plastered with bills like it," said +Atkinson glumly. "What have we done now, that they should be picking on +us? When have we killed any children, I would like to know? What started +this? Who started it? Why?" + +"That isn't the big question," said I. "The big question is: Will the +City Council stand hitched in the face of this attack?" + +The door opened and the answer to that question appeared--Barney +MacShane, officially of the rank and file of the City Council of our +fair city, in reality the guiding spirit of that body of petty pirates. +Barney was moist and nervous, and he held one of the bills in his right +hand. His first words were not reassuring. + +"All hell is loose--loose for fair!" said he. "Take a look at this +thing." + +"We have already been looking at it," said I with a laugh intended to be +light and carefree. "What of it? You don't mean to tell me that you are +going to let a mere scrap of paper bother you?" + +Barney mopped his forehead and sat down heavily. + +"You can laugh," said he, "but there is more than paper behind this. The +whole west end of town is up in arms overnight, and I don't know why. +Nobody ever kicked up such a rumpus about a spur track before. That's my +ward, you know, and I just made my escape from a deputation of women and +children. They treed me at the City Hall--before all the newspaper +men--and they held their babies up in their arms and they dared me--yes, +dared me--to let this thing go through. And the election coming on and +all. It's hell, that's what it is!" + +"But, Barney," I argued, "we are not asking for anything which the city +should not be glad to grant. Think what it means to your ward to have +this fine big manufacturing plant in it! Think of the men who will have +work----" + +"I'm thinking of them," said Barney sorrowfully. "They're coming to the +Council meeting to-morrow morning, and if this thing goes through I may +as well clean out my desk. Yes, they're coming, and so are their wives +and their children, and they'll bring transparencies and banners and God +knows what all----" + +"But listen, Barney! This plant means prosperity to every one of your +people----" + +"They're saying they'll make it an issue in the next campaign," mumbled +MacShane. "They say that if that spur track goes down on Third Avenue +it's me out of public life--and they mean it too. God knows what's got +into them all at once--they're like a nest of hornets. And the women +voting now too. That makes it bad--awful bad! You know as well as I do +that any agitation with children mixed up in it is the toughest thing in +the world to meet." He struck at the poster with a sudden spiteful +gesture. "From beginning to end," he snarled, "it's just an appeal not +to let the railroad kill the kids!" + +"But that's nonsense--bunk!" said Atkinson. "Every precaution will be +taken to prevent accidents. You've got to think of the capital +invested." + +Barney rolled a troubled eye in his direction. + +"You go down on Third Avenue," said he, "and begin talking to them +people about capital! Try it once. What the hell do they care about +capital? They was brought up to hate the sound of the word! You know and +I know that capital ain't near as black as it's painted, but can you +tell them that? Huh! And a railroad ain't ever got any friends in a +gang standing round on the street corners!" + +"But," said I, "this isn't a question of friends--it's a straight +proposition of right and wrong. The Midland people have gone ahead and +put up this big plant. They were given to understand that there would be +no opposition to the spur track going down. They've got to have it! The +success of their business depends on it! Surely you don't mean to tell +me that the Council will refuse this permit?" + +"Well," said Barney slowly, "I've talked with the boys--Carter and +Garvey and Dillon. They're all figuring on running again, and they're +scared to death of it. Garvey says we'd be damned fools to go against an +agitation like this--so close to election, anyhow." + +I argued the matter from every angle--the good of the city; the benefit +to Barney's ward--but I couldn't budge him. + +"They say that the voice of the people is the voice of God," said he, +"but we know that most of the time it's only noise. Sometimes the noise +kind of dies out, and then's the time to step in and cut the melon. But +any kind of noise so close to election? Huh! Safety first!" + +Before the meeting adjourned it was augmented by the appearance of the +president and vice-president of the Midland Manufacturing Company, +Colonel Jim Peck and old Peebles, and never had I seen those +stiff-necked gentlemen so humanly agitated. + +"This is terrible!" stormed the Colonel. "Terrible! This is unheard of! +It is an outrage--a crime--a crying shame to the city! Think of our +investment! Other manufacturing plants got their spur tracks for the +asking. There was no talk of killing children. Why--why have we been +singled out for attack--for--for blackmail?" + +"You can cut out that kind of talk right now!" said Barney sternly. +"There ain't a nickel in granting this permit, and you know it as well +as I do. Nobody ain't trying to blackmail you! All the dough in town +won't swing the boys into line behind this proposition while this rumpus +is going on. And since you're taking that slant at it, here's the last +word--sit tight and wait till after election!" + +"But the pl-plant!" bleated Peebles, tearing a blotter to shreds with +shaking fingers. "The plant! Think of the loss of time--and we--we +expected to open up next month!" + +"Go ahead and open up," said Barney. "You can truck your stuff to the +depots, can't you? Yes, yes--I get you about the loss! Us boys in the +Council--we got something to lose too. Now here it is, straight from the +shoulder, and you can bet on it." Barney spoke slowly, wagging his +forefinger at each word. "If that application comes up to-morrow +morning, with the Council chamber jammed with folks from the south end +of the town--good-a-by, John! Fare thee well! It ain't in human nature +to commit political suicide when a second term is making eyes at you. +Look at our end of it for a while. We got futures to think of, too, and +Garvey--Garvey wants to run for mayor some day. You can't afford to have +that application turned down, can you? Of course not. Have a little +sense. Keep your shirts on. Get out and see who's behind this thing. +Chances are somebody wants something. Find out what it is--rig up a +compromise--get him to call off the dogs. Then talk to me again, and +I'll promise you it'll go through as slick as a greased pig!" + +"I believe there's something in that," said I. "We've never run into +such a hornets' nest as this before. There must be a reason. Atkinson, +you've got a lot of gumshoe men on your staff. Why don't you turn 'em +loose to locate this opposition?" + +"You're about two hours late with that suggestion," said the railroad +representative. "Our sleuths are on the job now. If they find out +anything I'll communicate with you P. D. Q." + +"Good!" ejaculated Colonel Peck. "And if it's money----" + +"Aw, you make me sick!" snapped Barney MacShane. "You think money can do +everything, don't you? Well, it can't! For one thing, it couldn't get me +to shake hands with a stiff like you!" + + * * * * * + +I was called away from the dinner table on the following Friday +evening. Watlington was on the telephone. + +"That you, Curtiss? Well, we think we've got in touch with the bug under +the chip. Can you arrange to meet us in Room 85 at the Hotel Brookmore +at nine to-night?... No, I can't tell you a thing about it. We're asked +to be there--you're asked to be there--and that's as far as my +information goes. Don't be late." + +When I entered Room 85 four men were seated at a long table. They were +Elsberry J. Watlington, Colonel Jim Peck, Samuel Alexander Peebles and +W. Cotton Hamilton. They greeted me with a certain amount of nervous +irritability. The Big Four had been through a cruel week and showed the +marks of strain. + +"Where's Atkinson?" I asked. + +"It was stipulated, expressly stipulated," said old Peebles, "that only +the five of us should be present. The whole thing is most mysterious. +I--I don't like the looks of it." + +"Probably a hold-up!" grunted Colonel Peck. + +Watlington didn't say anything. He had aged ten years, his heavy +smooth-shaven face was set in stern lines and his mouth looked as if it +might have been made with a single slash of a razor. + +Hamilton mumbled to himself and kept trying to light the end of his +thumb instead of his cigar. Peck had his watch in his hand. Peebles +played a tattoo on his chin with his fingers. + +"Good thing we didn't make that application at the Council meeting," +said Hamilton. "I never saw such a gang of thugs!" + +"Male and female!" added Colonel Peck. "Well, time's up! Whoever he is, +I hope he won't keep us waiting!" + +"Ah!" said a cheerful voice. "You don't like to be held up on the tee, +do you, Colonel?" + +There in the doorway stood Wally Wallace, beaming upon the Big Four. Not +even on the stage have I ever seen anything to match the expressions on +the faces round that table. Old Peebles' mouth kept opening and +shutting, like the mouth of a fresh caught carp. The others were frozen, +petrified. Wally glanced at me as he advanced into the room, and there +was a faint trembling of his left eyelid. + +"Well," said Wally briskly, "shall we proceed with the business of the +meeting?" + +"Business!" Colonel Peck exploded like a firecracker. + +"With--you?" It was all Watlington could do to tear the two words out of +his throat. He croaked like a big bullfrog. + +"With me," said Wally, bowing and taking his place at the head of the +table. "Unless," he added, "you would prefer to discuss the situation +with the rank and file of the Third Avenue Country Club." + +The silence which followed that remark was impressive. I could hear +somebody's heart beating. It may have been my own. As usual Colonel Peck +was first to recover the power of speech, and again as usual he made +poor use of it. + +"You--you young whelp!" he gurgled. "So it was----" + +"Shut up, Jim!" growled Watlington, whose eyes had never left Wally's +face. Hamilton carefully placed his cigar in the ashtray and tried to +put a match into his mouth. Then he turned on me, sputtering. + +"Are you in on this?" he demanded. + +"Be perfectly calm," said Wally. "Mr. Curtiss is not in on it, as you so +elegantly express it. I am the only one who is in on it. Me, myself, W. +W. Wallace, at your service. If you will favour me with your attention, +I will explain----" + +"You'd better!" ripped out the Colonel. + +"Ah," said the youngster, grinning at Peck, "always a little nervous on +the tee, aren't you?" + +"Drive, young man!" said Watlington. + +A sudden light flickered in Wally's eyes. He turned to Elsberry J. with +an expression that was almost friendly. + +"Do you know," said he, "I'm beginning to think there may be human +qualities in you after all." + +Watlington grunted and nodded his head. + +"Take the honour!" said he. + +Wally rose and laid the tips of his fingers on the table. + +"Members of the Greens Committee and one other"--and here he looked at +Hamilton, whose face showed that he had not forgotten the unclassified +hog--"we are here this evening to arrange an exchange of courtesies. You +think you represent the Midland Manufacturing Company at this meeting. +You do not. You represent the Sundown Golf and Country Club. I represent +the Third Avenue Country Club--an organisation lately formed. You may +have heard something of it, though not under that name." + +He paused to let this sink in. + +"Gentlemen," he continued, "you may recall that I once made a courteous +request of you for something which was entirely within my rights. You +made an arbitrary ruling on that request. You refused to let me through. +You told me I was too fresh, and advised me to sit down and cool off. I +see by your faces that you recall the occasion. + +"You may also recall that I promised to devote myself to the task of +teaching you to be more considerate of others. Gentlemen, I am the +opposition to your playing through on Third Avenue. I am the Man Behind. +I am the Voice of the People. I am a singleton on the course, holding +you up while I sink a putt. If you ask me why, I will give you your own +words in your teeth: You can't go through because I don't want you to go +through." + +Here he stopped long enough to light a cigarette, and again his left +eyelid flickered, though he did not look at me. I think if he had I +should have erupted. + +"You see," said he, flipping the match into the air, "it has been +necessary to teach you a lesson--the lesson, gentlemen, of courtesy on +the course, consideration for others. I realised that this could never +be done on a course where you have power to make the rules--or break +them. So I selected another course. Members of the Greens Committee and +one other, you do not make the rules on Third Avenue. You are perfectly +within your rights in asking to go through; but I have blocked you. I +have made you sit down on the bench and cool off. Gentlemen, how do you +like being held up when you want to play through? How does it feel?" + +I do not regret my inability to quote Colonel Peck's reply to this +question. + +"Quit it, Jim!" snapped Watlington. "Your bark was always worse than +your bite, and it's not much of a bark at that--'Sound and fury, +signifying nothing.' Young man, I take it you are the chairman of the +Greens Committee of this Third Avenue Country Club, empowered to act. +May I ask what are our chances of getting through?" + +"I _know_ I'm going to like you--in time!" exclaimed Wally. "I feel it +coming on. Let's see, to-morrow is Saturday, isn't it?" + +"What's that got to do with it?" mumbled Hamilton. + +"Much," answered Wally. "Oh, much, I assure you! I expect to be at the +Sundown Club to-morrow." His chin shot out and his voice carried the +sting of a lash. "I expect to see you gentlemen there, playing your +usual crawling foursome. I expect to see you allowing your fellow +members to pass you on the course. You might even invite them to come +through--you might _insist_ on it, courteously, you understand, and with +such grace as you may be able to muster. I want to see every member of +that club play through you--every member!" + +"All d-damned nonsense!" bleated Peebles, sucking his fingers. + +"Shut up!" ordered Watlington savagely. "And, young man, if we do +this--what then?" + +"Ah, then!" said Wally. "Then the reward of merit. If you show me that +you can learn to be considerate of others--if you show me that you can +be courteous on the course where you make the rules--I feel safe in +promising that you will be treated with consideration on this other +course which has been mentioned. Yes, quite safe. In fact, gentlemen, +you may even be _asked_ to play through on Third Avenue!" + +"But this agitation?" began Hamilton. + +"Was paid for by the day," smiled the brazen rascal, with a graceful +inclination of his head. "People may be hired to do anything--even to +annoy prominent citizens and frighten a City Council." Hamilton stirred +uneasily, but Wally read his thought and froze him with a single keen +glance. "Of course," said he, "you understand that what has been done +once may be done again. Sentiment crystallises--when helped out with a +few more red handbills--a few more speeches on the street corners----" + +"The point is well taken!" interrupted Watlington hurriedly. "Damn well +taken! Young man, talk to me. _I'm_ the head of this outfit. Pay no +attention to Jim Peck. He's nothing but a bag of wind. Hamilton doesn't +count. His nerves are no good. Peebles--he's an old goat. _I'm_ the one +with power to act. Talk to me. Is there anything else you want?" + +"Nothing," said Wally. "I think your streak of consideration is likely +to prove a lasting one. If not--well, I may have to spread this story +round town a bit----" + +"Oh, my Lord!" groaned Colonel Peck. + + * * * * * + +It was a noble and inspiring sight to see the Big Four, caps in hand, +inviting the common people to play through. The entire club marched +through them--too full of amazement to demand explanations. Even Purdue +McCormick, trudging along with a putter in one hand and a mid-iron in +the other, without a bag, without a caddie, without a vestige of right +in the wide world, even Purdue was coerced into passing them. At dusk he +was found wandering aimlessly about on the seventeenth fairway, babbling +to himself. We fear that he will never be the same again. + +I have received word from Barney MacShane that the City Council will be +pleased to grant a permit to lay a spur track on Third Avenue. The voice +of the people, he says, has died away to a faint murmuring. Some day I +think I will tell Barney the truth. He does not play golf, but he has a +sense of humour. + + + + +LITTLE POISON IVY + + +I + +The leopard cannot change his spots--possibly he wouldn't if he could; +and, this being the case, the next best thing is to overlook as many of +his freckles as possible. + +Yesterday I sat on the porch at the Country Club and listened while the +Dingbats said kind and complimentary things about young Ambrose Phipps, +alias Little Poison Ivy, alias The Pest, alias Rough and Reddy. One +short week ago the Dingbats would have voted him a nuisance and a menace +to society in general. Yesterday they praised him to the skies. It just +goes to show that good can be found in anybody--if that is what you are +looking for. + +Understand me: there has been no change in Ambrose. He is still as fresh +as a mountain breeze. Unquestionably he will continue to treat his +elders with a shocking lack of respect and an entire absence of +consideration. He was born with a deep depression where his bump of +reverence should have been located, and neither realises nor regrets his +deficiency. + +He will never change. It is the Dingbats who have changed. The whole +club has changed, so far as Ambrose is concerned. + +We are all trying to overlook the dark spots in his character and see +good in him, whether it is there or not. + +Now as to the Dingbats: if you do not know them you have missed +something rich and rare in the golfing line. There are four of them, all +retired capitalists on the shady side of sixty. They freely admit that +they are the worst golfers in the world, and in a pinch they could prove +it. They play together six days a week--a riotous, garrulous, hilarious +foursome, ripping the course wide open from the first tee to the home +green; and they get more real fun out of golf than any men I know. They +never worry about being off their game, because they have never been on +it; they know they can be no worse than they are and they have no hope +of ever being better; they expect to play badly, and it is seldom that +they are disappointed. Whenever a Dingbat forgets to count his shots in +the bunkers, and comes home in the nineties, a public celebration takes +place on the clubhouse porch. + +Yesterday it was Doc Pinkinson who brought in the ninety-eight--and +signed all the tags; and between libations they talked about Ambrose +Phipps, who was practising brassy shots off the grass beside the +eighteenth green. + +Little Poison Ivy was unusually cocky, even for him, and every move was +a picture. At the end of his follow-through he would freeze, nicely +balanced on the tip of his right toe, elbows artistically elevated, +clubhead up round his neck; and not a muscle would he move until the +ball stopped rolling. He might have been posing for a statue of the +Perfect Golfer. When he walked it was with a conscious little swagger +and a flirting of the short tails of his belted sport coat. He was +hitting them clean, he was hitting them far, he had an audience--and +well he knew it. Ambrose was in his glory yesterday afternoon! + +"By golly!" exclaimed Doc Pinkinson. "Ain't that a pretty sight? Ain't +it a treat to see that kid lambaste the ball?" + +"Certainly is," agreed Old Treanor with a sigh. "Perfect form--that's +what he's got." + +"And confidence in himself," put in Old Myles. "That's the big secret. +You can see it in every move he makes. Confidence is a wonderful thing!" + +"And youth," said Daddy Bradshaw. "That's the most wonderful thing of +all. It's his youth that makes him so--so flip. Got a lot to say, for a +kid; but--somehow I always liked him for it." + +"Me too!" chimed in Doc Pinkinson. "Doggone his skin! He used to make me +awful mad, that boy.... Oh, well, I reckon I'm kind of cranky, +anyway.... Yes; I always liked Ambrose." + +Now that was all rot, and I knew it. What's more, the Dingbats knew it +too. They hadn't always liked Ambrose. A week ago they would have marked +his swaggering gait, the tilt of his chin, the conscious manner in which +he posed after every shot; and they would have said Ambrose was showing +off for the benefit of the female tea party at the other end of the +porch--and they wouldn't have made any mistake, at that. + +No; they hadn't always liked young Mr. Phipps. Nobody had liked him. To +be perfectly frank about it, we had disliked him openly and cordially, +and had been at no pains to keep him from finding it out. We had snubbed +him, insulted him and ignored him on every possible occasion. Worst of +all, we had made a singleton of him. We had forced him to play alone, +because there wasn't a man in all the club who wanted him as a partner +or as an opponent. There is no meaner treatment than this; nor is there +anything more pathetically lonely than a singleton on a crowded golf +course. It is nothing more or less than a grown-up trip to Coventry. I +thought of all these things as I listened to the prattling of the +Dingbats. + +"Guess he won't have any trouble getting games now, hey?" chuckled Old +Treanor. + +"Huh!" grunted Doc Pinkinson. "He's dated up a week ahead--with Moreman +and that bunch! _A week ahead!_" + +"And he'll make 'em step!" chirped Daddy Bradshaw. "Here's to him, +boys--a redhead and a fighter! Drink her down!" + +"A redhead and a fighter!" chorused the Dingbats, lifting their glasses. + +Yes; they drank to Ambrose Phipps, and one short week ago they wouldn't +have tolerated him on the same side of the course with them. Our pet +leopard still has his spots, but we are now viewing him in the friendly +shade cast by a battered old silver cup: namely and to wit, the Edward +B. Wimpus Team Trophy, permanently at home on the mantelpiece in the +lounging room. + + +II + +Going back to the beginning, we never had a chance to blame Ambrose on +the Membership Committee; he slipped in on us via the junior-member +clause. Old Man Phipps does not play golf; but he is a charter member of +the club and, according to the by-laws, the sons of members between the +ages of sixteen and twenty-one enjoy all the privileges of the +institution. + +Ambrose was nineteen when he returned rather hurriedly from college. He +did this at the earnest and unanimous request of the Faculty and, it was +whispered, the police department of the university town. He hadn't done +much of anything, but he had tried very hard to drive a touring car and +seven chorus girls through a plate-glass window into a restaurant. The +press agent of the show saw his chance to get some publicity for the +broilers, and after an interview with the Faculty Ambrose caught the +first train for home. + +Having nothing to do and plenty of time in which to do it, Ambrose +decided to become a golfer. Old Dunn'l MacQuarrie, our professional, +sold him a large leather bag full of tools and gave him two lessons. +Thus equipped and fortified, young Mr. Phipps essayed to brighten our +drab lives by allowing us to play golf with him. Now this sort of thing +may be done in some clubs, but not in ours. We do not permit our sacred +institutions to be "rushed" by the golfing novice. We are not snobbish, +but we plead guilty to being the least bit set in our ways. They are +good ways, and they suit us. The club is an old one, as golf clubs go in +this country, and most of the playing members are men past forty years +of age. Nearly all of the foursomes are permanent affairs, the same men +playing together week after week, season in and season out. The other +matches are made in advance, by telephone or word of mouth, and the +member who turns up minus a game on Saturday afternoon is out of luck. + +We do not leap at the stranger with open arms. We do not leap at him at +all. We stand off and look him over. We put him on probation; and if he +shapes up well, and walks lightly, and talks softly, and does not try +to dynamite his way into matches where he is not wanted, some day he +will be invited to fill up a foursome. Invited--make a note of that. Now +see what Ambrose did. + +With his customary lack of tact, he selected the very worst day in the +week to thrust himself upon our notice. It was a Saturday, and the +lounging room was crowded with members, most of whom were shaking dice +for the luncheons. With a single exception, all the foursomes were made +up for the afternoon. + +A short, sturdily built youngster came through the doorway from the +locker room and paused close to the table where I was sitting. His hair +was red--the sort of red that will not be ignored--and he wore it combed +straight back over the top of his head. His slightly irregular features +were covered with large brown freckles, and on his upper lip was a +volunteer crop of lightish fuzz, which might, in time, become a +moustache. His green sport coat was new, his flannel trousers were new, +his shoes were new--from neck to sole he fairly shrieked with newness. +Considering that he was a stranger in a strange club, a certain amount +of reticence would not have hurt the young man's entrance; but he burst +through the swinging door with a skip and a swagger, and there was a +broad grin on his homely countenance. It was quite evident that he +expected to find himself among friends. + +"Who wants a game?" he cried. "Don't all speak at once, men!" + +A few of the members nearest the door glanced up, eyed the youth +curiously, and returned to their dice boxes. The others had not heard +him at all. Harson and Billford looked at me. + +"Who's the fresh kid?" asked Billford. + +"That," said I, "is Ambrose Phipps, only son of Old Man Phipps." + +"Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is a +failure. What's he want?" + +Ambrose himself answered the question. He had advanced to our table. + +"You gentlemen got a game?" he asked, laying his hand on Billford's +shoulder. + +Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it is +familiarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth; +so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared at +Ambrose. The boy did not remove his hand. + +"'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean--just washed +it. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar. +"No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?" + +"We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn't +seem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding. + +"Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." And +Ambrose passed on to the next table. + +"Insufferable young rotter!" snarled Billford. + +"Quite so," said Harson; "but he'll never miss anything by being too +bashful to ask for it. Look! He's asking everybody!" + +Ambrose made the entire circuit of the room. We could not hear what he +said, but we felt the chill he left in his wake. Men glanced up when he +addressed them, stared for an instant, and went back to their dice. Some +of them were polite in their refusals, some were curt, some were merely +disgusted. When he reached the table where Bishop, Gilmore, Moreman and +Elder were sitting, they laughed at him. They are our star golfers and +members of the team. The Dingbats were too much astonished to show +resentment; but when Ambrose left them he patted Doc Pinkinson on the +head, and the old gentleman sputtered for the best part of an hour. + +It was a discouraging tour, and any one else would have hunted a quiet +corner and crawled into it; but not Ambrose. He returned to our end of +the room, and the pleased and expectant light in his eyes had given way +to a steely glare. He beckoned to one of the servants. + +"Hey, George! Who's the boss here? Who's the Big Finger?" + +"Misteh Harson, he's one of 'em, suh. He's a membeh of the Greens +Committee." + +"Show him to me!" + +"Right there, suh, settin' by the window." + +Ambrose strode across to us and addressed himself to Harson. + +"My name is Phipps," said he. "I'm a junior member here, registered and +all that, and I want to get a game this afternoon. So far, I haven't had +any luck." + +Harson is really a mild and kindly soul. He hates to hurt any one's +feelings. + +"Perhaps all the games are made up," he suggested. "Saturday is a bad +day, unless your match is arranged beforehand." + +"Zat so? Humph! Nice clubby spirit you have here. You make a fellow feel +so much at home!" + +"So we notice," grunted Billford. + +Ambrose looked at him and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. +Then he turned back to Harson. + +"How about that fourth man of yours?" he demanded. "Has he shown up +yet?" + +Billford caught my eye. + +"Some one must have left the outside door open," said he. "Seems to me I +feel a strong draught." + +"Put on another shirt!" Ambrose shot the retort without an instant's +hesitation. "Now say, if your fourth man isn't here, what's the matter +with me?" + +"Possibly there is nothing the matter with you," said Harson +pleasantly; "but if you are a beginner----" + +"Aw, you don't need to be afraid of my game!" grinned Ambrose. "I'll be +easy picking." + +"That isn't the point," explained Harson. "Our game would be too fast +for you." + +"Well, what of it? How am I ever going to learn if I never play with +anybody better than I am? Don't you take any interest in young blood, or +is this a close corporation, run for the benefit of a lot of old +fossils, playing hooky from the boneyard?" + +"Oh, run away, little boy, and sell your papers!" Billford couldn't +stand it any longer. + +"I will if you lend me that shirt for a make-up!" snapped Ambrose. "Now +don't get mad, Cutie. Remember, you picked on me first. A man with a +neck as thick as yours ought not to let his angry passions rise. First +thing you know, you'll bust something in that bonemeal mill of yours, +and then you won't know anything." Ambrose put his hands on his hips and +surveyed the entire gathering. "A nice, cheerful, clubby bunch!" he +exclaimed. "Gee! What a picnic a hermit crab could have in this place, +meeting so many congenial souls!" + +"If you don't like it," said Billford, "you don't have to stay here a +minute." + +"That's mighty sweet of you," said Ambrose; "but, you see, I've made up +my mind to learn this fool game if it takes all summer. I'd hate to +quit now, even to oblige people who have been so courteous to me.... +Well, good-by, you frozen stiffs! Maybe I can hire that sour old +Scotchman to go round with me. He's not what you might call a cheerful +companion, but, at that, he's got something on you. He's _human_, +anyway!" + +Ambrose went outside and banged the door behind him. Billford made a few +brief observations; but his remarks, though vivid and striking, were not +quite original. Harson shook his head, and in the silence following +Ambrose's exit we heard Doc Pinkinson's voice: + +"If that pup was mine I'd drown him; doggone me if I wouldn't!" + +Young Mr. Phipps, you will observe, got in wrong at the very start. + + +III + +Bad news travels fast when a few press agents get behind it, and not all +the personal publicity is handed out by a man's loving friends. Those +who had met Ambrose warned those who had not, and whenever his fiery red +head appeared in the lounging room there was a startling drop in the +temperature. + +For a few weeks he persisted in trying to secure matches with members of +the club, but nobody would have anything to do with him--not even old +Purdue McCormick, who toddles about the course with a niblick in one +hand and a mid-iron in the other, _sans_ bag, _sans_ caddie, _sans_ +protection of the game laws. When such a renegade as Purdue refused to +go turf-tearing with him Ambrose gave up in disgust and devoted himself +to the serious business of learning the royal and ancient game. He +infested the course from dawn till dark, a solitary figure against the +sky line; our golfing Ishmael, a wild ass loose upon the links, his hand +against every man and every man's hand against him. + +He wore a chip on his shoulder for all of us; and it was during this +period that Anderson, our club champion and Number One on the team, +christened Ambrose "Little Poison Ivy," because of the irritating effect +of personal contact with him. + +Ambrose couldn't have had a great deal of fun out of the situation; but +MacQuarrie made money out of it. The redhead hired the professional to +play with him and criticise his shots. The dour old Scotch mercenary did +not like Ambrose any better than we did, but toward the end of the first +month he admitted to me that the boy had the makings of a star golfer, +though not, he was careful to explain, "the pr-roper temperament for the +game." + +"But it's just amazin', the way he picks up the shots," said Dunn'l. +"Ay, he'll have everything but the temperament." + +As the summer drew to a close the annual team matches began, and we +forgot Ambrose and all else in our anxiety over the fate of the Edward +B. Wimpus Trophy. + +Every golf club, you must know, has its pet trophy. Ours is the worn old +silver cup that represents the team championship of the Association. A +pawnbroker wouldn't look at it twice; but to us, who are familiar with +its history and the trips it has made to different clubhouses, the +Edward B. Wimpus Trophy is priceless, and more to be desired than +diamonds or pearls. + +When the late Mr. Wimpus donated the cup he stipulated that it should be +held in trust by the club winning the annual team championship, and that +it should become the property of the club winning it three times in +succession. For twenty years we had been fighting for permanent +possession of the trophy, and engraved on its shining surface was the +record of our bitter disappointment--not to mention the disappointment +of the Bellevue Golf Club. Twice we had been in a position to add the +third and final victory, and twice the Bellevue quintet had dashed our +hopes. Twice we had retaliated by preventing them from retiring the +Wimpus Trophy from competition; and now, with two winning years behind +us and a third opportunity in sight, we talked and thought of nothing +else. + +According to the rules governing team play in our Association, each club +is represented by five men, contesting from scratch and without +handicaps of any sort. In the past, two teams have outclassed the field, +and once more history repeated itself, for the Bellevue bunch fought us +neck and neck through the entire period of competition. With one match +remaining to be played, they were tied with us for first place, and that +match brought the Bellevue team to our course last Friday afternoon. + +I was on hand when the visitors filed into the locker room at +noon--MacNeath, Smathers, Crane, Lounsberry and Jordan--five seasoned +and dependable golfers, veterans of many a hard match; fighters who +never know when they are beaten. They looked extremely fit, and not in +the least worried at the prospect of meeting our men on their own +course. + +They brought their own gallery, too, Bellevue members who talked even +money and flashed yellow-backed bills. The Dingbats formed a syndicate +and covered all bets; but this was due to club pride rather than any +feeling of confidence. We knew our boys were in for a tough battle, in +which neither side would have a marked advantage. + +Four of our team players were on hand to welcome the enemy--Moreman, +Bishop, Elder and Gilmore--and they offered their opponents such +hospitality as is customary on like occasions. + +"Thanks," said MacNeath with a grin; "but just now we're drinking water. +After the match you can fill the cup with anything you like, and we'll +allow you one drink out of it before we take it home with us. Once we +get it over there it'll never come back. It's not in the cards for you +to win three times running.... Where's Anderson?" + +"He hasn't shown up yet," said Bishop. + +"He's on the way out in his car," added Moreman. "I rang up his house +five minutes ago. He'd just left." + +"Oh, very well," said MacNeath, who is Number One man for Bellevue, as +well as captain of the team. "Suppose we have lunch now, Bishop; and +while we're eating you can give me the list of your players and I'll +match them up." + +In team play it is customary for the home captain to submit the names of +his players, ranked from one to five, in the order of their ability. The +visiting captain then has the privilege of making the individual +matches; and this is supposed to offset whatever advantage the home team +has by reason of playing on its own course. + +Bishop, our captain, handed over a list reading as follows: 1--Anderson; +2--Moreman; 3--Bishop; 4--Elder; 5--Gilmore. MacNeath bracketed his own +name with Anderson's, and paired Crane with Moreman, Lounsberry with +Bishop, Smathers with Elder, and Jordan with Gilmore. + +After luncheon the men changed to their golfing togs; but still there +was no sign of Anderson. Another telephone call confirmed the first +message; his wife reported that he had left his home nearly an hour +before, bound for the club. + +"Queer!" said MacNeath. "Engine trouble or a puncture--possibly both. +It's not like the Swede to be late. Might as well get started, eh? +Anderson and I will go last, anyhow." + +A big gallery watched the first pair drive off, Gilmore getting a better +ball than Jordan, and cheering those who believe in omens. Then at +five-minute intervals, came Lounsberry and Bishop, Smathers and Elder, +and Crane and Moreman. Each match attracted a small individual gallery, +but most of the spectators waited to follow the Number One men. +MacNeath, refusing to allow himself to be made nervous by the delay, +went into the clubhouse; and many and wild were the speculations as to +the cause of Anderson's tardiness. The wildest one of them fell short of +the bitter truth, which came to us at the end of a telephone wire +located in the professional's shop. It had been relayed on from the +switchboard in the club office: + +"Anderson blew a front tire at the city limits. Car turned over with him +and broke his leg." + +A bombshell exploding under our noses could not have created more +consternation. There we were, with four of the matches under way, our +best man crippled, and up against the proposition of providing an +opponent for MacNeath, admittedly the most dangerous player on the +Bellevue team. Harson, as a member of the Greens Committee and an +officer of the club, assumed charge of the situation as soon as he heard +the news. + +"No good sending word to poor old Bishop," said he. "He's the team +captain, of course; but he can't do anything about it. Besides, he's +already playing his match, and this would upset him terribly. Is there +any one here who can give MacNeath a run for his money?" + +"Not unless you want to try it," said I. + +"He'd eat me alive!" groaned Harson. "We might as well forfeit one +match, and put it up to the boys to win three out of four. Oh, if we +only had one more good man!" + +"Ye have," said MacQuarrie, who had been listening. "Ye've overlooked +young Mister Phipps." + +"That kid?" demanded Harson. "Nonsense!" + +"Ay," said Dunn'l; "that kid! Call it nonsense if ye like, sir, but he +was under eighty twice yesterday. This mor-rnin' he shot a +seventy-seven, with two missed putts the length o' your ar-rm. He's on +top of his game now, an' goin' strong. If he'll shoot back to his +mor-rnin' round he'll give Mister MacNeath a battle; but the lad has +never been in a competition, so ye'll have to chance his ner-rves." + +"Ambrose!" I exclaimed. "I never should have thought of him!" + +"Of course ye wouldn't," said MacQuarrie. "Ye've never played with +him--never even seen him play." + +"But he's such a little rotter!" mumbled Harson. + +"Ay," said Dunn'l; "an', grantin' ye that, he's still the best ye have. +He's in the clubhouse now, dressed an' ready to start, once the crowd is +out of the way." + +"And he really did a seventy-seven this morning?" asked Harson. + +"With two missed putts--wee ones." + +I looked at Harson and Harson looked at me. + +"You go in and put it up to him," said he at last. "I can't talk to him +without losing my temper." + +I found our little red hope banging the balls about on the billiard +table, carefree as a scarlet tanager. + +"Young man," said I, "your country calls you." + +"I'm under age," said Ambrose, calmly squinting along his cue. "Don't +bother me. This is a tough shot." + +"Well, then," said I, "your club calls you." + +"My club, eh?" remarked the redhead with nasty emphasis. "Any time this +club calls me I'm stone-deaf." + +"Listen to me a minute, Phipps. This is the day of the big team match +and we're up against it hard. Anderson turned his car over on the way +out and broke his leg. We want you to take his place." + +"Anderson," repeated Ambrose. "Ain't that the squarehead who calls me +Little Poison Ivy? Only his leg, eh? Tough luck!" + +"You bet it is!" I exclaimed, ignoring his meaning. "Tough luck for all +of us, because if we can't dig up a man to take Anderson's place we'll +have to forfeit that particular match to MacNeath. We'd set our hearts +on winning this time, because it would give us the permanent possession +of the team trophy that we've been shooting at for twenty years----" + +"Let your voice fall right there!" commanded Ambrose. "Trophies are +nothing in my young life. This club is nothing in my life. Everybody +here has treated me worse than a yellow dog. Go ahead and take your +medicine; and I hope they lick you and make you like it!" + +I saw it was time to try another tack. Ambrose had used one word that +had put an idea into my head. + +"All right," said I. "Have it your own way. Perhaps it was a mistake to +mention MacNeath's name." + +"What do you mean--a mistake?" He fired up instantly. + +"Well," said I, "you must know Mac by reputation. He's one of the best +golfers in the state and a tough proposition to beat. He's their Number +One man--their star player. He shoots pretty close to par all the time." + +"What's that got to do with it?" asked Ambrose. + +"Why, nothing; only----" + +"Only what?" + +"Well, they all said you wouldn't want to go up against such a strong +player." + +"Who said that?" + +"Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I'm frank +enough to say that I wouldn't tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath is +hard game." + +"Look here!" snapped the redhead. "You're off on the wrong foot +entirely. You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not because I'm afraid +of this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman this +morning, and I guess you'll agree he's not soft picking. It's just that +I don't feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me." + +"A favour! Why, man alive, it's a compliment to stick you in at Number +One--the biggest compliment we can pay you!" + +"Well," said Ambrose slowly, "if you look at it in that light----" + +"I most certainly do.... But if you'd rather not meet MacNeath----" + +Ambrose dropped his cue with a crash. + +"You don't really think I'm _yellow_, do you?" he cried. + +"If you are," said I, "you're the first redhead that ever got his colour +scheme mixed." + +The little rascal grinned like a gargoyle. + +"Listen!" said he confidentially. "You've used me pretty well--to my +face, anyhow--and I'll tell yon this much: I don't care the snap of my +fingers for your ratty old cup. I care even less for the members of this +club--present company excepted, you understand; but I can't stand it to +have anybody think I'm not _game_. Ever since I was a runt of a kid I've +had to fight, and they can say anything about me except that I'm a +quitter.... Why, I've stuck round here for nearly five months just +because I wouldn't let a lot of old fossils drive me out and make me +quit--five months without a friend in the place, and only MacQuarrie to +talk to. + +"If I'd been yellow it would have shown that first Saturday when +everybody turned me down so cold. I wanted to walk out and never come +back. I wanted to; but I stuck. Honest, if I'm anything at all I'm +game--game enough to stand the gaff and take the worst of it; and I'll +prove it to you by playing this bird, no matter how good he is. I'll +fight him every jump of the way, and if he licks me he'll have to step +out some to do it. What's a licking, anyway? I've had a thousand of 'em! +Plenty of people can lick me; but you bet your life nobody ever scared +me!" + +"Good kid!" said I, and held out my hand. + +After an instant's hesitation Ambrose seized it. "Now lead me to this +MacNeath person," said he. "I suppose we ought to be introduced, eh? Or +has he been told that I'm the Country Club leper?" + +It was a sorely disappointed gallery that welcomed the +substitute--disappointed and amazed; but the few Bellevue members were +openly jubilant. They had reason to be, for word had been brought back +to them that Lounsberry and Crane were running away with their matches. +Between them and the cup they saw only a golfing novice, a junior member +without a war record. They immediately began offering odds of two to one +on the MacNeath-Phipps match; but there were no takers. The Dingbats +held a lodge of sorrow in the shade of the caddie house and mournfully +estimated their losses, while our feminine contingent showed signs of +retreating to the porch and spending the afternoon at bridge. + +MacNeath was first on the tee--a tall, flat-muscled, athletic man of +forty; and, as the veteran was preparing to drive, Ambrose and +MacQuarrie held a whispered conversation. + +"I'd like to grab some of that two to one," said the boy. + +"Don't be foolish," counselled the canny Scot. "Ye'll have enough on +your mind wi'out makin' bets; an' for pity's sake, remember what I've +told ye--slow back, don't press, keep your head down, an' count three +before ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-rnin' an' ye've a grand +chance to win." + +MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long, +well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silence +that was almost painful. + +"Mighty pretty," said he with a careless nod at his opponent. "Hope I do +as well." + +"Ye can," muttered old Dunn'l, "if ye'll keep your fool mouth shut an' +your eye on the ball!" + +As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of the +gallery--a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his next +move--expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitude +of the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused for +an instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant ease +was gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. He +looked again at MacNeath's ball, a white speck far down the fairway. +MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head. + +"Never mind that one!" he whispered to himself savagely. "Play the one +on the tee!" + +Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot +to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He +seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to +the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly +stiffened in every muscle and joint--gone tense with the nervous strain. +He did manage to remember about the back swing--it was slow enough to +suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long +enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised +this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the +ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned +it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was +a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it +reached the bunker. + +"Well, by the sweet and suffering----" + +This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a +gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath +followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just +the thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face. + +Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began +to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite +enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment: + +"No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks. +Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was +a fizzer--a false alarm." + +"Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw. +"Might just as well put _me_ in there against MacNeath! Fools!" + +MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil. + +"He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an' +he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Come +along, sir!" + +I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried +in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie, +an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly +what his lunacy deserved--a much worse lie than before, close against +the bank--and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his +audience. + +"What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four and +picked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to be _good_." + +I said I wanted to see how the other matches were coming on. + +"Everybody seems to feel the same way," said the redhead, looking at the +retreating gallery. "All because I slopped that drive! I'll have that +audience back again--see if I don't! And I'll bet you I won't look up on +another shot all day!" + +"If ye do," grumbled MacQuarrie, "I'll never play wi'ye again as long as +ye live!" + +"That's a promise!" cried Ambrose. "One down, eh? Where do we go from +here?" + + +IV + +Our team veterans did not lack sympathetic encouragement on the last +nine holes, and all four matches tightened up to such an extent that we +wavered between hope and fear until Crane's final putt on the +seventeenth green dropped us into the depths of despair. + +Gilmore, setting the pace with Jordan, gave us early encouragement by +maintaining a safe lead throughout and winning his match, 3 to 2. First +blood was ours, but the period of rejoicing was a short one; for the +deliberate Lounsberry, approaching and putting with heartbreaking +accuracy, disposed of Bishop on the seventeenth green. + +"One apiece," said Doc Pinkinson. "Now what's Elder doing?" + +The Elder-Smathers match came to Number Seventeen all square; but our +man ended the suspense by dropping a beautiful mashie pitch dead to the +pin from a distance of one hundred yards. Smathers' third shot also +reached the green; but his long putt went wide and Elder tapped the ball +into the cup, adding a second victory to our credit. + +"It's looking better every minute!" chirped the irrepressible Doc +Pinkinson. "Now if Moreman can lick his man we're all hunky-dory. If he +loses--good-a-by, cup! No use figuring on that red-headed snipe of a +kid. MacNeath has sent him to the cleaner's by now, sure!" + +The gallery waited at the seventeenth green, watching in anxious silence +as Crane and Moreman played their pitch shots over the guarding bunker. +Both were well on in threes; but the Bellevue caddie impudently held his +forefinger in the air as a sign that his man was one up. Moreman made a +good try, but his fourth shot stopped a few inches from the cup; and +Crane, after studying the roll of the green for a full minute, dropped a +forty-foot putt for a four--and dropped our spirits with it. + +"That settles it!" wheezed Daddy Bradshaw. "No need to bother about that +other match.... Oh, if Anderson was so set on breaking his leg, why +didn't he wait till to-morrow?" + +"Then he could have busted 'em both," remarked the unfeeling Pinkinson, +"and nobody would have said a word. Might's well pay those bets, I +reckon. We got as much chance as that snowball they're always talking +about. If it didn't melt, somebody would eat it." + +He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on the +skyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first one +was tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, and +even at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger. + +"Hello!" ejaculated Pinkinson. "Ain't that MacNeath and the kid, going +to Sixteen? It is, by golly! D'you reckon they're playing out the bye +holes just for fun--or what?" + +"It can't be anything else," said Bradshaw. "The boy couldn't have +carried him that far." + +Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, very +much out of breath. + +"Mister Phipps says--if you want to see--some reg'lar golf--you'd +better catch the finish--of his match. He says--bring all the gang with +you." + +"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean that +they're still playing?" + +"Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when I +left 'em." + +All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various +groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the +clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All +square? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holding +MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the +doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement +backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an +objective point. + +It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the +contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised +and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There +was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some +mysterious wireless of their own devising. + +"MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddy +has got to sink this one." + +Ambrose's ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took one +look at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without an +instant's hesitation--a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance to +waver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarrie +himself could not have shown more confidence. MacNeath's caddie replaced +the flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved them +back and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answered +the question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter of +applause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at us +with a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me. + +He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign of +nervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he stepped +forward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, and +got off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he did +not raise his head until the ball was well down the course. + +"He's countin' three before he looks up!" whispered a voice in my ear; +and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth, +and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can never +express in words. + +"Then he's really been playing good golf?" I asked. + +"Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It's a dingdong match, an' just a +question which one will crack fir-rst." + +MacNeath's drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under the +strain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the machinelike +precision of the veteran golfer--stance, swing and follow-through +standardised by years of experience. + +Our seventeenth hole is a long one, par 5, and the approach to the +putting green is guarded by an embankment, paralleled on the far side by +a wide and treacherous sand trap, put there to encourage clean mashie +pitches. The average player cannot reach the bunker on his second, much +less carry the sand trap on the other side of it; but the long drivers +sometimes string two tremendous wooden-club shots together and reach the +edge of the green. More frequently they get into trouble and pay the +penalty for attempting too much. + +The two balls were close together; but Ambrose's shot was the longer one +by a matter of feet, and it was up to MacNeath to play first. Would he +gamble and go for the green, or would he play short and make sure of a +five? The veteran estimated the distance, looked carefully at his lie, +and then pulled an iron from his bag. Instantly I knew what was passing +in his mind--sensed his golfing strategy: MacNeath intended to place his +second shot short of the bunker, in the hope that Ambrose would be +tempted into risking the long, dangerous wooden-club shot across to the +green. + +"Aha!" whispered MacQuarrie. "The old fox! He'll not take a chance +himself, but he wants the lad to take one. '"Will ye walk into my +parlour!" says the spider to the fly.' Ay; that's just it--will he, +now?" + +Ambrose gave us no time for suspense. MacNeath's ball had hardly stopped +rolling before his decision was made--and a sound one at that! He +whipped his mid-iron from the bag. + +"'Fraid I'll have to fool you, old chap," said he airily. "You wanted me +to go for the green--eh, what? Well, I hate to disappoint you; but I +can't gamble in an even game--not when the kitty is a sand trap.... +Ride, you little round rascal; ride!" + +The last remark was addressed to the ball just before the blade of the +mid-iron flicked it from the grass. Again there were two white specks in +the distance, lying side by side. If MacNeath was disappointed he did +not show it, but tramped on down the course, silent as usual and +absorbed in the game. Both took fives on the hole, missing long putts; +and the battle was still all square. + +Our home hole is a par 4--a blind drive and an iron pitch to the green; +and the vital shot is the one from the tee. It must go absolutely +straight and high enough to carry the top of the hill, one hundred and +forty yards away. To the right is an abrupt downward slope, ending in a +deep ravine. To the left, and out of sight from the tee, is a wide sand +trap, with the father of all bunkers at its far edge. The only safe ball +is the one that sails over the direction post. + +Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ball +had the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, I +thought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead of +that, it seemed to duck in flight, caught the hard face of the incline, +and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which broke +all our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in the +sand trap. + +"Hard luck!" said MacNeath; and I think he really meant to be +sympathetic. + +Ambrose looked at him as a bulldog might look at a mastiff. + +"Oh, I wouldn't say that!" he answered, rather stiffly. "I like to play +my second shot from over there." + +"You're welcome!" said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture by +poling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction post +and went sailing on up the plateau toward the clubhouse. + +No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled up +the hill I tried to say something hopeful. + +"He may have stopped short of the trap." + +"Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in--up to +his neck." + +Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful +statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper +distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I +swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in +and what sort of a lie it had found. + +"Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away from +the wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft to +it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's just +possible." + +"But not probable," said I. "What on earth is he waiting for?" + +Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from +the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette. + +"You don't mind if I study this situation a bit?" said he to MacNeath. + +"Take your time," said the veteran. + +"Because I wouldn't want to use the wrong club here," continued Ambrose. + +The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red +head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a +glimpse of me and beckoned. + +"How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?" he asked. + +"All even--two matches to two." + +"That," said Ambrose after a thoughtful pause, "seems to put it up to +me." + +At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for his +bag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; but +Ambrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but a +hundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club--out of a trap? +Suicide! Sheer suicide! An iron might give him a fighting chance to +halve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club in +the boy's hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said something +of the sort to MacQuarrie. + +"Sh-h!" he whispered. "Yon's a baffy. I made it for him." + +"What's a baffy?" + +"Well, it's just a kind of an exaggerated bulldog spoon--ye might almost +call it a wooden mashie, wi' a curvin' sole on it. It's great for +distance. The lie is good, the wind's behind him, an' if he can only hit +it clean--clean!----Oh, ye little red devil, keep your head down--keep +your head down an' hit it clean!" + +I shall never forget the picture spread out along the edge of that green +plateau--the red-headed stocky youngster in the sand trap taking his +stance and whipping the clubhead back and forth; MacNeath coolly leaning +on his driver and smiling over a match already won; the two caddies in +the background, one sneeringly triumphant, the other furiously angry; +the rim of spectators, motionless, hopeless. + +Everybody was watching Ambrose, and I think Old MacQuarrie was the only +onlooker who was not absolutely certain that the choice of a wrong club +was throwing away our last slender chance. + +When the tension was almost unbearable the redhead turned and grinned at +MacNeath. + +"I suppose you'd shoot this with an iron," said he; "but the baffy is a +great club--if you've got the nerve to use it." + +Ambrose settled his feet firmly in the sand, craned his neck for a final +look at the flag, two hundred yards away, dropped his chin on his chest, +waggled the clubhead over the ball, and then swung with every ounce of +strength in his sturdy body. I heard a sharp click, saw a tiny feather +of sand spurt into the air, and against the blue sky I caught a glimpse +of a soaring white speck, which went higher and higher until I lost it +altogether. The next thing I knew, the spectators were cheering, +yelling, screaming; and some one was hammering me violently between the +shoulder blades. It was the unemotional Dunn'l MacQuarrie, gone +completely daft with excitement. + +"Oh, man!" he cried. "He picked it up as clean as a whistle, an' he's on +the green--on the green!" + +"Told you that was a sweet little club!" said Ambrose as he climbed out +of the trap. "Takes nerve to use one though. On the green, eh? Well, I +guess that'll hold you for a while." + +His prediction soon had a solid backing of fact. MacNeath, the iron man, +the dependable Number One, the match player without nerves, was not +proof against a miracle. Ambrose's phenomenal recovery had shaken the +veteran to the soles of his shoes. + +MacNeath's second shot was an easy pitch to the green, but he lingered +too long over it; the blade of his mashie caught the turf at least three +inches behind the ball and shot it off at an angle into the thick, long +grass that guards the eighteenth green. He was forced to use a heavy +niblick on his third; but the ball rolled thirty feet beyond the pin. He +tried hard for the long putt, but missed, and picked up when Ambrose +laid his third shot on the lip of the cup. + +By the most fortunate fluke ever seen on a golf course our little red +Ishmael had won for us the permanent possession of the Edward B. Wimpus +Trophy. + +MacNeath was game. He picked up his ball with the left hand and offered +his right to Ambrose. "Well done!" said he. + +"Thanks!" responded Ambrose. "Guess I kind of jarred you with that baffy +shot. It's certainly a dandy club in a pinch. Better let MacQuarrie make +you one." + +MacNeath swallowed hard and nearly managed a smile. + +"It wasn't the club," said he. "It was just burglar's luck. You couldn't +do it again in a thousand years!" + +"Maybe not," replied the victor; "but when you get back to Bellevue you +tell all the dear chappies there that I got away with it once--got away +with it the one time when it counted!" + +At this point the gallery closed in and overwhelmed young Mr. Phipps. +Inside of a minute he heard more pleasant things about himself than had +come to his ears in a lifetime. He did not dispute a single statement +that was made; nor did he discount one by so much as the deprecating +lift of an eyebrow. For once in his life he agreed with everybody. In +the stag celebration that followed--with the Edward B. Wimpus Cup in the +middle of the big round table--he was easily induced to favour us with a +few brief remarks. He informed us that tin cups were nothing in his +young life, club spirit was nothing, but that gameness was +everything--and the cheering was led by the Dingbats! + + * * * * * + +Now you know why we feel that we owe Ambrose something; and, if I am any +judge, that debt will be paid with heavy interest. Dunn'l MacQuarrie is +also a winner. He has booked so many orders for baffles that he is now +endeavouring to secure the services of a first-class club maker. + +As Ambrose often tells us, the baffy is a sweet little club to have in +the bag--provided, of course, you have the nerve to use it. + + + + +THE MAJOR, D.O.S. + + +I + +I despise the sort of man who gloats and pokes his finger at you and +reminds you that he told you so. I hope I am not in that class, and I +would be the last to rub salt into an open wound; still I see no harm in +calling attention to the fact that I once expressed an opinion which had +to do with Englishmen in general and Major Cuthbert Eustace +Lawes--D.S.O., and a lot of other initials--in particular. What is more, +that opinion was expressed in the presence of Waddles Wilmot and one +other director of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club. + +"You can't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him." + +Those were my very words, and I stand by them. I point to them with +pride. If Waddles had listened to me--but Waddles never listens to +anybody. Sometimes he looks as if he might be listening, when as a +matter of fact he is only resting his voice and thinking up something +cutting and clever to say next. + +Speaking of Waddles, the fault is not all his. We have indulged him with +too much authority. We have allowed him to become a sort of autocrat, a +golfing Pooh-Bah, a self-appointed committee of one with arbitrary +powers. He began looking after the club when it was in its infancy, and +now that the organisation has grown to quite respectable proportions he +does not seem to know how to let go gracefully. He still looks after us, +whether we want him to or not, and if it is only the getting out of a +new score card Waddles must attend to it, having the first word, the +last word and all the words between. + +If any one presumes to disagree with him Waddles merely snorts in that +disdainful way of his and goes on talking louder and louder until +finally the opposition succumbs, blown down by sheer lung power, as it +were, gassed before reaching the trenches. Wind is all right in its +place, and in moderation, but a steady gale gets on the nerves in time. +Waddles is a human simoom, carrying dust, sand and cactus. + +I say this in all kindness, for I am really fond of the old boy. He has +many admirable qualities, and frequently tells us what they are, but +consideration for others is not one of them; and when he plays golf the +things he does to an opponent are sinful. He is just as ruthless and +overbearing on the links as he is in committee meeting--but of this, +more anon--much more. I made my remark about Englishmen a month or so +after the Major became a member of the club. We understood that Lawes +was a retired infantry officer in poor health, and when he arrived in +our part of the world he brought with him a Hindu servant with his head +wrapped up in about forty yards of cheesecloth, an unquenchable thirst, +some gilt-edged letters of introduction from big people, and a hobnail +liver. He was proposed by two of our financial moguls and passed the +membership committee without a whisper of dissent. + +"This old bird," said Waddles, "is probably a cracking good golfer. +Nearly all Englishmen are. We can use him to plug up that weak spot on +the team." And of course he looked straight at me when he said it. +Goodness knows, I never asked to be put on the club team, and I play my +worst golf in competition. + +Some of the other men thought that the Major would lend a bit of tone to +the organisation. I presume they got the idea from the string of +initials after his name. + +As to his golfing, the Major proved a disappointment. He did not seem in +any haste to avail himself of the privileges of active membership, and +when at the club he spent all his time sitting on the porch and staring +at the mountains in the distance. I don't remember ever seeing him +without a tall brandy highball at his elbow. + +Personally, the Major wasn't much to look at. You could just as easily +have guessed the age of a mummy. He was long-legged and cadaverous, +with thin, sandy hair and a yellowish moustache that never seemed to be +trimmed. His mouth was always slightly ajar, his front teeth were unduly +prominent, and his chin was short and receded at an acute angle. A side +view of the Major suggested a tired, half-starved old rabbit that had +lost all interest in life. His eyes were a faded light blue in colour +and blinked constantly without a vestige of human expression. He was +freckled like a turkey egg--freckled all over, but mostly on the neck +and the forearms. When he spoke, which was seldom, it was in a thin, +hesitating treble, reminiscent of a strayed sheep, and he had an +exasperating habit of leaving a sentence half finished and beginning on +another one. He could sit for hours, staring straight in front of him +and apparently seeing nothing at all. When addressed he usually jumped +half out of his chair and said something like this: + +"Eh? Oh! God-bless-me! God-bless-me! What say?" + +Socially he was a very mangy-looking lion, but we understood that he was +very well connected in the old country and not so stupid as he seemed. +He couldn't have been, and lived. He was a bachelor of independent +means; he bought a bungalow on Medway Hill and a six-cylinder runabout, +which the servant learned to drive, after a fearsome fashion. This put +the Major out of the winter-visitor class--which was reassuring--but as +the weeks passed and he was never seen with a golf club in his hands +Waddles began to worry about that weak spot on the team. + +Three of us were watching Lawes one afternoon through a window of the +lounging room, which commands a view of the porch. The Major was spread +out in a big wicker chair, and, save for certain mechanical movements of +the right hand and arm, was as motionless as a turtle on a log. As +usual, Waddles was doing most of the talking. + +"Ain't he the study in still life, eh?... With the accent on the +still--get me? Still! Ho, ho! Not bad a bit.... Gaze upon him, +gentlemen; the world's most consistent rum hound! He hasn't moved a +muscle in the last hour except to lift that glass. Wonderful type of the +athletic Englishman, what-oh? Devoted to sports and pastimes, my word, +yes! He wouldn't qualify for putting the shot, but for putting the +highball I'll back him against all comers." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Jay Gilman, who is a conservative sort of chap +and knows Waddles well enough not to believe everything he says. "I +don't know. The old boy makes a drink last a long time. He doesn't order +many in the course of an afternoon. I've never seen him the least bit +edged." + +"Fellow like that never gets edged," argued Waddles. "The skin stays +just so full all the time. Can't get any fuller. Did you ever try to +talk with his royal jaglets? Sociable as an oyster! I tried to get him +opened up the other day. He's been in India and Africa and everywhere +else, they tell me, and I thought he might want to gas about his +experiences. War stuff. Nothing stirring. A frost. Kidded him about the +Boers, and the way the embattled farmers hung it on perfidious Albion. +Couldn't even get a rise out of him. All he did was stare at me with +those fishy eyes of his and make motions with his Adam's apple! Ever +notice the way he watches you when you're talking to him? It's enough to +make a man nervous! A major, eh? If he was a major, I wonder what the +shave-tail lieutenants were like! D.S.O.! They got the initials balled +up when they hitched that title to him. It should have been D.O.S.!" + +"All right," said Gilman; "I'll bite. I'll be the Patsy. Why D.O.S.?" + +"Dismal Old Souse, of course!" cackled Waddles. "Fits him like a glove, +eh?" + +It was then that I expressed my opinion, as previously quoted: "You +can't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him." + +But Waddles only laughed. He usually laughs at his own witticisms. + +"D.O.S.," said he. "Impromptu, but good. I'll have to tell it to the +boys!" + + +II + +But for Cyril, I suppose the Major would have remained a chair warmer +indefinitely. + +Cyril was the Major's nephew, doing a bit of globe trotting after +getting out of college, and he dropped in out of a clear sky, taking the +Major entirely by surprise. We heard later that all the Major said was, +"Bless me, it's Cyril, isn't it?" + +Looking at the boy, you knew at once what the Major had been like at +twenty-five or thereabouts; so it goes without saying that Cyril was no +motion-picture type for beauty. He was tall and thin and gangling, his +feet were always in his way, his clothes did not fit him and would not +have fitted anything human, his cloth hats were really not hats at all +but speckled poultices, and he was as British as the unicorn itself. He +was almost painfully shy when among strangers, and blushed if any one +spoke to him; but his coming seemed to cheer the Major tremendously. It +hadn't occurred to me before, but I presume the D.O.S. had been lonely +for his kind. Cyril was his kind--no question about that--and the pair +of them held a love feast which lasted all of one afternoon. Waddles +witnessed this touching family reunion and told us about it afterward, +but it is likely he handled the truth in his usual nonchalant manner. +Waddles would never spoil a good story for the sake of mere accuracy. + +"It was great stuff!" said he. "They sat out there on the porch and +gabbled terribly. A dumb man couldn't have got a word in edge-wise. The +Major was never at a loss for a topic of conversation. As fast as one +was exhausted he would look in his glass and say, 'Shan't we have +another, dear boy?' Friend Nephew never missed his cue once. 'Rawther!' +he'd say, or 'Right-oh!' Then the Major would hoist signals of distress +and make signs at the waiter. Oh, it was lovely to see them taking so +much comfort in each other's society--and so much nourishment." + +"What I want to know is this," put in Jay Gilman: "Did it liven 'em up +any?" + +"Not so you could notice it with the naked eye. For all the effect that +anybody could see, the stuff might just as well have been poured into a +pair of gopher holes. They went away at six o'clock, solemn and +dignified, loaded to capacity but not even listing the least bit from +the cargo they'd taken on. A lot of raw material wasted. That sort of +thing is inhuman--uncanny. It must be a gift that runs in +families--what?" + +Before long we had a real sensation--the Major blossomed out into a +playing member. A mummy doing a song and dance wouldn't have created any +more excitement round the clubhouse. Even the caddies were talking about +it. + +Sam broke the news to me while I was practising mid-iron shots on the +other side of the eighteenth green. Sam has carried my bag for years. He +is too old to be a caddie, too young to be a member of the Supreme +Court, and too wise for either job. He shoots the course in the +seventies every time he can dodge the greens keeper--play by employes +being strictly prohibited. He has forgotten more golf than I shall ever +know, and tries hard to conceal the superiority he feels, but never +quite makes the grade. You know the sort of caddie I mean--every club +has a few like Sam. + +"There you go again! What did I tell you about playin' the ball too far +off your right foot? Stiffen up those wrists a bit--don't let 'em flop +so. Put some forearm into the shot, and never mind lookin' up to see +where the ball goes.... Say, that long, thin gentleman, him with the +nose and teeth--the one they call the Major, that sits on the porch so +much liftin' tall ones--I caddied for him this morning." + +"You don't tell me so!" + +"Yeh, I do. Sure! Him and his relative--the young fellah. Serial, ain't +it? Well, they was both out early this morning, the Major beefin' a +little about losin' his sleep, and sayin' he wouldn't make a fool of +himself for anybody else on earth; but after he connected with a few +shots he began to enjoy it and talk about what a lovely day it was goin' +to be. You know how it is: any weather looks good to you when your shots +are comin' off." + +"Can he play at all?" + +"Who, the Major? A shark, I tell you! That old boy has been a great +golfer in his day, and it wasn't so long ago neither. To look at him you +wouldn't think he had a full cleek shot in his system, but that's where +he'd fool you. What's more, he knows where it's goin' when he ties into +it. The young fellah plays a mighty sweet game--mighty sweet. He hits +everything clean and hard and right on the line, but give the Major a +few days' practise and he'll carry my small change every time. Knows +more golf than Serial--got more shots, and he's a whale with his irons. +He's a little wild with his wood off the tee--hooks too much and gets +into trouble--but when he straightens out that drive he'll have Serial +playin' the odd behind him. Say, it'd be great to get 'em both into the +Invitation Tournament, eh?" + +Now our Invitation Tournament is the big show of the year in golfing +circles. Waddles sees to that. All members of the association are +eligible, but visitors have to have a card and an invitation as well. + +Waddles always scans these visitors very closely, and if a man is known +as a cup hunter no amount of pressure can get him in. The Major, being a +member of the club, was automatically invited to participate, but Cyril +must be classed as a visitor. + +I went to Waddles and told him what Sam had told me, suggesting that +here was the chance to coax the Major off the porch for good, and +perhaps get him onto the team later. I said that I thought it would be a +graceful thing to issue an invitation to Cyril without waiting for a +request from the Major. + +"You poor fish!" said Waddles. "I was going to do that anyway. Do you +think I'm asleep all the time?" + +That is the way with Waddles. He can catch an idea on the fly, and +before it settles he has adopted it as his own. He doesn't care a +brass-mounted continental who scared it up in the first place. Before it +lights it is his--all his. He said he didn't believe the Major was half +so good as his advance notices, and, as for the full cleek shot, he +pooh-poohed that part of the story entirely. Waddles has never mastered +the cleek, but he is a demon with a bulldog spoon or with a brassy. + +"I'll do this thing--as a common courtesy to a member," said Waddles; +"but I'm not counting on the Major's golf. A man can't lay off for +months and come back playing any sort of a game." + +So the invitation was issued in Cyril's name, and we went in search of +the Major. He was on the porch and Cyril was practising putts on the +clock green. + +Waddles can be very formal and dignified and diplomatic when he wants to +be, and as a salve spreader he has few equals and no superiors. He pays +a compliment in such a bluff, hearty fashion that it carries with it an +air of absolute sincerity. + +"Major," he began, "I can't tell you how delighted I am to hear that you +have taken up the game again. Aside from the pleasure, it is bound to +benefit your health." + +"Eh?" said the Major, staring at Waddles intently. "Oh, yes! I'm feeling +quite well at present, thanks." + +"And you'll feel better for taking exercise," continued Waddles. "We are +hoping that you will enter our Invitation Tournament next week. You'll +get a number of good matches, meet some charming people and make some +friends. Play begins on Wednesday." + +"Ah!" said the Major. + +"You can pick your own partner in the qualifying round." And here +Waddles brought out the envelope containing the invitation. "I thought +likely you might want to play with your nephew." + +The Major took the envelope and opened it. After he had read the +inclosure he looked up at Waddles and smiled. + +"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said he. "Most kind. Cyril will appreciate +this.... Shan't we have a drink?" + +"Can you beat him?" said Waddles to me when we were back in the lounging +room. "Just about as chummy as an oyster!" + +"Either that or very inattentive," said I; "but just the same I think +he'll play. Cyril will persuade him." + +"I don't care a whoop whether he plays or not," growled Waddles. "I hate +a man who can't loosen up and _talk_!" + +"There is only one thing worse," said I, "and that is a man who talks +too much." + +Waddles took my remark as personal and wolfed at me for half an hour. +Why is it that the man who has no consideration for your feelings is +always so confoundedly sensitive about his own? + + +III + +Flashing now to a close-up of the scores for the qualifying round, there +were two strange faces in the first sixteen--Cyril's and the +Major's--and Cyril walked off with the cup offered for low man. His +seventy-three created quite a commotion among the Class A men, but the +Major's eighty-one was what knocked them all a twister. Even Waddles was +amazed. Waddles had turned in an eighty-five, which barely got him into +the championship flight, but medal scores are nothing in Waddles' life. +Match play is where he shines--match play against a nervous opponent. + +"The old rum-hound must have been shooting over his head," said Waddles. +"I'll bet he holed a lot of niblick shots." + +I might have been in the fourth flight if I had not picked up my ball +after playing eleven in the ditch at the fifth hole, and by that act +eliminated myself from the tournament. I finished the round, of course, +and signed my partner's card, becoming thereafter a mere spectator and a +bit of the gallery. + +Sam was disgusted with me--so much so that he refused me advice or +sympathy. As a usual thing Sam walks up on a drive and selects the club +which he thinks I should use. I may disagree with him, but I notice that +in the end I always make the shot with the club of his selection. If I +am short he tells me that I spared the shot; if I am over he says I hit +it too hard. + +After the catastrophe at the fifth hole Sam stood the bag on end and +turned his back, a statue of silent contempt. When he allows me to pick +out a club I know that he has washed his hands of me; when he will not +accept a cigarette I am past praying for. I can think of nothing more +keenly humiliating than to feel myself a disappointment to a caddie like +Sam, but I have disappointed him so often that he should be getting +hardened to it by now. + +The first and second rounds of match play took place on Thursday, and +the pairings put Cyril at the top of the drawing and the Major at the +bottom. When the day was over the first flight had assumed a distinctly +international aspect, for the semifinalists appeared as follows: + +Waddles versus Cyril; Jay Gilman versus the Major. + +Cyril had won his matches quite handily and without being pressed, but +the Major had caught a brace of seasoned campaigners, one of whom took +him to the twentieth hole before he passed out on the end of a long +rainbow putt. + +Gilman had played his usual steady game--nothing brilliant about it, but +extremely dependable; and, as for Waddles, he had staggered along on the +ragged edge of defeat both morning and afternoon, annoying his opponents +as much as possible and winning quite as much with his head as with his +clubs. + +The time has come to say a few brief but burning words about the way +friend Waddles plays the royal and ancient game of golf when there is +anything in sight for the victor. I trust that when he reads this he +will have the decency to remember that he had already cut my handicap to +the quick, as it were. + +To begin with, Waddles has no more form than an apple woman or a Cubist +nude. He is so constructed that he cannot take a full swing to save his +immortal soul. Everything has to be wrist and forearm with Waddles, but +somehow or other he manages to snap his foolish little tee shots +straight down the middle of the course, popping them high over the +bunkers and avoiding all the traps and pits. The special providence that +cares for taxicab drivers, sailors and drunken men seems to take charge +of Waddles' ball in flight, imparting to it a tremendous overspin that +gives it distance. I never saw Waddles square away at a drive without +pitying him for his short, choppy swing; but he usually beats me about +ten yards on account of the run that he gets. I never watched him jab at +a putt without feeling certain that the ball was hit too hard to stay in +the hole; but stay it does. Waddles actually putts with an overspin, and +his ball burrows like a mole, dropping into the cup as if made of lead. + +His brassy shots are just pusillanimous--there is no other word which +describes them accurately--but somehow they keep on bouncing toward the +pin. His irons run half-way and creep the rest of the distance. He +always gets better results than his shots deserve, and complains that he +should have had more. This one little trick of his is enough to drive an +opponent crazy. Every golfer knows the moral--no, immoral--effect of +going up against some one who gets more out of every shot than he puts +into it, and still is not satisfied. It is like sitting in a poker game +with a man who draws four to a deuce, makes an ace full, wins the pot, +and then wolfs because it wasn't four aces. + +I never played with Waddles without feeling certain that I could show +him up on the long game, and it was straining to do it that ruined me. +Trying to pick the tail feathers out of that lame duck has ruined many a +golfer, the secret being that the duck isn't as lame as he looks. +Waddles makes 'em all press--a big factor in his match play; but there +are others, and not nearly so legitimate. + +Playing the game strictly on merit, observing all the little niceties of +demeanour and the courtesies due an opponent, Waddles would be a +desperately hard man to beat; but he does not stop at merit. When he is +out to win he does not stop anywhere. He has made a lifelong study of +the various ways in which an opponent may be annoyed and put off his +game, and he is the acknowledged master of all of them. + +For instance, if he plays Doc Jones, who is chatty and conversational +and likes to talk between shots, Waddles never opens his mouth once, but +plods along with a scowl on his face and his lower lip sticking out a +foot. Before long the poor little Doc begins to wonder whether he has +said anything to hurt Waddles' feelings--and that is the end of Jones. +But if Waddles plays Chester Hodge, who believes that the secret of a +winning game is concentration, he is a perfect windmill, talking to +Chester every minute, telling him funny stories, asking him questions, +and literally conversing him off his feet. + +Bill Mulqueen is nervous and impatient and hates to wait on his second +shots; so when Waddles plays him he drives short and takes five minutes +to play the odd, while Bill fumes and frets and accumulates steam for +the final explosion, which never fails to strew the last nine with his +mangled remains. On the other hand, old Barrison is deliberation itself, +and Waddles beats him by playing his own shots quickly and then crowding +Barry--hurrying him up, nagging at him, riding him from shot to shot, +trying to speed up an engine that can't be speeded without racking +itself to pieces. Joe Bowhan hates to have any one moving about the tee +when he is setting himself to drive. Waddles licks him by washing his +ball fresh on every hole. Joe can't see him, but he can hear him +scouring away behind him. "Hand-laundered out of the contest again" is +what Joe tells us when he comes into the clubhouse. + +Perhaps the cruelest thing Waddles ever did was in the finals of the +Spring Handicap against young Archie Gatter. The kid was inclined to +think fairly well of himself and his game, but on the day of the match +Waddles lugged a visiting golf architect round the course with him, +planning improvements in the way of traps and bunkers, discussing +various kinds of grass for the greens, arguing about soil, and paying no +attention whatever to the wretched Archie--not even watching him make +his shots. It broke the boy's heart to be ignored so completely, and he +shot the last nine holes in a fat fifty-seven, finishing a total wreck. + +These are only a few of Waddles' little villainies, and the fact that he +is a consistent winner at match play bears out the theory that the best +study of golf is golfers--splitting it fifty-fifty with the late Mr. +Pope. + +The most exasperating thing about Waddles is the bland, unconscious +manner in which he perpetrates these outrages upon his opponents. He +never seems aware that he is doing anything wrong or taking an unfair +advantage; he pleads thoughtlessness if driven into a corner--and gets +away with it too. You have to know Waddles very well before you are +certain that every little movement has a meaning all its own and is part +of a cold-blooded and deliberate plan of campaign. + +With all these things in mind, I had a hunch that Friday's match with +Cyril would be worth watching, and I was at the clubhouse at nine in the +morning. Cyril and the Major were already there, driving practise balls. +It was generally understood that the matches in the semi-finals would +start at nine-thirty, and promptly on the dot Jay Gilman and the Major +were on their way--both of them off to perfect drives. + +I waited to follow Cyril and Waddles--and a long, weary wait it was. +There is nothing which secures the angora so neatly and completely as to +be all dressed up and keyed up with nowhere to go. Have you ever seen a +boxer fretting and chafing in his corner, waiting for the champion to +put in an appearance; and did you ever stop to think that the champion, +in his dressing room, was counting on the effect of that nervous period +of inactivity? Golf is a game which demands mental poise, and Cyril was +losing his, minute by minute. He prowled all over the place, searching +for Waddles; he walked out and looked down the road toward town; he +practiced putting--and hit every shot too hard. If he had not been an +Englishman, and schooled to keep his feelings to himself, I think he +would have said something of a blistering nature. + +It was eleven-fifteen when Waddles arrived, dripping apologies from +every pore. Had Cyril understood that nine-thirty was the hour? Well, +wasn't that a shame--too bad he hadn't telephoned or something! Waddles +stated--and there was and is no reason to doubt his word--that he +thought the matches were scheduled for the afternoon. He dawdled in the +locker room for a scandalously long time, while Cyril made little +journeys to the first tee and back again, growing warmer and warmer with +each trip. + +When Waddles finally emerged, neatly swathed in flannels, he suggested +lunch. Cyril replied a bit stiffly that he never took food in the middle +of the day. + +"And a hard match in front of you, too," said Waddles. "I couldn't think +of starting without a sandwich. Do you mind waiting while I have one?" + +Cyril lied politely, but it was a terrible strain on him, and Waddles +consumed a sandwich, a glass of milk and forty-five minutes more. Then +he had to have one of his irons wrapped where the shaft had +split--another straw for the camel's back. By this time the Major and +Jay had finished their match, the Major winning on the sixteenth green. +They joined the gallery, after the usual ceremonies at the nineteenth +hole. + +"Are you ready?" asked Waddles, breezing out on the first tee--and that +was rather nervy, too, seeing that Cyril hadn't been anything else for +three mortal hours. + +"After you, sir," said the boy, short and sharp. He knew that he was +getting "the work," and he resented it. + +It always suits Waddles to have the honour. He likes to shoot first +because his tee shot usually makes an opponent sore. He popped one of +his dinky little drives into the air, but instead of dropping into the +bunker it floated beyond it to the middle of the course and ran like a +scared rabbit. + +"No distance!" grumbled Waddles, slapping his club on the tee. "No +distance. I'm all out of luck to-day." + +Well, that was no more than rubbing it in by word of mouth. It produced +the desired effect, because Cyril nearly broke himself in two in an +attempt to beat that choppy half-arm swing. He swung much too hard, +didn't follow through at all, and the ball sliced into a trap far up to +the right. + +"Do you know what you did then?" asked Waddles. "You tried to kill it, +you didn't follow through, and----" + +"And I sliced. I know perfectly, thanks." And Cyril started down the +course, with Waddles tagging at his hip and telling him what was the +matter with his swing. Coming from a man who never took a full-arm +wallop at a ball in his life, criticism must have seemed superfluous. I +couldn't see Cyril's face, but his ears reddened. + +Waddles slapped a brassy to the edge of the putting green, but Cyril, +trying for distance out of a heel print, took too much sand and barely +got back on the course again. His third reached the green, whereupon +Waddles promptly laid his ball dead for a four. Cyril missed a +twenty-footer and lost the first hole. + +Again Waddles spatted out a drive that narrowly escaped a cross bunker, +but it struck on a hard spot and ran fully one hundred yards before it +stopped. Waddles knows every hard spot on the course and governs himself +accordingly. + +Cyril followed through this time--followed through so vigorously that +the ball developed a hook. A cross wind helped it along into the rough +grass, leaving him a nasty second shot over shrubbery and trees. It +hadn't stopped rolling before Waddles was talking again. + +"You know what you did then? Too much right hand; and your club +head----" + +"Precisely," said Cyril, and left the tee almost on a dog-trot; but +Waddles trotted with him, explaining what had happened to the club +head. He was so earnest about it, so eager to be of assistance, so +persistent, that Cyril did not know how to take him. Then, to add to the +boy's discomfiture, Waddles played a perfect spoon shot, taking +advantage of the wind, and the ball stopped six feet from the pin. Only +a miracle could have saved Cyril after that, and there were no miracles +left in his system. His ball carried low from the rough, struck the limb +of a tree and glanced out of bounds. He played another, which dropped +into thick weeds, and then picked up, conceding the hole. All the way to +the third tee Waddles expounded the theory of the niblick shot out of +grass, pausing only to spat another perfect ball down the course. + +It was here that Cyril left the wood in his bag and took out a cleek. He +wanted distance and he needed direction, our third hole calling for a +well-placed tee shot; but he sliced just enough to put him squarely +behind the largest tree on the entire course. + +"I was sure you'd do that," said Waddles, sympathetically. "It's really +a wooden club shot, and when you took your iron I knew you were afraid +of it. Changing clubs is always a sign of weakness, don't you think so?" + +Cyril mumbled something and started down the path, and at this point the +old Major, who had been lingering in the background, swung in behind him +with his first and last bit of advice. + +"Keep your hair on, dear boy," he bleated. "Keep your hair on. Whatever +happens, don't get waxy." + +Cyril grunted but didn't say anything, and the Major dropped to the rear +again, making queer little noises in his throat. + +"Now the ideal--shot on this--hole," panted Waddles, overtaking his +victim, "is a little bit--farther to the left. A hook--doesn't hurt +you--as much--as a slice----" + +"I'm not hurt yet!" snapped Cyril. + +"Why, of course not!" cried Waddles with the heartiest good nature. "Of +course not--but if your ball--had been farther to the left--you wouldn't +have to play--over that tree--and----" There was more, but Cyril did not +wait to hear it. + +Waddles, executing his second with mechanical precision, carried the +deep ravine with his mashie and put the ball on the green for a sure +four. Off to the right Cyril prepared to do likewise, but the tree +loomed ahead of him, his nerves were unstrung, his temper was ruffled, +and instead of going cleanly under the ball he caught the turf four +inches behind it and pitched into the ravine, where he found a lie that +was all but unplayable. + +"Tough luck!" said Waddles. + +Cyril turned and looked at him. I expected an outburst of some sort, but +the boy was evidently trying to keep his hair on. + +"I didn't hit it," said he at length, swallowing hard. I heard an odd +choking noise behind me. It was the Major, attempting to remain calm. + +"Of course you didn't hit it!" agreed Waddles. "You took a hatful of +turf; and you know why, don't you?" + +Cyril groaned and plunged into the ravine. + +Why follow the harrying details too closely? With the Major as chief +mourner, and Waddles holding sympathetic postmortems on all his bad +shots, Cyril suffered a complete collapse. I could have beaten him--any +one could have beaten him--and as a matter of fact he beat himself. +Having found his weak spot, Waddles never let up for an instant. Talk, +talk, talk; his flow of conversation was as irritating as a neighbour's +phonograph, and as incessant. I wondered that Cyril contained himself as +well as he did, until I remembered that it is tradition with the English +to lose as silently as they win. + +The Major, who saw it all, addressed but one remark to me. It was on the +tenth hole, and Waddles was showing Cyril why he had topped an iron +shot. + +"Look here," said the Major, jerking his thumb at Waddles, "does he +always do this sort of thing? Talk so much, I mean?" + +I replied, and quite truthfully, that it depended on the way he felt. +The Major grunted, and that ended the conversation. + +The match was wound up on the thirteenth; Cyril shook hands, +complimented Waddles on his game, and made a bee line for the +clubhouse. Nobody could blame him for not wanting to finish the round. +Waddles tagged along at his elbow, gesticulating, explaining the theory +of golf, even offering to illustrate certain shots with which Cyril had +had trouble. + +The Major spent the rest of the afternoon on the porch, nursing a tall +glass and looking at the hills. After a shower Cyril joined him. + +"The blooming Britons are holding a lodge of sorrow," said Waddles, who +was in high spirits. "What's the betting on the finals to-morrow?" + +"I'll back the Major," spoke up Jay Gilman, "if you'll promise not to +talk the shirt off his back." + +"Another dumb player, eh?" asked Waddles, grinning. + +"Never opened his mouth to me but once the entire way round," answered +Jay. + +"And what did he say then?" + +"As near as I recall," replied Jay, "he said 'Dormie!'" + +"I hate a man who can't talk!" exclaimed Waddles. + +"How you must hate yourself," I suggested, and was forced to dodge a +match safe. + +"Just the same," persisted Jay, "I'll take the Major's end if you'll +promise to keep your mouth shut." + +"I'll accept no bets on that basis," Waddles announced. "I like a +friendly, chatty game." + +"I've got you for fifty, then, and talk your head off!" And Jay laughed +until I thought he would choke. As a matter of fact, he laughed all the +rest of the afternoon. + + +IV + +Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was no +delay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There was +considerable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major to +the limit. + +"You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injured +tone of voice. + +"Make it a hundred if you want to," was Jay's come-back. + +"Fifty is plenty, thanks." + +"What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit on +the conversation!" + +"Got you!" snapped Waddles. + +He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him to +it. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch of +sand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamer +dead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then he +stepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled--actually +cackled like a hen. + +"Do you know," said he, addressing Waddles--"I believe I've burst my +belt! Yes, I'm quite certain I have; but don't fear, old chap. I +sha'n't be indecent. I have braces on. Ho, ho, ho!" + +Waddles paused with his mouth open. At first I thought he was going to +say something, but evidently nothing occurred to him, so he teed his +ball and took his stance. + +"It was an old one," said the Major. "I've worn it for ages. Given me by +Freddy Fitzpatrick. Queer chap, Fitz.... You don't mind my babbling a +little, do you? Dare say I'm a bit nervous." + +"Oh, not in the least," grunted Waddles, addressing his ball. He hit his +usual drive, with the usual result, but his ball was at least forty +yards short of the Major's. + +"Very fortunate, sir!" bleated the Major, following Waddles from the +tee. "Blest if I see how you do it! Your form--you don't mind criticism, +old chap?--your form is wretchedly bad. Atrocious! Your swing is +cramped, your stance is awkward, yet somehow you manage to get over the +bunkers. Extraordinary, I call it. Some day you shall teach me the +stroke if you will, eh?" + +Waddles didn't say a word. He tucked his chin down into his collar and +made tracks for his ball, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes. He +didn't seem to know what to make of this sudden flood of conversation. +The Major was with him every step of the way, blatting about his friend +Fitzpatrick. + +"He had a stroke like yours, old Fitz. Frightfully crippled up with +rheumatism, poor chap! Abominable golfer! No form, no swing, but the +devil's own luck.... I say, what club shall you use next? I should take +a cleek, but you don't carry one, I've noticed. Too bad. Very useful +club, but it calls for a full, clean swing. You'd boggle a cleek +horribly.... You're taking a brassy? Quite right, old chap, quite right. +I should, too, if I couldn't depend on my irons." + +Waddles waved the Major aside, and pulled off his shot; but it seemed to +me that he hurried the least little bit. Perhaps he was expecting +another outburst of language. His ball stopped ten yards short of the +putting green. + +"Ah!" said the Major. "You stabbed at that one, dear boy. Old Fitz +stabbed his second shots too. Nervousness, I dare say; but you haven't +the look of a man with nerves. Rather beefy for that, I should think. +Tight match, and all. Too much food, perhaps. Never can tell, eh? Old +Fitz was a gross feeder too.... Now I'm going to take an iron, and if +you don't mind I wish you'd stand behind me and tell me how to shorten +my swing a bit. I'm inclined to play an iron too strong.... A little +farther over, if you please. I don't want you where I can see you, old +chap, but I sha'n't mind your talking." + +The Major pulled his mid-iron out of the bag and Waddles obliged with a +steady stream of advice, not one item of which was heeded: + +"Advance that left foot a little, and don't drop your shoulder so much! +Come back a bit slower, keep your eye on the ball, start your swing +higher up----" + +At this point the blade of the mid-iron connected with the ball and sent +it sailing straight for the pin--a beautiful shot, and clean as a +whistle. A white speck bounded on the green and rolled past the hole. + +"You see?" cried the Major. "Too strong--oh, much too strong!" + +"You're up there for a putt!" snorted Waddles. "What did you expect--at +this distance?" + +"With your assistance," continued the Major, ignoring Waddles' sarcasm, +"I shall shorten my swing. You've the shortest swing I've ever seen. +Shorter than poor old Fitz's. I'm sorry about that belt, but I sha'n't +be indecent. I have braces on--suspenders, I believe you call them." He +squinted at his ball as he advanced. "Too strong. Never mind. I dare say +I shall hole the putt.... You're taking a mashie next? Tricky +shot--very, especially on a fast green." + +Waddles composed himself with a visible effort and really achieved a +very fine approach shot. The ball had the perfect line to the hole, but +was three feet short of the cup. + +"Never up, never in!" cackled the Major, and proceeded to sink a +three--a nasty, twisting twelve-footer, and downhill at that. There was +a patter of applause from the gallery, started by Gilman and Cyril. The +Major marched to the second tee, babbling continually: + +"I owe you an apology. Never had a three there before. Never shall +again. Stroke under par, isn't it? Not at all bad for a beginning. +Better luck next time. Wish I hadn't broken this belt. Puts me off my +shots." + +"What do you mean--better luck next time?" demanded Waddles, but got no +response. The Major had switched to his friend Fitzpatrick, and was +chirping about rheumatism and gout and heaven knows what all. He stopped +talking just long enough to peel off another tremendous drive, and if he +had taken the ball in his hand and carried it out on the course he +couldn't have selected a better spot from which to play his second. + +It was on this tee that Waddles tried to hand the Major's stuff back to +him, probably figuring that he could stand as much conversation as his +opponent, and last longer at the repartee. He began to tell the story of +the Scotch golfer and his collie dog, which is one of the best things he +does, but I noticed that when it came time for him to drive he grunted +as he hit the ball, and when Waddles grunts it is a sign that he is +calling up the reserves. He got the same old shot and the same old run, +and would have finished the same old story, but the Major horned in with +a long-winded reminiscence of his own, and the collie was lost in the +shuffle. Another animal was lost too--a goat belonging to Waddles. He +spoke sharply to his opponent before playing his second, and then sliced +a spoon shot deep into the rough. + +"Ah, too bad!" chirruped the Major. "And the grass is quite deep over +there, isn't it? Now I shall use the mid-iron again, and you shall watch +and tell me about my swing--that is, if you don't mind, old chap." + +Waddles didn't mind. He told the Major enough things to rattle a wooden +Indian, and just as the club had started to descend he raised his voice +sharply. It would have made me miss the ball entirely, but it seemed to +have no effect on the Major, who did not even flinch but lined one out +to the green. + +Waddles wandered off into the rough, mumbling to his caddie. The third +shot was a remarkable one. He tore the ball out of the thick grass, +raised it high in the air and put it on the green, six feet from the +cup. The Major then laid his third shot stone-dead for a four. Waddles +still had a difficult putt to halve the hole, but while he was studying +the roll of the green the Major spoke up. + +"I shan't ask you to putt that," said he. "I concede you a four." + +Waddles stared at him with eyes that fairly bulged. + +"You--what?" said he. "You give me this putt?" + +The Major nodded and walked off the green. Waddles looked first at his +ball, then at the cup, and then at the crowd of spectators. At last he +picked up and followed, and a whisper ran through the gallery. The +general impression prevailed that conceding a six-foot putt at the +outset of an important match was nothing short of emotional insanity. + +Of course since he had been offered a four on the hole Waddles could do +nothing but accept it gracefully--and begin wondering why on earth his +opponent had been so generous. I dare any golfer to put himself in +Waddles' place and arrive at a conclusion soothing to the nerves and the +temper. The most natural inference was that the Major held him cheaply, +pitied him, did not fear his game. + +I thought this was what the old fellow was getting at, but it was not +until they reached the third putting green that I began to appreciate +the depth of the Major's cunning and the diabolical cleverness of his +golfing strategy. + +Waddles had a two-foot putt to halve the third hole--a straight, simple +tap over a perfectly flat surface--the sort of putt that he can make +with his eyes shut, ninety-nine times out of the hundred. The Major had +already holed his four, and I knew by the careless manner in which +Waddles stepped up to his ball that he expected the Major to concede the +putt. It was natural for him to expect it, since he had already been +given a difficult six-footer. + +Waddles stood there, waggling his putter behind the ball and waiting for +the Major to say the word, but the word did not come. This seemed to +irritate Waddles. He looked at the Major, and his expression said, plain +as print, "You don't really insist on my making this dinky little putt?" +It was all wasted, for the Major was regarding him with a fishy +stare--looking clear through him in fact. The expectant light faded out +of Waddles' eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and gave his attention to +the shot, examining every inch of the line to the cup. It seemed to be a +straight putt, but was it? Waddles took his lower lip in his teeth and +tapped the ball very gently. It ran off to the left, missing the cup by +at least three inches. + +"Aha!" chuckled the Major. "You thought I would give you that one too, +eh? Old Fitz used to say, 'Give a man a hard putt and he'll miss an easy +one. After that he'll never be sure of anything.' Extraordinary how +often it happens just that way. Seems to have an unsettling effect on +the nerves. Tricky beggar, Fitz. Won the Duffers' Cup at Bombay by +conceding a twenty-foot putt on the sixteenth green. Opponent went all +to little pieces. Finished one down, with a fifteen on the last hole. +Queer game, golf!" + +"Yes," said Waddles, breathing hard, "and a lot of queer people play it. +Your honour, sir." + +The Major smacked out another long one, but Waddles, boiling inside and +scarcely able to see the ball, topped his tee shot and bounded into the +bunker. + +"You see what it does," said the Major. "You were still thinking about +that putt. The effect on the nerves----" + +"Oh, cut it out!" growled Waddles. "Play the game right if you're going +to play it at all! Your mouth is the best club in your bag!" + +The Major did not resent this in the least; paid no attention in fact. +He toddled away, blatting intermittently about his friend Fitz, and +Waddles knocked half the sand out of the bunker before he finally +emerged, spitting gravel and adjectives. Sore was no name for it! He +lost the hole, of course, making him three down. + +The rest of the contest was interesting, but only from a psychological +point of view. Evidently considering that he had a safe lead the Major +cut out the conversation and the horseplay and settled down to par golf. +There was no lack of talk, however, for Waddles erupted constantly. +Braced by the thought that he was annoying his opponent by these verbal +outbursts, he managed to halve four holes in a row, but on the ninth +green he missed another short putt. In the explosion that followed he +blew off his safety valve completely, and the rest of the match +degenerated into a riotous procession, so far as noise was concerned. + +The thing I could not understand was that the Major held on the even +tenour of his way, unruffled and serene as a June morning. The louder +Waddles talked the better the old fellow seemed to like it. Never once +did he seem disturbed; never once did he hesitate on a shot. With calm, +mechanical precision he proceeded to go through Waddles like a cold +breeze, and the latter was so busy thinking up things to say that he +flubbed disgracefully, and was beaten on the thirteenth green, seven and +five. + +Well, Waddles may have his faults, but losing ungracefully is not one of +them. He will fight you to the very last ditch, but once the battle is +over he declares peace immediately. He walked up to the Major and held +out his hand. He grinned, too, though I imagine it hurt his face to do +it. + +"You're all right, Major!" said he. "You're immense! You licked me and +you made me like it. If I had your nerves--if I could concentrate on my +shots and not let anything bother me----" + +Some one behind me laughed. It was Jay Gilman. + +"It has been a pleasure, dear chap," said the Major. "A pleasure, I +assure you!" + + * * * * * + +Several of us had dinner at the club that night, Jay offering to give +the party because of the money he had won from Waddles. When the coffee +came on, America's representative in the finals attempted to explain his +defeat. + +"The Major began the gab-fest," said Waddles. "He started off chattering +like a magpie and trying to rattle me, and naturally I went back at him +with the same stuff. Fair for one as for the other, eh? I'll admit that +he out-generalled me by giving me that putt on the second hole, but the +thing that finally grabbed my angora was his infernal concentration. +Never saw anything like it! Why, he actually asked me to stand behind +him and criticise his swing--while he was shooting, mind you? Asked me +to do it! And when I saw that he went along steady as the rock of +Gibraltar--well, I blew, that's all. I went to pieces. The thing reacted +on me. I'll bet that old rascal could listen to you all day long-and +never top a ball!" + +"You'd lose that bet," said Jay quietly. + +"How do you mean--lose it?" demanded Waddles, bristling. "I talked my +head off, and he didn't top any, did he?" + +"No; and he didn't listen any, either. As a matter of fact, you could +have fired a cannon off right at his hip without making him miss a +shot." + +"You don't mean to tell me----" said Waddles, gaping. + +Jay laughed unfeelingly. + +"You had a fat chance of talking the old Major out of anything!" said +he. "He hasn't advertised it much, because he's rather sensitive about +his affliction; but he's----" + +"Deaf!" gulped Waddles. + +"As a post," finished Jay. + +Waddles' jaw dropped. + +There was a long, painful silence. + +Then Waddles crooked his finger at the waiter. + +"Boy!" he called. "Bring me this dinner check!" + + + + +A MIXED FOURSOME + + +I + +When the returns were all in, a lot of people congratulated the winners +of the mixed-foursome cups, after which the weak-minded ones sympathised +with Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson. + +Sympathy is a wonderful thing, and so rare that it should not be wasted. +Any intelligent person might have seen at a glance that Mary didn't need +sympathy; and as for Russell Davidson, there never was a time when he +deserved it. + +And in all this outpouring of sentiment, this hand-shaking and +back-patting, nobody thought to offer a kind word to old Waddles. Nobody +shook him by the hand and told him that he was six of the seven wonders +of the world. It seems a pity, now that I look back on it. + +Possibly you remember Waddles. He was, is, and probably always will be, +an extremely important member of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club. +Important, did I say? That doesn't begin to express it. +Omnipotent--that's better. + +To begin with, he is chairman of the Greens Committee, holding dominion +over every blade of grass which grows on the course. He is intimately +acquainted with every gopher hole, hoofprint and drain cover on the club +property. Policing two hundred broad acres is a strong man's job, but +Waddles attends to it in his spare moments. He waves his pudgy hand and +says: "Let there be a bunker here," and lo! the bunker springs up as if +by magic. He abolishes sand traps which displease him, and creates new +ones. The heathen may rage, and sometimes they do, but Waddles holds on +the even tenor of his way, hearing only one vote, and that vote his own. + +Then again, he is the official handicapper--another strong man's +job--with powers which cannot be overestimated. Some handicappers are +mild and apologetic creatures who believe in tempering justice with +mercy and pleasing as many people as possible, but not our Waddles. + +Heaven pity the wily cup hunter who keeps an improved game under cover +in order that he may ease himself into a competition and clean up the +silverware! + +Waddles hates a cup hunter with a deep and abiding hatred and deals with +him accordingly. There was once an 18-handicap man who waltzed blithely +through our Spring Handicap, and his worst medal round was something +like 85. His fat allowance made all his opponents look silly and he +took home a silver water pitcher worth seventy-five dollars. + +This was bad enough, but he crowned his infamy by boasting openly that +he had outwitted Waddles. The next time the cup hunter had occasion to +glance at the handicap list he received a terrible shock. + +"Waddy," said this person--and there were tears in his eyes and a sob in +his voice--"you know that I'll never be able to play to a four handicap, +don't you?" + +"Certainly," was the calm response. + +"Then what was the idea of putting me at such a low mark?" + +"Well," said Waddles with a sweet smile, "I don't mind telling you, in +strict confidence: I cut you down to four to keep you honest." + +The wretched cup hunter howled like a wolf, but it got him nothing. He +is still a four man, and if he lives to be as old as the Dingbats he +will never take home another trophy. + +Not only is Waddles supreme on the golf course but he dominates the +clubhouse as well. He writes us tart letters about shaking dice for +money and signs them "House Committee, per W." Really serious matters +are dealt with in letters signed "Board of Directors, per W." The old +boy is the law and the prophets, the fine Italian hand, the mailed fist, +the lord high executioner and the chief justice, and if he misses you +with one barrel he is sure to get you with the other. + +You might think that this would be power enough for one weak mortal. You +might think that there are some things which Waddles would regard as +beyond his jurisdiction. You might think that the little god of love +would come under another dispensation--you might think all these things, +but you don't know our Waddles. He is afflicted with that strange malady +described by the immortal Cap'n Prowse as "the natural gift of +authority," and such a man recognises no limits, knows no boundaries, +and wouldn't care two whoops if he did. Come to think of it, the Kaiser +is now under treatment for the same ailment. + +Since I have given you some faint conception of Waddles and his +character I will proceed with the plain and simple tale of Mary Brooke, +Bill Hawley and Russell Davidson. Beth Rogers was in the foursome too, +but she doesn't really count, not being in love with any one but +herself. + + +II + +Ladies first is a safe rule, so we will start with Mary. +My earliest recollection of this young woman dates back +twenty-and-I-won't-say-how-many-more years, at which time she +entertained our neighbourhood by reciting nursery rimes--"Twinka, +twinka, yitty tar," and all the rest of that stuff. + +I knew then that she was an extremely bright child for her age. Her +mother told me so. I used to hold her on my lap and let her listen to my +watch, and the cordial relations which existed then have lasted ever +since. She doesn't sit on my lap any more, of course, but you understand +what I mean. + +I watched Mary lose her baby prettiness and her front teeth. I watched +her pass through that distressing period when she seemed all legs and +freckles, to emerge from it a different being--only a little girl still, +but with a trace of shyness which was new to me, and a look in her eyes +which made me feel that I must be growing a bit old. + +About this time I was astounded to learn that Mary had a beau. It was +the Hawley kid, who lived on the next block. His parents had named him +William, after an uncle with money, but from the time he had been able +to walk he had been called Bill. He will always be called Bill, because +that's the sort of fellow he is. + +As I remember him at the beginning of his love affair Bill was somewhat +of a mess, with oversized hands and feet, a shock of hair that never +would stay put, and an unfortunate habit of falling all over himself at +critical moments. He attached himself to Mary Brooke with all the +unselfish devotion of a half-grown Newfoundland pup, minus the pup's +rough demonstrations of affection. + +He carried Mary's books home from school, he took her to the little +neighbourhood parties, he sent her frilly pink valentines, and +once--only once--he stripped his mother's rose garden because it was +Mary's birthday. It also happened to be Mrs. Hawley's afternoon to +entertain the whist club, and she had been counting on those roses for +decorations. If my memory serves me, she allowed Mary to keep the +flowers, but she stopped the amount of a florist's bill out of her son's +allowance of fifty cents a Week. The Hawley's are all practical people. + +Mary's father used to fuss and fume and say that he hoped Bill would get +over it and park his big clumsy feet on somebody else's front porch, but +I don't think he really minded it as much as he pretended he did. Mrs. +Brooke often remarked that since it had to be somebody she would rather +it would be Bill than any other boy in the neighbourhood. Even in those +days there was something solid and dependable about Bill Hawley; he was +the sort of kid that could be trusted, and more of a man at sixteen than +some fellows will ever be. + +During Mary's high-school days several boys carried her books, but not +for long, and Bill was always there or thereabouts, waiting patiently in +the background. When another youngster had the front porch privilege +Bill did not sulk or rock the boat, and if the green-eyed monster was +gnawing at his vitals there were no outward signs of anguish. We always +knew when one of Mary's little affairs was over because Bill would be +back on the job, nursing his shin on Brooke's front steps and filling +the whole block with an air of silent devotion. I suppose he grew to be +a habit with Mary; such things do happen once in a while. + +Then Bill went away to college, and while he was struggling for a +sheepskin Mary entered the débutante period. Some of the women said that +she wasn't pretty, but they would have had a hard time proving it to a +jury of men. Her features may not have been quite regular, but the +general effect was wonderfully pleasing; so the tabbies compromised by +calling her attractive. They didn't have a chance to say anything else, +because Mary was always the centre of a group of masculine admirers, and +if that doesn't prove attraction, what does? + +In addition to her good looks she was bright as a new dollar--so bright +that she didn't depend entirely on her own cleverness but gave you a +chance to be clever yourself once in a while. Mary Brooke knew when to +listen. She listened to Waddles once, from one end of a country-club +dinner to the other, and he gave her the dead low down on the reformer +in politics--a subject on which the old boy is fairly well informed. I +think his fatherly interest in her dated from that evening--and +incidentally let me say it was the best night's listening that Mary ever +did, because if Waddles hadn't been interested--but that's getting ahead +of the story. + +"There's something to that little Brooke girl!" he told me afterward. "A +society bud with brains! Who'd have thought it?" + +Bill came ambling home from time to time and picked up the thread of +friendship again. It grieves me to state that an Eastern college did not +improve his outward appearance to any marked extent. He looked nothing +at all like the young men we see in the take-'em-off-the-shelf clothing +ads. He was just the same old Bill, with big hands and big feet and more +hair than he could manage. He danced the one-step, of course--the only +dance ever invented for men with two left feet--but his conception of +the fox trot would have made angels weep, and I never realised how much +hesitation could be crowded into a hesitation waltz until I saw Bill +gyrate slowly and painfully down the floor. Mary always seemed glad to +see him, though, and we heard whispers of an engagement, to be announced +after Bill had made his escape from the halls of learning. Like most of +the whispering done, this particular whisper lacked the vital element of +truth, but the women had a lovely time passing it along. + +"Isn't it just too perfectly ideal--sweethearts since childhood! Think +of it!" + +"Yes, we so seldom see anything of the sort nowadays." + +"There's one advantage in that kind of match--they won't have to get +acquainted with each other after marriage." + +"Well, now, I don't know about that. Doesn't one always find that one +has married a total stranger? Poor, dear Augustus! I thought I knew him +so well, but----" + +And so forth, and so on, by the hour. Give a woman a suspicion, and +she'll manage to juggle it into a certainty. Shortly before Bill's +graduation, the dear ladies at the country club had the whole affair +settled, even to the probable date of the wedding, and of course Mary +heard the glad news. Naturally, she was annoyed. It annoys any young +woman to find the most important event of her life arranged in advance +by people who have never taken the trouble to consult her about any of +the details. + +At this point I am forced to dip into theory, because I can't say what +took place inside Mary's pretty little head. I don't know. Perhaps she +wanted to teach the gossips a lesson. Perhaps she resented having a +husband pitchforked at her by public vote; but however she figured it +she needn't have made poor old Bill the goat, and she needn't have +fallen in love with Russell Davidson. Waddles says it wasn't love at +all--merely an infatuation; but what I'd like to know is this: How are +you going to tell one from the other when the symptoms are identical? + + +III + +Personally, I haven't a thing in the world against Russell Davidson. He +never did me an injury and I hope he will never do me a favour. Russell +is the sort of chap who is perfectly all right if you happen to like the +sort of chap he is. I don't, and that's the end of the matter so far as +I am concerned. + +He hasn't been with us very long, and still it seems long enough. He +came West to grow up with the country, arriving shortly before Bill's +graduation, and he brought with him credentials which could not be +overlooked, together with an Eastern golf rating which caused Waddles to +sit up and take notice. + +Ostensibly Russell is in the brokerage business, but he doesn't seem to +work much at it. Those who know tell me that it isn't necessary for him +to work much at anything, his father having attended to that little +matter. Some of the dear ladies were mean enough to hint that Mary had +this in mind, but they'll never get me to believe it. + +At any rate the gossips soon had a nice juicy topic for conversation, +and when Bill came home, wagging his sheepskin behind him, he found the +front-porch privilege usurped by a handsome stranger who seemed quite at +home in the Brooke household, and, unless I'm very much mistaken, +inclined to resent Bill's presence on the premises. + +It just happened that I was walking up and down the block smoking an +after-dinner cigar on the evening when Bill discovered that he was +slated for second-fiddle parts again. Russell's runabout was standing +in front of the Brooke place, there was a dim light in the living room, +and an occasional tenor wail from the phonograph. I heard quick, +thumping footsteps, a big, lumbering figure came hurrying along the +sidewalk--and there was Bill Hawley, grinning at me in the moonlight. + +"Attaboy!" he cried, shaking hands vigorously. "How're you? How're all +the folks? Gee, it's great to be home again! How's Mary?" + +"She's fine," said I. "Haven't you seen her yet?" + +"Just got in on the Limited at five o'clock. Thought I'd surprise her. +Got a thousand things to tell you. Well, see you later!" + +He went swinging up the front steps and rang the bell. + +I was finishing my cigar when Bill came out again and started slowly +down the walk. His wonderful surprise party had not lasted more than +twenty minutes. I had to hail him twice before he heard me. We took a +short walk together, and reached the end of the block before Bill opened +his mouth. On the corner Bill swung round and faced me: "Who is that +fellow?" It wasn't a question; it was a demand for information. + +"What fellow?" + +"Davis, or Davidson, something like that. Who is he?" + +There wasn't a great deal I could tell him. Bill listened till I got to +the end of my string, with a perfectly wooden expression on his homely +countenance. Then for the first, last and only time he expressed his +opinion of Russell Davidson. + +"Humph!" said he. And after a long pause: "Humph!" + +You may think that a grunt doesn't express an opinion, but as a matter +of fact it's one of the most expressive monosyllables in any language. +It can be made to mean almost anything. A ten-minute speech with a lot +of firecracker adjectives wouldn't have made Bill's meaning any clearer. + +The two grunts which came out of Bill's system were fairly dripping with +disapproval. + +"It's a wonderful night." I felt the need of saying something. "Must be +quite a relief after all that humidity in the East." + +"Uh huh." + +"I understand you played pretty good golf on the college team, Bill." + +"Uh huh." + +"We've made a lot of improvements out at the club. You won't know the +last nine now." + +"Uh huh." + +I couldn't resist the temptation of slipping a torpedo under his bows. I +thought it might wake him up a trifle. + +"Mary is playing a better game now. Davidson has been teaching her some +shots." + +Bill wanted to open up and say something, but he didn't know how to go +about it. He looked at me almost piteously and I felt ashamed of myself. + +"I'll be going now," he mumbled. "Haven't had much sleep the last few +nights. Never sleep on a train anyway. See you later." + +That was all I got out of him, but it was enough. It wasn't any of my +affair, of course, but from the bottom of my heart I pitied the big, +clumsy fellow. I felt certain that Mary was giving him the worst of it, +and taking the worst of it herself, but what could I do? Absolutely +nothing. In life's most important game the spectators are not encouraged +to sit on the side lines and shout advice to the players. + +As for Bill, I think he fought it out with himself that night and +decided to return to his boyhood policy of watchful waiting. It wasn't +the first time that he had lost the front-porch privilege, and in the +past he had won it back again by keeping under cover and giving the +incumbent a chance to become tiresome. Bill declined to play the +second-fiddle parts; he took himself out of Mary's orchestra entirely. +He did not call on her any more; but I am willing to bet any sum of +money, up to ten dollars, that Bill knew how many times a week Russell's +runabout stood in front of the Brooke place. Five would have been a fair +average. + +Russell had things all his own way, and before long we began to hear the +same vague whisperings of a wedding, coupled with expressions of +sympathy for Bill. Bill heard those whisperings too--trust the dear +ladies for that--but he listened to everything with a good-natured grin, +and even succeeded in fooling a portion of the female population; but he +didn't fool Waddles and he didn't fool me. Bill met Mary at dinner +parties and dances now and then, and whenever this happened the women +watched every move that he made, and were terribly disappointed because +he failed to register deep grief; but Bill never was the sort to wear +his heart outside his vest. Russell was very much in evidence at all +these meetings, for he took Mary everywhere, and Bill was scrupulously +polite to him--the particular brand of politeness which makes a real man +want to fight. And thus the summer waned, and the winter season came +on--for in our country we have only two seasons--and it was in November +that old Waddles finally unbuttoned his lip and informed me that young +Mr. Davidson would never do. + +It was in the lounging room at the country club. We had finished our +round, and I had paid Waddles three balls as usual. It never costs less +than three balls to play with him. We were sitting by the window, +acquiring nourishment and looking out upon the course. In the near +foreground Russell Davidson was teaching Mary Brooke the true inwardness +of the chip shot. He wasn't having a great deal of luck. Waddles broke +the silence by grunting. It was a grunt of infinite disgust. I searched +my pockets and put a penny on the table. + +"For your thoughts," said I. + +"They're worth more than that," said Waddles. + +"Not to me." + +There was a period of silence and then Waddles grunted again. + +"Get it off your chest," I advised him. + +"That fellow," said Waddles, indicating Russell with a jerk of his +thumb, "gives me a pain." + +"And me," said I. + +"I thought Mary Brooke had some sense," complained Waddles; "but I see +now that she's like all the rest--anything with a high shine to it is +gold. Now the pure metal often has a dull finish." + +"Meaning Bill?" I asked. + +"Meaning Bill. He isn't much to look at, but he's on the level, and he +worships the very ground she walks on. Why can't she see it?" + +"Why can't any woman see it?" I asked him. + +"But somebody ought to tell her! Somebody ought to put her wise! +Somebody----" + +"Well," I interrupted, "why don't you volunteer for the job?" + +"Oh, Lord!" groaned Waddles. "It's one of the things that can't be done. +Tell her and you'd only make matters that much worse. And I thought Mary +Brooke had brains!" + +There was a long break in the conversation, during which Waddles munched +great quantities of pretzels and cheese. Then: + +"I wasn't much stuck on that Davidson person the first time I saw him!" +His tone was the tone of a man who seeks an argument. "He's a good +golfer, I admit that, but he's a cup hunter at heart, he's a rotten hard +loser, and--well, he's not on the level!" + +"You've been opening his mail?" I asked. + +"Not at all. Listen! You know the Santa Ynez Gun Club? Well, he's joined +that, among other things. He's a cracking good duck shot. I was down +there the other night, and we had a little poker game." + +"A little poker game?" said I. + +"Table stakes," corrected Waddles. "Davidson was the big winner." + +"You're not hinting----" + +"Nothing so raw as that. Listen! Joe Herriman was in the game, and +playing in the rottenest luck you ever saw. Good hands all the time, +understand, but not quite good enough. If he picked up threes he was +sure to run into a straight, and if he made a flush there was a full +house out against him. Enough to take the heart out of any man. Finally +he picked up a small full before the draw--three treys and a pair of +sevens. Joe opened it light enough, because he wanted everybody in, but +the only man who stayed was Davidson, who drew one card. After the draw +Joe bet ten dollars for a feeler, and Davidson came back at him with +the biggest raise of the night--a cool hundred." + +"Well," said I, "what was wrong with that?" + +"Wait. The hundred-dollar bet started Joe to thinking. He had been +bumping into topping hands all the evening, and Davidson knew it. + +"'If I were you,' says Davidson in a nice kind tone of voice, 'I +wouldn't call that bet. Luck is against you to-night, and I'd advise +you, as a friend, to lay that pat hand down and forget it.' + +"Joe looked at him for a long time and then he looked at his cards; you +see he'd been beaten so often that he'd lost his sense of values. + +"'You think I hadn't better play these?' asks Joe. + +"'I've given you a tip,' says Davidson. 'I hate to see a man go up +against a sure thing.' + +"'Well,' says Joe at last, 'I guess you've done me a favour. It wasn't +much of a full anyway,' and he spread his hand on the table. Davidson +didn't show his cards--he pitched 'em into the discard and raked in the +pot--not more than fifteen dollars outside of his hundred." + +"And what of that?" I asked. + +"Oh, nothing," said Waddles; "nothing, only I was dealing the next hand, +and I arranged to get a flash at the five cards that Davidson tried to +bury in the middle of the deck." + +"What did he have?" + +Waddles snorted angrily. + +"Four diamonds and a spade! A four flush, that's what he had! The two +sevens alone would have beaten him! And all that sympathetic talk, that +bum steer, just to cheat the big loser out of one measly pot! What do +you think of a fellow who'd do a trick like that?" + +I told him what I thought, and again there was silence and cheese. + +"Do you think Mary is going to marry that--that crook?" demanded +Waddles. + +"That's what they say." + +More cheese. + +"I'd like to tell her," said Waddles thoughtfully, "but it's just one of +the things that isn't being done this season. I'd like to give her a +line on that handsome scalawag--before it's too late. I can't waltz up +to her and tell her that he's bogus. There must be some other way. But +how? How?" + +Waddles sighed and attacked the cheese again. You'd hardly think that a +man could get an inspiration out of the kind of cheese that our House +Committee buys to give away, but before Waddles left the club that +evening he informed me that a mixed-foursome tournament wouldn't be half +bad--for a change. + +"You won't get many entries," said I. "You know how the men fight shy of +any golf with women in it." + +"Don't want many." + +"Then why a tournament?" I asked. "The entry fees won't pay for the +cups." + +"I'm giving the cups," said Waddles, and investigated the cheese bowl +once more. "Two of 'em. One male cup and one female cup. About sixteen +dollars they'll set me back, but I've an idea--just a sneaking, +lingering scrap of a notion--that I'll get my money's worth." + +And he went away mumbling to himself and blowing cracker crumbs out of +his mouth. + + +IV + +Of course you know the theory of the mixed foursome. There are four +players, two men and two women, and each couple plays one ball. It +sounds very simple. Miss Jones and Mr. Brown are partners. Miss Jones +drives, and it is up to Mr. Brown to play the next shot from where the +ball lies, after which Miss Jones takes another pop at the pill, and so +on until the putt sinks. Yes, it sounds like an innocent pastime, but of +all forms of golf the mixed foursome carries the highest percentage of +danger and explosive material. It is the supreme test of nerves and +temper, and the trial-by-acid of the disposition. + +In our club there is an unwritten law that no wife shall be partnered +with her husband in a mixed-foursome match, because husbands and wives +have a habit of saying exactly what they think about each other--a +practise which should be confined to the breakfast table. There was a +case once--but let us avoid scandal. She has a new husband and he has a +new wife. + +Waddles' mixed-foursome tournament was scheduled for a Thursday, and it +was amazing how many of the male members discovered that imperative +business engagements would keep them from participating in the contest. +The women were willing enough to play--they always are, bless 'em!--but +it was only after a vast amount of effort and Mexican diplomacy that +Waddles was able to lead six goats to the slaughter. Six, did I say? +Five. Russell Davidson needed no urging. + +The man who gave Waddles the most trouble was Bill Hawley. Bill was +polite about it, but firm--oh, very firm. He didn't want any mixed +foursomes in his young life, thank you just the same. More than that, he +was busy. Waddles had to put it on the ground of a personal favour +before Bill showed the first sign of wavering. + +When I arrived at the club on Thursday noon I found Waddles sweating +over the handicaps for his six couples. Now it is a cinch to handicap +two women or two men if they are to play as partners, but to handicap a +woman and a man is quite another matter, and all recognised rules go by +the board. I watched the old boy for some time, but I couldn't make head +or tail of his system. Finally I asked him how he handicapped a mixed +foursome. + +"With prayer," said Waddles. "With prayer, and in fear and trembling. +And sometimes that ain't any good." + +I noted that he had given Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson the lowest +mark--10. Beth Rogers and Bill Hawley were next with 16, and the other +couples ranged on upward to the blue sky. + +"Of course," I suggested, "the low handicap is something of a +compliment, but haven't you slipped Davidson a bit the worst of it?" + +"Not at all," growled Waddles. "He was just crazy to get into this +thing, and he wouldn't have been unless he figured to have a cinch; +consequently, hence and by reason of which I've given him a mark that'll +make him draw right down to his hand. He won't play any four-flush +here." Waddles then arranged the personnel of the foursomes, and jotted +down the order in which they would leave the first tee. When I saw which +quartette would start last I offered another suggestion. + +"You're not helping Bill's game any," said I. "You know that he doesn't +like Davidson, and----" + +Waddles stopped me with his frozen-faced, stuffed-owl stare. In deep +humiliation I confess that at the time I attributed it to his distaste +for criticism. I realise now that it must have been amazement at my +stupidity. + +"Excuse me for living," said I with mock humility. + +"There is no excuse," said Waddles heavily. + +Bill turned up on the tee at the last moment, and if he didn't like the +company in which he found himself he masked his feelings very well. + +"How do, Mary? Beth, this is a pleasure. How are you, Davidson? Ladies +first, I presume?" + +"Drive, Miss Rogers," said Davidson. + +Now a fluffy blonde is all right, I suppose, if she wears a hair net. +Beth doesn't, and her golden aureole would make a Circassian woman +jealous. Still, there are people who think Beth is a beauty. I more than +half suspect that Beth is one of them. Beth drove, and the ball plumped +into the cross bunker. + +"Oh, partner!" she squealed. "Can you ever forgive me?" + +"That's all right," Bill assured her. "I've often been in there myself. +Takes a good long shot to carry that bunker." + +"It's perfectly dear of you to say so!" + +"Fore!" said Mary, who was on the tee, and the conversation ceased. + +"Better shoot to the left," advised Russell, "and go round the end of +the bunker." + +Mary stopped waggling her club to look at him. If there is anything in +which the female of the golfing species takes sinful pride it is the +length of her drive. She likes to stand up on a tee used by the men and +smack the ball over the cross bunker. She wouldn't trade a +two-hundred-yard drive for twenty perfect approach shots. She may be a +wonder on the putting green, but she offers herself no credit for that. +It is the long tee shot that takes her eye--the drive that skims the +bunker and goes on up the course. Waddles says the proposition of sex +equality has a bearing on the matter, but I claim that it is just +ordinary, everyday pride in being able to play a man's game, man +fashion. + +Coming from a total stranger, that suggestion about driving to the left +would have been regarded as a deadly insult; coming from Russell---- + +"But I think I can carry it," said Mary with a tiny pout. + +"Change your stance and drive to the left." The suggestion had become a +command. + +"Fore!" said Mary again--and whacked the ball straight into the +bunker--straight into the middle of it. + +"Now, you see?" Russell was aggravated, and showed it. "If you had +changed your stance and put that ball somewhere to the left you might +have given me a chance to reach the green. As it is----" + +He was still enlarging upon her offence as they moved away from the tee. +Mary did not answer him, but she gave Beth a bright smile, as much as to +say, "What care I?" Bill trailed along in the rear, juggling a niblick, +his homely face wiped clean of all expression. + +There wasn't much to choose between the second shots--both lies were +about as bad as could be--but Russell got out safely and Bill +duplicated the effort. + +Beth then elected to use her brassy, and sliced the ball into the long +grass. Of course she had to wail about it. + +"Isn't that just too maddening? Partner, I'm so sorry!" + +"Don't you care," grinned Bill. "That's just my distance with a mashie. +And as for long grass, I dote on it." + +Mary was taking her brassy out of the bag when Russell butted in +again--with excellent advice, I must confess. + +"You can't reach the green anyway," said he, "so take an iron and keep +on the course." + +There was a warning flash in Mary's eye which a wiser man would not have +ignored. + +"Remember you've got a partner," urged Russell. "Take an iron, there's a +good girl." + +"Oh, Russell! Do be still; you fuss me so!" + +"But, my dear! I'm only trying to help----" + +The swish of the brassy cut his explanation neatly in two, and the ball +went sailing straight for the distant flag--a very pretty shot for any +one to make. + +"Oh, a peach!" cried Bill. "A peach!" + +"And you," said Mary, turning accusingly to Russell, "you wanted me to +take an iron!" + +"Because you can keep straighter with an iron," argued Davidson. + +"Wasn't that ball straight enough to please you?" asked Mary with just a +touch of malice. + +"You had luck," was the ungracious response, "but it doesn't follow that +all your wooden-club shots will turn out as well. The theory of the +mixed foursome is to leave your partner with a chance to hit the ball." + +"Oh, dear!" sighed Beth. "Now you're making me feel like a criminal!" + +"Lady," said Bill, "if I don't mind, why should you?" + +"I think you're an angel!" gushed Beth. + +"Yep," replied Bill, "I am; but don't tell anybody." + +While Mary and Russell were discussing the theory of the mixed foursome +old Bill made a terrific mashie shot out of the grass, and the ball +reached the edge of the green. Beth applauded wildly, Mary chimed in, +but Davidson did not open his mouth. He was irritated, and made no +secret of it, but his irritation did not keep him from dropping the next +shot on the putting green. + +Bill didn't even blink when Beth took her putter and overran the hole by +ten feet. Beth said she knew he'd never, never speak to her again in +this world, and she couldn't blame him if he didn't. + +"Well," said Bill cheerfully, "you gave the ball a chance, anyhow. +That's the main thing. It's better to be over than short." + +"You're a perfect dear!" said Beth. "I'll do better--see if I don't." + +Mary then prepared to putt, Russell's approach having left her twelve +feet short of the hole. "And be sure to get it there," cautioned her +partner. "It's uphill, you know. Allow for it." + +Mary bit her lip and hit the grass an inch behind the ball. It rolled +something less than four feet. + +"Hit the ball! Hit the ball!" snapped Russell angrily. "What's the +matter with you to-day?" + +Mary apologised profusely--probably to keep Russell quiet; and she +laughed too--a dry, hard little laugh that didn't have any fun in it. +Bill glared at Davidson for an instant, and his mouth opened, but he +swallowed whatever impulse was troubling him, and carefully laid his +ball on the lip of the cup for a two-inch putt that not even Beth could +have missed. Russell then holed his long one, which seemed to put him in +a better humour, and the men started for the second tee. In mixed +foursomes the drive alternates. + +Mary and Beth took the short cut used by the caddies, and I followed +them at a discreet distance. Mary babbled incessantly about everything +in the world but golf, which was her way of conveying the impression +that nothing unusual had happened; and Beth, womanlike, helped her out +by pretending to be deeply interested in what Mary was saying. And yet +they tell you that if women could learn to bluff they would make good +poker players! + +As I waited for the men to drive I thought of the Mary Brooke I used to +know--the leggy little girl with her hair in pigtails--and I remembered +that in those days she would stand just so much teasing from the boys, +and then somebody would be slapped--hard. Had she changed so much, I +wondered? + +On the third hole Russell began nagging again, and Bill's face was a +study. For two cents I think he would have choked him. Mary tried to +carry it off with a smile, but it was a weak effort. Nothing but +absolute obedience and recognition of his right to give orders would +satisfy Russell. + +"It's no use your telling me now that you're sorry," he scolded after +Mary had butchered a spoon shot on Number Three. "You won't take advice +when it's offered. I told you not to try that confounded spoon. A spoon +is no club for a beginner." + +Mary gasped. + +"But--I'm not a beginner! I've been playing ever and ever so long! And I +like that spoon." + +"I don't care what you like. If we win this thing you must do as I say." + +"Oh! So that's it--because you want to win?" + +"What do you think I entered for--exercise? Nothing to beat but a lot of +dubs--and you're not even trying!" + +"Bill is no dub." Mary flared up a bit in defence of her old friend. + +"Ho!" sneered Russell. "So you call him Bill, do you?" + +I lost the thread of the conversation there because Mary lowered her +voice, but she must have told the young man something for the good of +his soul. Anyway he was in a savage frame of mind when he stepped on the +fourth tee. He wanted to quarrel with some one, but it wouldn't have +been healthy to pick on old Bill, and Russell probably realised it. Bill +hadn't spoken to him since the first hole, and to be thus calmly ignored +was fresh fuel on a smouldering fire. + +There was another explosion on Number Four--such a loud one that +everybody heard it. + +"There you go again!" snarled Russell. "I give you a perfect drive--I +leave you in a position where all you have to do is pop a little mashie +over a bunker to the green--and see what a mess you've made of it! I'm +sorry I ever entered this fool tournament!" + +"I'm sorry too," said Mary quietly, and walked away from him leaving him +fuming. + +It must have been an uncomfortable situation for Beth and Bill. They +kept just as far away from the other pair as they could--an exhibition +of delicacy which I am sure Mary appreciated--and pretended not to hear +the nasty things Russell said, though there were times when Bill had to +hide his clenched fists in his coat pockets. He wanted to hit +something, and hit it hard, so he took it out on the ball, with +excellent results. And no matter what Beth did or did not do Bill never +had anything for her but a cheery grin and words of encouragement. They +got quite chummy, those two, and once or twice I thought I surprised +resentment in Mary's eye. I may have been mistaken. + +Russell grew more rabid as the round proceeded, possibly because Mary's +manner was changing. After the seventh hole, where Russell said it was a +waste of time to try to teach a woman anything about the use of a wooden +club, Mary made not the slightest attempt to placate him. She +deliberately ignored his advice, and did it smilingly. She became very +gay, and laughed a great deal--too much, in fact--and of course her +attitude did not help matters to any appreciable extent. A bully likes +to have a victim who cringes under the lash. + +The last nine was painful, even to a spectator, and if Russell Davidson +had been blessed with the intelligence which God gives a goose he would +have kept his mouth shut; but no, he seemed determined to force Mary to +take some notice of his remarks. The strangest thing about it was that +some fairly good golf was played by all hands. Even fuzzy-headed little +Beth pulled off some pretty shots, whereupon Bill cheered uproariously. +I think he found relief in making a noise. + +While they were on the seventeenth green I spied old Waddles against +the skyline, cutting off the entire sunset, and I climbed the hill to +tell him the news. You may believe it or not, but up to that moment I +had overlooked Waddles entirely. I had been stupid enough to think that +the show I had been witnessing was an impromptu affair--a thing of pure +chance, lacking a stage manager. Just as I reached the top of the hill, +enlightenment came to me--came in company with Mary's laugh, rippling up +from below. At a distance it sounded genuine. A shade of disappointment +crossed Waddles' wide and genial countenance. + +"So it didn't work," said he. "It didn't work--and I'm sixteen dollars +to the bad. Hey! Quit pounding me on the back! Anybody but a born ass +would have known the whole thing was cooked up for Mary's benefit--and +you've just tumbled, eh? Now then, what has he done?" + +Briefly, and in words of one syllable, I sketched Russell's activities. +Waddles wagged his head soberly. + +"Treated her just the same as if he was already married to her, eh? A +mixed foursome is no-o-o place for a mean man; give him rope enough and +he'll hang himself. How do they stand?" + +I had not been keeping the score, so we walked down the hill to the +eighteenth tee. + +"Pretty soft for you folks," said Waddles with a disarming grin. +"Pretty soft. You've only got to beat a net 98." + +"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell snatched a score card from +his pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left his +face; his eyes sparkled; he smiled. + +"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that--84. Why--it's a +cinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!" + +"And you?" asked Waddles, turning to Bill. + +"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's their +handicap?" + +"Sixteen," answered Waddles. + +"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to be +interesting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here. +Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Go +straight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three." + +Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles--Waddles, with his +lip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cup +hunters and winter members who try to hog the course. + +Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summit +of the hill. + +"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we've +got 'em licked!" + +Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots--two hundred +pounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind the +pill--and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, and +at every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ball +straight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as he +offered it. I never saw a man change so in a short space of time. + +"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tiny +bit better----" + +"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between +friends?" + +"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling +silver, you poor cow!" + +Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our +last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is +paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom +of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and +heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is +almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair +green there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball may +easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution. + +"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we +need is a six." + +"Boy," said Mary, addressing the caddie, "my brassy, please." + +"Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me. +We've got this thing won now----" + +"Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but most +men do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back, +stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings--four of +them. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing career +depended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club head +descended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followed +through beautifully--but at the click of contact a strangled howl of +anguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the rounded +toe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result was +a flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green--a +wretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. By +running at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as it +bounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled--the first +real smile of the afternoon. + +"Isn't that provoking?" said she. + +Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must have +been all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows and +half buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothing +short of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill. +Even Waddles applauded the shot. + +Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked the +burs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers. + +"Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means a +possible five--a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake, +Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to lay +the ball dead!" + +Waddles sniffed. + +"He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was Mary +Brooke----Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot at +it with that brassy!" + +But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, he +entreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath. + +"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice this +one. You watch me." She kept her promise--kept it with a savage hook, +which sailed clear across the course and into the thick grass. The ball +carried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, and +disappeared without even a bounce. + +"That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a foot +deep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away." + +Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar, +lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the putting +green, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough and +relieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit, +however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore through +that tangle of thick grass, cut under the ball and sent it spinning high +in the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green. + +We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our reward +was a black scowl, which we shared with Mary. + +"Lay it up!" said he curtly. "A seven may tie 'em. Lay it up!" + +By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of the +match. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studied +the shot. It was an absurdly simple one--a 30-foot approach over a level +green, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then if +Beth missed her ten-footer---- + +"It's fast," warned Russell. "It's fast, so don't hit it too hard!" + +Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly a +gasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watching +Russell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicate +shade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skate +merrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterward +expressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before it +stopped. + +Mary ignored the polite murmur of sympathy from the gallery. + +"Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'm +afraid you're away." + +Waddles pinched my arm. + +"Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? She +threw him down--threw him down cold!" + +Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a noble effort to hole the +putt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ball +within three inches of the cup. + +"Put it down!" grunted Russell. "Sink it--and let's get it done with!" + +Bill tapped the ball into the hole, and the match was over. + +"Why--why," stuttered Beth, "then--we've _won_!" + +At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one more +exchange of remarks between the losers as they started for the +clubhouse. + +"We had it won--if you'd only listened to me----" Russell began. + +"Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you all +the afternoon--listening and learning!" + + * * * * * + +That very same evening I was sitting on my front porch studying the +stars and meditating upon the mutability of human relationships. + +A familiar runabout drew up at the Brooke house, and a young man passed +up the walk, moving with a stiff and stately stride. In exactly twelve +minutes and thirty-two seconds by my watch the young man came out again, +bounced down the steps, jumped into his car, slammed the door with a +bang like a pistol shot, and departed from the neighbourhood with a +grinding and a clashing of gears which might have been heard for half a +mile. + +The red tail light had scarcely disappeared down the street when big +Bill Hawley lumbered across the Brooke lawn, took the front steps at a +bound and rang the doorbell. + +Not being of an inquisitive and a prying nature, I cannot be certain how +long he remained, but at 11:37 I thought I heard a door close, and +immediately afterward some one passed under my window whistling loudly +and unmelodiously. The selection of the unknown serenader was that +pretty little thing which describes the end of a perfect day. + + + + +"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR" + + +I + +The front porch of our clubhouse is a sort of reserved-seat section from +which we witness the finish of all important matches. The big wicker +rocking-chairs command the eighteenth putting green, as well as the +approach to it, and when nothing better offers we watch the dub +foursomes come straggling home, herding the little white pills in front +of them. + +We were doing this only yesterday--Waddles, the Bish and yours +truly--and Waddles was picking the winners and losers at a distance of +three hundred yards. The old rascal is positively uncanny at that sort +of thing; in fact, he rather prides himself on his powers of +observation. The Bish was arguing with him, as usual. Of course he isn't +really a bishop, but he has a long, solemn ecclesiastical upper lip and +a heavy manner of trundling out the most commonplace remarks, so we call +him the Bish, and there is nothing he can do about it. In justice to all +parties concerned I feel it my duty to state that in every other way he +is quite unlike any bishop I have ever met. + +"Hello!" said Waddles, sitting up straight. "Here's the Old +Guard--what's left of it, at least." + +Away down to the right of the sycamore trees a single figure topped the +brow of the hill and stalked along the sky line. There was no mistaking +the long, thin legs or the stiff swing with which they moved. + +"Walks like a pair of spavined sugar tongs," was Waddles' comment. "You +can tell Pete Miller as far as you can see him." + +A second figure shot suddenly into view--the figure of a small, nervous +man who brandished a golf club and danced from sheer excess of emotion, +but even at three hundred yards it was evident that there was no joy in +that dance. Waddles chuckled. + +"Bet you anything you like," said he, "that Sam Totten sliced his tee +shot into the apricot orchard. He's played about four by now--and +they're cutthroating it on the drink hole, same as they always do.... +About time for Jumbo to be putting in an appearance." + +While he was speaking a tremendous form loomed large on the sky line, +dwarfing Miller and Totten. Once on level ground this giant struck a +rolling gait and rapidly overhauled his companions--overhauled them in +spite of two hundred and sixty pounds and an immense paunch which +swayed from side to side as he walked. + +"Little Jumbo," said Waddles, sinking back in his chair. "Little Jumbo, +with his bag of clubs tucked under his left arm--one driver and all of +three irons. He carries that awful load because his doctor tells him he +ought to reduce. And he eats four pieces of apple pie à la mode with his +lunch. But a fine old fellow at that.... Well, I notice it's still a +threesome." + +"Notice again," said the Bish, pointing to the left of the sycamores. + +Waddles looked, and rose from his chair with a grunt of amazement. A +fourth figure came dragging itself up the slope of the hill--the +particular portion of the slope of the hill where the deepest trouble is +visited upon a sliced second shot. Judging by his appearance and manner +this fourth golfer had been neck-deep in grief, to say nothing of cactus +and manzanita. His head was hanging low on his breast, his shoulders +were sagging, his feet were shuffling along the ground, and he trailed a +golf club behind him. When a man trails a club to the eighteenth putting +green it is a sure sign that all is over but the shouting; and the wise +observer will do his shouting in a whisper. Waddles sat down suddenly. + +"Well, as I live and breathe and run the Yavapai Golf and Country Club!" +he ejaculated, "there's my old friend, Mr. Peacock, with all his tail +feathers pulled out! The deserter has joined the colours again, and the +Old Guard is recruited to full war strength once more! They've actually +taken him back, after the way he's acted, too! Now what do you think of +that, eh?" + +"If you ask me," said the Bish in his booming chest notes, "I'd say it +was just a case of _similia similibus curantur_." + +"Nothing of the sort!" said Waddles, bristling instantly; "and besides, +I don't know what you mean. Bish, when you cut loose that belly barytone +of yours you always remind me of an empty barrel rolling down the cellar +stairs--a lot of noise, but you never spill anything worth mopping up. +Come again with that foreign stuff." + +"_Similia similibus curantur_," repeated the Bish. "That's Latin." + +Waddles shook his head. + +"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. While +you were hog-wrastling Cæsar's Commentaries I was down in the Indian +Territory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. I +learned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as I +got. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plain +unvarnished United States." + +"Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction, +"that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite." + +"The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "The +hair--of--the--dog.... H'm-m." + +"Oh, it's deep stuff," said the Bish. "Take a good long breath and dive +for it." + +"The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," said +Waddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn't +drink." + +The Bish made use of a very unorthodox expletive. + +"Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something cured +him. Think it over." + +Slowly the light of intelligence dawned in Waddles' eyes. He began to +laugh inwardly, quivering like a mould of jelly, but the joke was too +big to remain inside him. It burst forth, first in chuckles, then in +subdued guffaws, and finally in whoops and yells, and as he whooped he +slapped his fat knees and wallowed in his chair. + +"Why," he panted, "I saw it all the time--of course I did! It was just +your fool way of putting it! The hair of the dog--oh, say, that's rich! +Make a note of that Latin thing, Bish. I want to spring it on the +Reverend Father Murphy!" + +"Certainly--but where are you off to in such a hurry?" + +"Me?" said Waddles. "I'm going to do something I've never done before. +I'm going to raise a man's handicap from twelve to eighteen!" + +He went away, still laughing, and I looked over toward the eighteenth +green. Pete Miller was preparing to putt, Sam Totten and Jumbo were +standing side by side, and in the background was Henry Peacock, his +hands in his pockets, his cap tilted down over his eyes and his lower +lip entirely out of control. His caddie was already on the way to the +shed with the bag of clubs. + +"From twelve handicap to eighteen," said I. "That's more or less of an +insult. Think he'll stand for it?" + +"He'll stand for anything right now," said the Bish. "Look at him! He's +picked up his ball--on the drink hole too. Give him the once +over--'mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream!'" + + +II + +As far back as my earliest acquaintance with the royal and ancient game, +the Old Guard was an institution of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club--a +foursome cemented by years and usage, an association recognised as +permanent, a club within the club--four eighteen-handicap men, bound by +the ties of habit and hopeless mediocrity. The young golfer improves his +game and changes his company, graduating from Class B into Class A; the +middle-aged golfer is past improvement, so he learns his limitations, +hunts his level and stays there. Peter Miller, Frank Woodson, Henry +Peacock and Sam Totten were fixtures in the Grand Amalgamated Order of +Dubs, and year in and year out their cards would have averaged something +like ninety-seven. They were oftener over the century mark than below +it. + +Every golf club has a few permanent foursomes, but most of them are held +together by common interests outside the course. For instance, we have a +bankers' foursome, an insurance foursome and a wholesale-grocery +foursome, and the players talk shop between holes. We even have a +foursome founded on the ownership of an automobile, a jitney alliance, +as Sam Totten calls it; but the Old Guard cannot be explained on any +such basis, nor was it a case of like seeking like. + +Peter Miller, senior member, is grey and silent and as stiff as his own +putter shaft. He is the sort of man who always lets the other fellow do +all the talking and all the laughing, while he sits back with the air of +one making mental notes and reservations. Peter is a corporation lawyer +who seldom appears in court, but he loads the gun for the young and +eloquent pleader and tells him what to aim at and when to pull the +trigger. A solid citizen, Peter, and a useful one. + +Frank Woodson, alias Jumbo, big and genial and hearty, has played as +Miller's partner for years and years, and possesses every human quality +that Peter lacks. They say of Frank--and I believe it--that in all his +life he never hurt a friend or lost one. Frank is in the stock-raising +business at present, and carries a side line of blue-blooded dogs. He +once made me a present of one, but I am still his friend. + +A year ago I would have set against Henry Peacock's name the words +"colourless" and "neutral." A year ago I thought I knew all about him; +now I am quite certain that there is something in Henry Peacock's nature +that will always baffle me. Waddles swears that Peacock was born with +his fingers crossed and one hand on his pocketbook, but that is just his +extravagant way of putting things. Henry has shown me that it is +possible to maintain a soft, yielding exterior, and yet be hard as +adamant inside. He has also demonstrated that a meek man's pride is a +thing not lightly dismissed. I have revised all my estimates of H. +Peacock, retired capitalist. + +Last of all we have Samuel Totten, youngest of the Old Guard by at least +a dozen years. How he ever laughed his way into that close corporation +is a mystery, but somewhere in his twenties he managed it. Sam is a +human firebrand, a dash of tabasco, a rough comedian and +catch-as-catch-can joker. Years have not tamed him, but they have +brought him into prominence as a consulting specialist in real estate +and investments. Those who should know tell that Sam Totten can park his +itching feet under an office desk and keep them there long enough to +swing a big deal, but I prefer to think of him as the rather florid +young man who insists on joining the hired orchestra and playing +snare-drum solos during the country-club dances, much to the +discomfiture of the gentleman who owns the drum. You will never realise +how poor Poor Butterfly is until you hear Sam Totten execute that melody +upon his favourite instrument. + +These four men met twice a week, rain or shine, without the formality of +telephoning in advance. Each one knew that, barring flood, fire or act +of God, the others would be on hand, fed, clothed and ready to leave the +first tee at one-fifteen P. M. If one of the quartette happened to be +sick or out of town the others would pick up a fourth man and take him +round the course with them, but that fourth man recognised the fact that +he was not of the Old Guard, but merely with it temporarily. He was +never encouraged to believe that he had found a home. + +Imagine then, this permanent foursome, this coalition of fifteen years' +standing, this sacred institution, smitten and smashed by a bolt from +the blue. And like most bolts from the blue it picked out the most +unlikely target. Henry Peacock won the Brutus B. Hemmingway Cup! + +Now as golf cups go the Hemmingway Cup is quite an affair--eighteen +inches from pedestal to brim, solid silver of course, engraved and +scrolled and chased within an inch of its life. Mr. Hemmingway puts up a +new cup each year, the conditions of play being that the trophy shall +go to the man making the best net score. A Class-B man usually wins it +with a handicap of eighteen or twenty-four and the Class-A men +slightingly refer to Mr. Hemmingway's trophy as "the dub cup." Sour +grapes, of course. + +I remember Mr. Peacock's victory very well; in fact, I shall never +forget it. On that particular afternoon my net score was seventy-one, +five strokes under our par, and for half an hour or so I thought the +Hemmingway Cup was going home with me. I recall trying to decide whether +it would show to best advantage on the mantel in the living room or on +the sideboard in the dining room. Numbers of disappointed contestants +offered me their congratulations--they said it was about time I won +something, even with the assistance of a fat handicap--and for half an +hour I endeavoured to bear my honours with becoming modesty. Waddles +brought the Hemmingway Cup over and put it in the middle of the table. + +"'S all yours, I guess," said he. "Nobody out now but the Old Guard. Not +one of them could make an 88 with a lead pencil, and that's what they've +got to do to beat you. Might as well begin to buy." + +I began to buy, and while I was signing the first batch of tags the Old +Guard came marching in from the eighteenth green. Sam Totten was in the +lead, walking backward and twirling his putter as a drum major twirls a +baton. Frank Woodson and Peter Miller were acting as an escort of +honour for Henry Peacock, and I began to have misgivings. I also ceased +signing tags. + +The door of the lounging room crashed open and Sam Totten entered, +dragging Henry Peacock behind him. Miller and Woodson brought up the +rear. + +"Hey, Waddles!" shouted Sam. "What do you think of this old stiff? He +shot an eighty-two; he did, on the level!" + +"An eighty-two?" said I. "Then his net was----" + +"Sixty-four," murmured Mr. Peacock with an apologetic smile. +"Yes--ah--sixty-four." + +"The suffering Moses!" gulped Waddles. "How did he do it?" + +"He played golf," said Peter Miller. "Kept his tee shots straight, and +holed some long putts." + +"Best round he ever shot in his life!" Woodson chimed in. "Won three +balls from me, but it's a pleasure to pay 'em, Henry, on account of your +winning the cup! Who'd have thought it?" + +"And we're proud of him!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm proud of him! He's my +partner! An eighty-two--think of an old stiff like him shooting an +eighty-two! One foot in the grave, and he wins a cup sixteen hands high +and big as a horse! Cheers, gentlemen, cheers for the Old Guard! It +dies, but it never surrenders!" + +"Here," said I, thrusting the rest of the tags into Henry's limp and +unresisting hand. "You sign these." + +"But," said he, "I--I didn't order anything, and I won the drink hole." + +"You won the cup too, didn't you?" demanded Waddles. "Winner always +buys--buys for everybody. Boy, bring the rest of those tags back here +and let Mr. Peacock sign them too. Winner always buys, Henry. That's a +club rule." + +Mr. Peacock sat down at the table, put on his glasses and audited those +tags to the last nickel. After he had signed them all he picked up the +Hemmingway Cup and examined it from top to bottom. + +"Can you beat that?" whispered Waddles in my ear. "The old piker is +trying to figure, with silver as low as it is, whether he's ahead or +behind on the deal!" + +"Well, boys," said Sam Totten, standing on his chair and waving his +arms, "here's to the Old Guard! We won a cup at last! Old Henry won it; +but it's all in the family, ain't it, Henry? Betcher life it is! The Old +Guard--drink her up, and drink her down!" + +Frank Woodson dropped his big ham of a hand on Henry Peacock's shoulder. + +"I couldn't have been half so tickled if I'd won it myself!" said he. +"You see, you never won a cup before. I won one once--runner-up in the +fifth flight over at San Gabriel. Nice cup, silver and all that, but +you've got to have a magnifying glass to _see_ it. Now this Hemmingway +Cup, Henry, is a regular old he cup. You can't put it where your +visitors won't find it. You can be proud of it, old son, and we're proud +of you." + +"Same here," said Peter Miller, and his face twisted into something +remotely resembling a smile. "Did my heart good to see the old boy +laying those tee shots out in the middle every time. We're all proud of +you, Henry." + +"Proud!" exclaimed Sam Totten. "I'm so proud I'm all out of shape!" + +Peacock didn't have much to say. He sat there smiling his tight little +smile and looking at the silver cup. I believe that even then the idea +of desertion had entered into his little two-by-four soul. There was a +thoughtful look in his eyes, and he didn't respond to Totten's hilarity +with any great degree of enthusiasm. + +"What was it the admiral said at Santiago?" asked Sam. "'There's glory +enough for us all!' Wasn't that it?" + +"Mph!" grunted Waddles. "Since you're getting into famous remarks of +history, what was it the governor of North Carolina----" + +"I think I'll take my bath now," interrupted Henry Peacock, rising. + +"You will not!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm going to buy. Jumbo here is going +to buy. Pete is going to buy. Where do you get that bath stuff? We don't +win a cup every day, Henry. Sit down!" + +An hour later Waddles emerged from the shower room, looking very much +like an overgrown cupid in his abbreviated underwear. Henry Peacock had +been waiting for him. The Hemmingway Cup, in its green felt bag, dangled +from his wrist. My locker is directly across the alley from Waddles', +and I overheard the entire conversation. + +"I--I just wanted to say," began Henry, "that any cut you might want to +make in my handicap will be all right with me." + +Waddles growled. He has never yet found it necessary to consult a victim +before operating on his handicap. There was a silence and then Henry +tried again. + +"I really think my handicap ought to be cut," said he. + +"Oh, it'll be _cut_ all right!" said Waddles cheerfully. "Don't you +worry about that. Any old stiff who brings in a net of sixty-four has a +cut coming to him. Leave it to me!" + +"Well," said Henry, "I just wanted you to know how I felt about it. I--I +want to be quite frank with you. Of course, I probably won't shoot an +eighty-two every time out"--here Waddles gasped and plumped down on the +bench outside his locker--"but when a man brings in a net score that is +twelve strokes under the par of the course I think some notice should be +taken of it." + +"Oh, you do, do you? Listen, Henry! Since we're going to be frank with +each other, what do you think your new handicap ought to be?" Waddles +was stringing him of course, but Henry didn't realise it. + +"I think ten would be about right," said he calmly. + +"Ten!" barked Waddles. "The suffering Moses! Ten! Henry, are you sure +you're quite well--not overexcited or anything?" + +"All I had was four lemonades." + +"Ah!" said Waddles. "Four lemonades--and Sam Totten winked at the bar +boy every time. Why, if I cut you from eighteen to ten that'll put you +in Class A!" + +"I think that's where I belong." + +"I'll have to talk with the head bar boy," said Waddles. "He shouldn't +be so reckless with that gin. It costs money these days. Listen to me, +Henry. Take hold of your head with both hands and try to get what I say. +You went out to-day and shot your fool head off. You played the best +round of golf in your long and sinful career. You made an eighty-two. +You'll never make an eighty-two again as long as you live. It would be a +crime to handicap you on to-day's game, Henry. It would be manslaughter +to put you in Class A. You don't belong there. If you want me to cut you +I'll put you down to sixteen, and even then you won't play to that mark +unless you're lucky." + +"I think I belong at ten," said Peacock. I began to appreciate that +line about the terrible insistence of the meek. + +"Get out of here!" ordered Waddles, suddenly losing his patience. "Go +home and pray for humility, Henry. Lay off the lemonade when Sam Totten +is in the crowd. Lemonade is bad for you. It curdles the intelligence +and warps the reasoning faculties. Shoo! Scat! Mush on! Vamose! Beat it! +Hurry up! _Wiki-wiki!_ Chop-chop! _Schnell!_" + +"Then you won't cut me to ten?" + +"I--will--not!" + +Henry sighed and started for the door. He turned with his hand on the +knob. + +"I still think I belong there," was his parting shot. + +"Might as well settle this thing right now," said Waddles to himself. +Then he lifted up his voice in a howl that made the electric lights +quiver. "Send Tom in here!" + +The head bar boy appeared, grinning from ear to ear. + +"Tom," said Waddles, "don't you know you oughtn't to slip a shot of gin +into an old man's lemonade?" + +"Ain't nobody gits gin in his lemonade, suh, 'less he awdeh it +thataway." + +"What did Mr. Peacock have?" + +"Plain lemonade, suh." + +"No kick in it at all?" + +"Not even a wiggle, suh." + +"That'll do," said Waddles; and Tom went back to his work. There was a +long silence. By his laboured breathing I judged that Waddles was lacing +his shoes. Once more he thought aloud. + +"Tom wouldn't lie to me, so it wasn't gin. Now, I wonder.... I wonder if +that old coot has got what they call 'delusions of grandeur'?" + + +III + +On the Monday following the contest for the Hemmingway Cup I met the +Bish at the country club. We arrived there between nine and ten in the +morning, and the first man we saw was Mr. Henry Peacock. He was out on +the eighteenth fairway practising approach shots, and the putting green +was speckled with balls. + +"Hello!" said the Bish. "Look who's here! Practising too. You don't +suppose that old chump is going to try to make a golfer of himself, this +late along?" + +I said that it appeared that way. + +"One-club practise is all right for a beginner," said the Bish, "because +he hasn't any bad habits to overcome, but this poor nut didn't take up +the game till he was forty, and when he learned it he learned it all +wrong. He can practise till he's black in the face and it won't do him +any good. Don't you think we'd better page Doc Osler and have him put +out of his misery?" + +It was then that I told the Bish about Henry's desire to break into +Class A, and he whistled. + +"It got him quick, didn't it?" said he. "Well, there's no fool like an +old fool." + +Half an hour later this was made quite plain to us. Henry came into the +clubhouse to get a drink of water. Now I did not know him very well, and +the Bish had only a nodding acquaintance with him, but he greeted us as +long-lost brothers. I did not understand his cordiality at first, but +the reason for it was soon apparent. Henry wanted to know whether we had +a match up for the afternoon. + +"Sorry," lied the Bish; "we're already hooked up with a foursome." + +Henry said he was sorry too; and moreover he looked it. + +"I was thinking I might get in with you," said he. "What I need is +the--er--opportunity to study better players--er--get some real +competition. Somebody that will make me do my best all the time. Don't +you think that will help my game?" + +"Doubtless," said the Bish in his deepest tone; "but at the same time +you shouldn't get too far out of your class. There is a difference +between being spurred on by competition and being discouraged by it." + +"I shot an eighty-two last Saturday," said Henry quickly. + +"So I hear. So I hear. And how many brassy shots did you hole out?" + +"Not one. It--it wasn't luck. It was good steady play." + +"He admits it," murmured the Bish, but Henry didn't even hear him. + +"Good steady play," he repeated. "What a man does once he can do again. +Eighty-two. Six strokes above the par of the course. My net was twelve +strokes below it--due, of course, to a ridiculously high handicap: I--I +intend to have that altered. Eighty-two is Class-A golf." + +"Or an accident," said the Bish rather coldly. + +"Steady golf is never an accident," argued Henry. "I have thought it all +out and come to the conclusion that what I need now is keener +competition--er--better men to play with; and"--this with a trace of +stubbornness in his tone--"I mean to find them." + +The Bish kicked my foot under the table. + +"That's all very well," said he, "but--how about the Old Guard?" + +The wretched renegade squirmed in his chair. + +"That," said he, "will adjust itself later." + +"You mean that you'll break away?" + +"I didn't say so, did I?" + +"No, but you've been talking about keener competition." + +Henry was not pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. He rose +to go. + +"Woodson and Totten and Miller are fine fellows," said he. "Personally I +hold them in the highest esteem, but you must admit that they are poor +golfers. Not one of them ever shot an eighty-five. I--I have my own +game to consider.... You're quite sure you won't have a vacancy this +afternoon?" + +"Oh, quite," said the Bish, and Henry toddled back to his practise. It +was well that he left us, for the Bish was on the point of an explosion. + +"Well!" said he. "The conceited, ungrateful old scoundrel! Got his own +game to consider--did you hear that? Just one fair-to-middling score in +his whole worthless life, and now he's too swelled up to associate with +the fellows who have played with him all these years, stood for his +little meannesses, covered up his faults and overlooked his +shortcomings! Keener competition, eh? Pah! Would you play with him?" + +"Not on a bet!" said I. + +On the following Wednesday the Old Guard counted noses and found itself +short the star member. Lacking the courage or the decency to inform his +friends of his change of programme, Peacock took the line of least +resistance and elected to escape them by a late arrival. Sam Totten made +several flying trips into the locker room in search of his partner, but +he gave up at last, and at one-thirty the Old Guard drove off, a +threesome. + +At one-thirty-two Henry sneaked into the clubhouse and announced that he +was without a match. The news did not create any great furore. All the +Class-A foursomes were made up, and, to make matters worse, the Bish +had been doing a little quiet but effective missionary work. Henry's +advances brought him smack up against a stone wall of polite but +definite refusal. The cup winner was left out in the cold. + +He finally picked up Uncle George Sawyer, it being a matter of Uncle +George or nobody. Uncle George is a twenty-four-handicap man, but only +when he is at the very top of his game, and he is deaf as a post, left +handed and a confirmed slicer. In addition to these misfortunes Uncle +George is blessed with the disposition of a dyspeptic wildcat, and I +imagine that Mr. Peacock did not have a pleasant afternoon. The Old +Guard pounced on him when he came into the lounging room at five +o'clock. + +"Hey! Why didn't you say that you'd be late?" demanded Sam Totten. "We'd +have waited for you." + +"Well, I'll tell you," said Henry--and he looked like a sheep-killing +dog surprised with the wool in his teeth--"I'll tell you. The fact of +the matter is I--I didn't know just how late I was going to be, and I +didn't think it would be fair to you----" + +"Apology's accepted," said Jumbo, "but don't let it happen again. And +you went and picked on poor old Sawyer too. You--a cup winner--picking +on a cripple like that! Henry, where do you expect to go when you die? +Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" + +"We've got it all fixed up to play at San Gabriel next Saturday," put in +Peter Miller. "You'll go, of course?" + +"I'll ring up and let you know," said Henry, and slipped away to the +shower room. + +I do not know what lies he told over the telephone or how he managed to +squirm out of the San Gabriel trip, but I do know that he turned up at +the country club at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning and spent two +hours panhandling everybody in sight for a match. The keen competition +fought very shy of Mr. Peacock, thanks to the Bish and his whispering +campaign. Everybody was scrupulously polite to him--some even expressed +regret--but nobody seemed to need a fourth man. + +"They're just as glad to see him as if he had smallpox," grinned the +Bish. "Well, I've got a heart that beats for my fellow man. I'd hate to +see Peacock left without any kind of a match. Old Sawyer is asleep on +the front porch. I'll go and tell him that Peacock is here looking for +him." + +It has been years since any one sought Uncle George's company, and the +old chap was delighted, but if Henry was pleased he managed to conceal +his happiness. I learned later that their twosome wound up in a jawing +match on the sixteenth green, in which Uncle George had all the better +of it because he couldn't hear any of the things that Henry called him. +They came to grief over a question of the rules; and Waddles, when +appealed to, decided that they were both wrong--and a couple of fussy +old hens, to boot. + +"Just what I told him!" mumbled Uncle George, who hadn't heard a word +that Waddles said. "The ball nearest the hole----" + +"No such thing!" interrupted Henry, and they went away still squabbling. +Waddles shook his head. + +"He's a fine twelve-handicap man!" said he with scorn. "Doesn't even +know the rules of the game!" + +"Twelve!" said I. "You don't mean----" + +"Yes, I cut him to twelve. Ever since he won that cup he's been hounding +me--by letter, by telephone and by word of mouth. He's like Tom Sawyer's +cat and the pain killer. He kept asking for it, and now he's got it. He +thinks a low handicap will make him play better--stubborn old fool!" + +"And that's not all," said the Bish. "He's left the Old Guard, flat." + +"No!" + +"He has, I tell you." + +"I don't believe it," said Waddles. "He may be all kinds of a chump, but +he wouldn't do that." + +The Old Guard didn't believe it either. It must have been all of three +weeks before Totten and Woodson and Miller realised that Peacock was a +deserter, that he was deliberately avoiding them. At first they accepted +his lame excuses at face value, and when doubt began to creep in they +said the thing couldn't be possible. One day they waited for him and +brought matters to a showdown. Henry wriggled and twisted and squirmed, +and finally blurted out that he had made other arrangements. That +settled it, of course; and then instead of being angry or disgusted with +Henry they seemed to pity him, and from the beginning to the end I am +quite certain that not one of them ever took the renegade to task for +his conduct. Worse than everything else they actually missed him. It was +Frank Woodson, acting as spokesman for the others, who explained the +situation to me. + +"Oh, about Henry? Well, it's this way: We've all got our little +peculiarities--Lord knows I've a few of my own. I never would have +thought this could happen, but it just goes to show how a man gets a +notion crossways in his head and jams up the machinery. Henry is all +right at heart. His head is a little out of line at present, but his +heart is O. K. You see, he won that cup and it gave him a wrong idea. He +really thinks that under certain conditions he can play back to that +eighty-two. I know he can't. We all know he can't; but let him go ahead +and try it. He'll get over this little spell and be a good dog again." + +The Bish, who was present, suggested that the Old Guard should elect a +new member and forget the deserter. + +"No-o," said Frank thoughtfully; "that wouldn't be right. We've talked +it over, the three of us, and we'll keep his place open for him. +Confound it, man! You don't realise that we've been playing together for +more than fifteen years! We understand each other, and we used to have +more fun than anybody, just dubbing round the course. The game doesn't +seem quite the same, with Henry out of it; and I don't think he's having +a very good time, hanging on the fringe of Class A and trying to butt in +where he isn't wanted. No; he'll come back pretty soon, and everything +will be just the same again. We've all got our little peculiarities, +Bish. You've got some. I've got some. The best thing is to be charitable +and overlook as much as you can, hoping that folks will treat you the +same way." + +"And that," said Bish after Jumbo had gone away, "proves the statement +that a friend is 'a fellow who knows all about you and still stands for +you.' How long do you suppose they'll have to wait before that old +imbecile regains his senses?" + +They waited for at least five months, during which time H. Peacock, +Esquire, enrolled himself as the prize pest of the golfing world. The +Class-B men, resenting his treatment of the Old Guard, were determined +not to let him break into one of their foursomes, and the Class-A men +wouldn't have him at any price. The game of pussy-wants-a-corner is all +right for children, but Henry, playing it alone, did not seem to find +it entertaining. He picked up a stranger now and then, but it wasn't the +season for visitors, and even Uncle George Sawyer shied when he saw +Henry coming. The stubbornness which led him to insist that his handicap +be cut would not permit him to hoist the white flag and return to the +fold, and altogether he had a wretched time of it--almost as bad a time +as he deserved. Left to himself he became every known variety of a +golfing nut. He saved his score cards, entering them on some sort of a +comparative chart which he kept in his locker--one of those +see-it-at-a-glance things. He took lessons of the poor professional; he +bought new clubs and discovered that they were not as good as his old +ones; he experimented with every ball on the market; and his game was +neither better nor worse than it was before the Hemmingway Cup poured +its poison into the shrivelled receptacle which passed for Henry +Peacock's soul. + + +IV + +One week ago last Saturday, Sam Totten staged his annual show. Totten +Day is ringed with red on all calendars belonging to Class-B golfers. It +is the day when men win cups who never won cups before. All Class-A men +are barred; it is strictly a Class-B party. Those with handicaps from +twelve to twenty-four are eligible, and there are cups for all sorts of +things--the best gross, the best first nine, the best second nine, the +best score with one hole out, the best score with two holes out, and so +on. Sam always buys the big cup himself--the one for the best gross +score--and he sandbags his friends into contributing at least a dozen +smaller trophies. The big cup is placed on exhibition before play +begins, but the others, as well as the conditions of award, remain under +cover, thus introducing the element of the unexpected. The conditions +are made known as the cups are awarded and the ceremony of presentation +is worth going a long way to see and a longer way to hear. + +On Totten Day three of us were looking for a fourth man, and we +encountered Henry Peacock, in his chronic state of loneliness. The Bish +is sometimes a very secretive person, but he might have spared my +feelings by giving me a hint of his intentions. Henry advanced on us, +expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, but convinced that there was no +harm in the asking. He used the threadbare formula: + +"Any vacancy this afternoon, gentlemen?" + +"Why, yes!" said the Bish. "Yes, we're one man short. Want to go round +with us?" + +Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell all +over himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time would +suit him--just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he would +be at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of the +players, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was a +twelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not. +Yes, anything would suit him--and he scuttled away toward the +dining-room. + +I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listened +without so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip. + +"All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. I +took him in with us because this is Totten Day." + +"What's that got to do with it?" + +"Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. If +he tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. I +want to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts and +has his card turned in." + +"But you don't want that old stiff to win a cup, do you?" + +"I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it. +That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is a +frightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kicking +about? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, and +you can have Dale." + +When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple of +subdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken into +Class-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten, +Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Sam +was acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodson +who came forward and patted Henry on the back. + +"Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get another +eighty-two!" + +"I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"--here he +addressed Henry--"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we go +along. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can." + +"I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I need +pointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated." + +"That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back and +almost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount to +anything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!" + +Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one of +his justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made room +for Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interest +shown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henry +change his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ball +entirely, topping it into the bunker. + +"Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, taking +Henry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot." + +Arriving at the bunker Henry armed himself with his niblick. + +"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can't +you play your jigger at all?" + +"My jigger!" exclaimed Henry. "But--it's a niblick shot, isn't it?" + +"That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a good +lie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it up +clean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball." + +Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get away +with it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dub +like Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting under +instructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit the +sand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely. + +"Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-class +excavating. Scoop her out with the niblick." + +Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassy +wall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged. + +"Now your wood," said he. + +"But I play a cleek better." + +"Nonsense! Take a good hard poke at it with the brassy!" + +And poke it he did--a nasty slice into rough grass. + +"I could have kept it straight with an iron," said Henry reproachfully. + +"Well, of course," said the Bish, "if you don't want me to advise +you----" + +"But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine +how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!" + +"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels. +By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that +first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he +could do better than that. + +"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you, +Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn +there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny." + +"Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now." + +"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get +something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen +competition--and advice." + +Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and the +advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone +with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself, +nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots. +If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If +he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in +nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all +putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the +extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum. + +"He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?" + +I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing out +of that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the first +time since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of the +scores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head--and when +you find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's score +would have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and double +figures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottom +of the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots he +amassed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleated +plaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised him +to put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on his +shots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone, +but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrate +on anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the last +hole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades. + +"You'll be all right, Peacock, if you just remember what I've told you. +The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendency +to underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of getting +too much distance." + +"I--I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all you +gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you again +soon--er--quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything you +can tell me----" + +Henry continued to babble and the Bish drew me aside. + +"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talk +to him about his game--anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep him +there!" + +Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard him +demanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail. + + * * * * * + +The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usual +ceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms, +escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selecting +an obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but when +the jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke of +needing a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my good +fairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup. +Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famous +victory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice of +clubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh hole +when Totten made his last speech. + +"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashie +and not quite far enough for the----" + +There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over the +sea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a large +green felt bag under his arm. + +"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen--if you are gentlemen!--I crave your +indulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an added +trophy--a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!" + +He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by cries +of "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprised +expression on his face told me that this part of the programme was not +of his making. + +"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awarded +for a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me that +this is manifestly one-sided and unfair." + +"Hear! Hear!" cried a voice. + +"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cup +which I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever made +by a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America." + +Henry Peacock jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laid +my hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door. + +"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar had +subsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a double +distinction. He is the holder of two records--one for the lowest net +score on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peacock shot +the course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes.... +Bring the gentleman forward, please!" + +There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of the +confusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surrounded +him, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to the +table, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him and +surged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over and +placed the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lip +was trembling with rage. + +"Open it up! Come on, let's see it!" + +Mr. Peacock cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged his +hand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but it +was a cup, sure enough--a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feeble +imitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents. +And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was the +record of Mr. Peacock's activities for the afternoon, in gross and +detail, as follows: + + HOLES PAR PEACOCK + + 1 4 11 + 2 4 9 + 3 4 8 + 4 5 8 + 5 3 7 + 6 6 15 + 7 5 9 + 8 4 8 + 9 4 12 + 10 5 12 + 11 3 7 + 12 4 8 + 13 4 9 + 14 3 7 + 15 4 8 + 16 4 9 + 17 5 11 + 18 5 9 + -- --- + Total 76 167 + +As Henry gazed at this work of art a shout came from the back of the +room. Waddles had come to life. + +"Winner buys, Henry! Winner always buys! It's a rule of the club!" + +"The club be damned!" cried Henry Peacock as he fought his way to the +door. + +"Bish," said Frank Woodson, "that was a rotten trick to play on anybody. +You shouldn't have done it." + +"A rotten case," replied the Bish, "requires a rotten remedy. It's kill +or cure; even money and take your pick." + + * * * * * + +As it turned out it was a cure. + +Henry Peacock is once more a member of the Old Guard, in good standing +and entitled to all privileges. Totten, Woodson and Miller received him +with open arms, and they actually treat the old reprobate as if nothing +had happened. I believe it will be a long time before he reminds them +that he once shot an eighty-two, and a longer time before he breaks a +ninety. + + + + +A CURE FOR LUMBAGO + + +I + +Colonel Jimmy threatens to resign from the club. He says it was sharp +practice. Archie MacBride says it wasn't half as sharp as the lumbago +trick which the Colonel worked on him as well as several of the other +young members. Colonel Jimmy Norman is one of the charter members of our +golf club. He is about as old as Methuselah and he looks it. That is +what fools people. It doesn't fool the handicap committee, though. +They've got the Colonel down to 8 now and he hasn't entered a club +competition since for fear they'll cut him to 6. Respect for age is a +fine thing, I admit, but anybody who can step out and tear off 79's and +80's on the Meadowmead course--72 par and a tough 72 at that--isn't +entitled to much the best of it because he can remember the Civil War +and cast his first vote for Tilden. + +Mind you, I don't say that Colonel Jimmy shoots 79's every day, but he +shoots 'em when he needs 79's to win, and that's the mark of a real +golfer. And bet? The old pirate will bet anything from a repainted golf +ball to a government bond. He has never been known to take his clubs out +of the locker without a gamble of some sort. The new members pay all the +expenses of Colonel Jimmy's golfing, as well as the upkeep of his +limousine--the old members are shy of him--and the way he can nurse a +victim along for months without letting him win a single bet is nothing +short of miraculous. I ought to know, for I am one of Colonel Jimmy's +graduates, and, while I never beat him in my life, he always left me +with the impression that I would surely rook him the next time--if I had +any luck. Somehow I never had the luck. + +Colonel Jimmy has the gentle art of coin separation down to an exact +science. Perhaps this is because he made his money in Wall Street and +applies Wall Street methods to his golf. After every match he waits +around until he collects. He always apologises for taking the money and +says that he hopes you'll be on your game the next time. + +The Colonel is a shrewd judge of how far he can go in shearing a lamb, +and when he sees signs that the victim is getting bare in spots and is +about ready to stop betting with him, he cleans up all the spare fleece +with the lumbago trick. I'll never forget how he worked it on me. I had +been betting him five and ten dollars a match and winning nothing but +sympathy and advice and I was about ready to quit the Colonel as a poor +investment. + +The next time I went out to the club I found Colonel Jimmy sitting on +the porch in the sun and I heard him groan even before I saw him. +Naturally I asked what was the matter. + +"Oh, it's this cursed lumbago again! I must have caught cold after my +shower the other night and--ouch!--just when I'd been looking forward to +a nice little game this afternoon, too! It's a real pleasure to play +with a young man like you who--ouch! O-o-o!" + +After a while he began to wonder whether light exercise would do him any +good. I thought it might and he let me persuade him. If I would give him +my arm as far as his locker--ouch! + +All the time he was dressing he grunted and groaned and rubbed his back +and cursed the lumbago bitterly. He said it was the one thing the devil +didn't try on Job because it would have fetched him if he had. He +worried some because he would have to drive with an iron, not being able +to take a full swing with a wooden club. Then when he had me all ribbed +up properly, he dropped a hint where I couldn't help but stumble over +it. + +"You have always named the bet," said Colonel Jimmy. "Don't take +advantage of my condition to raise it beyond reason." + +Up to that time the idea of making a bet with a cripple hadn't occurred +to me. It wouldn't have seemed fair. I got to thinking about the fives +and the tens that the old rascal had taken away from me when the +advantage was all on his side and-- + +"I suppose I shouldn't expect mercy," said Colonel Jimmy, fitting his +remarks to my thought like a mind reader. "I have been quite fortunate +in winning from you, William, when you were not playing your best. This +seems an excellent opportunity for you to take revenge. This cursed +lumbago----" + +The match was finally made at five dollars a hole, and if I hadn't been +ashamed of taking advantage of a cripple I would have said ten. + +Colonel Jimmy whined a little and said that in his condition it was +almost a shame for me to raise the bet to five dollars a hole and that +he couldn't possibly allow me any more than five strokes where before he +had been giving me eight and ten. He said he probably wouldn't get any +distance off the tees on account of not being able to take a full swing, +and I agreed on the basis of five strokes, one each on the five longest +holes. + +I went out to the professional's shop to buy some new balls. David +Cameron is a good club maker, but a disappointing conversationalist. He +says just so much, and then he stops and rubs his left ear. I told David +that I had caught Colonel Jimmy out of line at last and would bring him +home at least six or seven down. + +"Ay," said David. "He'll be havin' one of his attacks of the lumba-ago +again, I'm thinkin'. Ye've raised the bet?" + +I admitted that the bet had been pressed a little. "Ye're not gettin' as +many str-rokes as usual?" + +I explained about the Colonel's not being able to take a full swing with +his wooden clubs. + +"Ay," said David, beginning to polish his left ear. + +"I wish you'd tell me what you think," said I. + +"I'm thinkin'," said David, "that ye'll not have noticed that the +climate hereabouts is varra benefeecial to certain for-rms o' disease. +I've known it to cure the worst case o' lumba-ago between the clubhouse +an' the fir-rst tee. The day o' meeracles is not past by ony means," +concluded David, rubbing his ear hard. + +I suspected then that I had a bad bet. I was sure of it when I saw +Colonel Jimmy pulling his driver out of the bag on the first tee. + +"I thought you said you'd have to drive with an iron." I reminded him of +it anyway. + +"I might as well try the wood," said Colonel Jimmy. "I'll have to +shorten up my swing some and I suppose I'll top the ball." + +He groaned and he grunted when he took his practice swing, and said that +he was really afraid he'd have to call the bet off, but when he hit the +ball he followed through like a sixteen-year-old, and it went sailing +down the middle of the course, a good 200 yards--which is as far as +Colonel Jimmy ever drives. + +"Well, I'll declare!" he crowed. "Look at that ball go! I had no idea I +could do it! And with this lumbago too!" + +There's no use in prolonging the agony with a detailed account of the +match. The old shark was out for the fag end of the fleece crop so far +as I was concerned, and he surely gave me a close clip. He made a 79 +that day and I had to hand him my check for forty dollars. It might not +have been so much, only on every tee the Colonel whined about his +lumbago and got me in such a state of mind that I couldn't keep my eye +on the ball to save my life. + +When we got back to the clubhouse, David Cameron was sitting in the door +of his shop, rubbing his left ear thoughtfully. He knew it wouldn't have +been safe for him to ask about the match. Colonel Jimmy, confound him, +blatted right along, apologising to me for playing "better than he knew +how" and all that sort of rot. He said he hoped we could have another +match soon, and perhaps I was a little crusty with him. At any rate he +was satisfied that my forty-dollar check was the last contribution he +would ever get from me, and he took up with Archie MacBride, who had +just joined the club and was learning the game. + +Archie hails from out West somewhere and he has the Eastern agency for a +lot of stuff manufactured in Chicago. In the beginning he didn't know +any of the younger members at Meadowmead and that made it easy for the +Colonel to take him under his wing. The old rascal has rather a pleasant +manner--in the clubhouse at least--and he talked Chicago to Archie--what +a wonderful city it is and all that stuff. He talked the same way to me +about Cincinnati. + +I watched the shearing proceed to the lumbago stage, but I didn't +interfere. In the first place, it wasn't any of my business. In the +second, I hadn't been introduced to MacBride. And, besides, I had a sort +of curiosity to know how he would act when he was stung. He looked more +like a goat than a lamb to me. + +One day I was sitting on the porch and MacBride came out of the locker +room and sat down beside me. Colonel Jimmy was over on the extra green, +practicing sidehill putts. Somehow we drifted into conversation. + +"Did you ever play with that old fellow over there?" said he. + +"A few times." + +"Ever beat him?" + +"No-o. Nor anybody else. His methods are--well, peculiar." + +"Darned peculiar! I don't know but that the grand jury ought to +investigate 'em. If you shoot 110 at him, he's just good enough to win. +If you make a 90, he's still good enough to win. He's always good enough +to win. The other day I came out here and found him all doubled up +with----" + +"Lumbago, wasn't it?" + +MacBride held out his hand immediately. + +"Both members of the same lodge!" said he. "I feel better now. He nicked +me for an even hundred. What did he get you for?" + +Nothing cements a friendship like a common grievance. We had both been +rooked by the lumbago trick and we fell to discussing the Colonel and +his petty larceny system of picking on the new members. + +"Far be it that I should squeal," said Archie. "I hope I'm a good loser +as far as the money goes, but I hate to be bunkoed. I handed over one +hundred big iron dollars to that hoary old pirate--and I smiled when I +did it. It hurt me worse to smile than it did to part with the +frog-skins, but I wanted the Colonel to think that I didn't suspect him. +I want him to regard me as a soft proposition and an easy mark because +some day I am going to leave a chunk of bait lying around where that old +coyote can see it. If he gobbles it--good night. Yes, sir, I'm going to +slip one over on him that he'll remember even when they begin giving him +the oxygen." + +"He'll never be trimmed on a golf course," said I. + +"He'll never be trimmed anywhere else. It's the only game he plays. If +he sticks around this club, I'll introduce him to the Chicago method of +taking the bristles off a hog. I'm not sure, but I think it's done with +a hoe." + +"It can't be done with a set of golf clubs," said I. + +"Don't be too sure of that. By the way, my name's MacBride. What's +yours?... If you don't mind, I'll call you Bill for short. We will now +visit the nineteenth tee and pour a libation on the altar of friendship. +We will drink success to the Chicago method of shearing a hog. Simple, +effective, and oh, so painful!" + + +II + +Colonel Jimmy picked up a new pupil after Archie quit him and Archie +paired off with me. We played two or three times a week and often ran +into the Colonel on the porch or in the locker room. The old reprobate +was always cordial in his cat-and-canary way--infernally cordial. I +couldn't resist the temptation to inquire after his lumbago +occasionally, but it was next to impossible to hurt his feelings. The +old fellow's hide was bullet proof and even the broadest sort of hint +was lost on him. Archie was more tactful. He used to joke the Colonel +about a return match, but he was never able to fix a date. The Colonel +was busy anyway. His latest victim was a chinless youth from +Poughkeepsie with money to burn and no fear of matches. + +One afternoon Archie brought a friend out to the club with him--an +immense big chap with hands and feet like hams. Everything about him +was beyond the limit. He was too beefy to begin with, though I suppose +that wasn't his fault. He wore a red tie and a yellow vest. He talked +too much and too loud. Archie introduced him to me as Mr. Small of +Chicago. + +"Small but not little!" said Small. "Haw!" + +"Mr. Small is an old friend of mine," said Archie. "He is taking a short +vacation and I am putting him up at the club for a week or ten days. He +doesn't look it, but his doctor says he needs exercise." + +"Yeh," said Small, "and while I'm resting I think I'll learn this fool +game of golf. Think of a big fellow like me, whaling a poor little pill +all over the country! I suppose all there is to it is to hit the blamed +thing." + +Colonel Jimmy was sitting over by the reading table and I saw him prick +up his ears at this remark. He always manages to scrape an acquaintance +with all the beginners. + +Small went booming along. + +"I can remember," said he, "when people who played golf were supposed to +be a little queer upstairs. Cow-pasture pool, we used to call it. It's a +good deal like shinny-on-your-own-side, ain't it?" + +Archie took him out to David to get him outfitted with clubs and things, +left Small in the shop, and came back to explain matters to me. + +"You mustn't mind Small's manner," said he. "He's really one of the best +fellows in the world, but he's--well, a trifle crude in spots. He's +never had time to acquire a polish; he's been too busy making money." + +"Excuse me"--Colonel Jimmy had been listening--"but is he in any way +related to the Caspar Smalls of Chicago and Denver?" + +"Not that I know of, Colonel," said Archie. + +"You spoke of money," said I. "Has he so much of it, then?" + +"Barrels, my dear boy, barrels. Crude oil is his line at present. And +only thirty-five years of age too. He's a self-made man, Small is." + +I couldn't think of anything to say except that he must have had a deuce +of a lot of raw material to start with--and if I put the accent on the +raw it was unintentional. + +"Well," said Archie, "his heart is in the right place anyway." + +When you can't think of anything else to say for a man, you can always +say that his heart is in the right place. It sounds well, but it doesn't +mean anything. Archie proposed that we should let Small go around with +us that afternoon. I didn't like the idea, but, of course, I kept mum; +the man was Archie's guest. + +Small got in bad on the first tee. I knew he would when I saw who was +ahead of us--Colonel Jimmy and the chinless boy. Like most elderly +mechanical golfers, the Colonel is a stickler for the etiquette of the +game--absolute silence and all that sort of thing. + +Archie introduced Small to the Colonel and the Colonel introduced us to +the chinless boy, who said he was charmed, stepped up on the tee and +whacked his ball into the rough. + +While the Colonel was teeing up, Small kept moving around and talking in +that megaphone voice of his. Colonel Jimmy looked at him rather +eloquently a couple of times and finally Small hushed up. The Colonel +took his stance, tramped around awhile to get a firm footing, addressed +the ball three times, and drew his club back for the swing. Just as it +started downward, Small sneezed--one of those sneezes with an Indian war +whoop on the end of it--"Aa-chew!" Naturally Colonel Jimmy jumped, took +his eye off the ball and topped it into the long grass in front of the +tee. + +"Take it over," said the chinless boy, who was a sport if nothing else. + +"I certainly intend to!" snapped the Colonel, glaring at Small. +"You--you spoiled my swing, sir!" + +"Quit your kidding, Colonel!" said Small. "How could I spoil your +swing?" + +"You sneezed behind me!" + +Small laughed at the top of his voice. "Haw! Haw! That's rich! Why, I've +seen Heinie Zimmerman hit a baseball a mile with thirty thousand people +yelling their heads off at him!" + +"Yes," said Archie, "but that was baseball. This is golf. There's a +difference." + +"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "when you are through with your +discussion, I would really like to drive." + + +III + +I played with Small all the afternoon without yielding to an impulse to +slay him with a niblick, which speaks volumes for my good disposition. +It was a harrowing experience. Small proceeded on the usual theory of +the beginner, which is to hit the ball as hard as possible and trust to +luck. The most I can say for his day's play is that I never expect to +see golf balls hit any harder. His wooden club shots hooked and sliced +into the woods on either side of the course--he bought a dozen balls to +begin with and was borrowing from us at the finish--he dug up great +patches of turf on the fair greens, he nearly destroyed three bunkers +and after every shot he yelled like a Comanche. + +We caught up with Colonel Jimmy at the eighteenth tee. The Colonel was +in a better humour and was offering to give the chinless boy a stroke +and play him double or quits on the last hole--sure proof that he had +him badly licked. The chinless boy took the bet. + +"Now, there's some sense to that!" said Small. "I never could play any +game for fun. Make it worth while, that's what I say! Archie, I'll bet +you a hundred that I beat you this hole!" + +Colonel Jimmy was picking up a handful of sand from a tee. He dropped +it and began to clean his ball. + +"I'd be ashamed to take the money," said Archie. "You wouldn't have a +chance." + +"You mean you're afraid to take one. Be a sport!" + +"I _am_ a sport. That's why I won't bet on a cinch." + +They had quite a jawing match and finally Archie said that he would bet +Small ten dollars. + +"Huh!" said Small. "I wouldn't exert myself for a measly ten spot. Make +it twenty-five!" + +"Well, if you insist," said Archie, "and I'll give you two strokes." + +"You'll give me nothing!" said Small. "What do you think I am? I'll play +you even and lick you." And he was so nasty about it that Archie had to +agree. + +The Colonel turned around after he played his second shot to watch us +drive. Small took a tremendous swing and hooked the ball over the fence +and out of bounds. He borrowed another and sliced that one into the +woods. When he finally sunk his putt--he took 17 for the hole and that +wasn't counting the ones he missed--he dug up a wallet stuffed with +currency and insisted on paying Archie on the spot. + +"I don't feel right about taking this," said Archie. + +"You won it, didn't you?" said Small. "If you had lost, would you have +paid?" + +"Ye-es," said Archie, "but----" + +"But nothing! Take it and shut up!" + +Colonel Jimmy, waiting on the porch, was an interested witness. In less +than five minutes by the watch the chinless boy was sitting over in a +corner, alone with a lemonade, and the Colonel had Small by the +buttonhole, talking Chicago to him. I have always claimed that Colonel +Jimmy has all the instincts of a wolf, but perhaps it is only his Wall +Street training that makes him so keen when a lamb is in sight. + +"Yes, Chicago is a live town all right," said Small, "but about this +golf proposition, now: I'm getting the hang of the thing, Colonel. If I +didn't lose so many balls----" + +"You have a fine, natural swing," said the Colonel in a tone soft as +corn silk. "A trifle less power, my friend, and you will get better +direction." + +Well, it was too much for me. I didn't care much for Small, but I hated +to see him walk into ambush with his eyes open. I left him and the +Colonel hobnobbing over their highballs, and went into the locker room, +where I found Archie. + +"Look here!" I said. "That old pirate is after your friend. Colonel +Jimmy heard Small make that fool bet on the eighteenth tee, and you know +what a leech he is when soft money is in sight. He's after him." + +"So soon?" said Archie. "Quick work." + +"Well, don't you think Small ought to be warned?" + +Archie laughed. + +"Warned about what?" + +"Don't be more of an ass than usual, Archie. The Colonel has got him out +there, telling him about Chicago. You know what that means, and a fellow +that bets as recklessly as Small does----" + +"I can't do anything," said Archie. "Small is of age." + +"But you wouldn't let him go up against a cinch?" + +"Small has been up against cinches all his life. That's how he made his +money." + +"That's how he'll lose it, too. I'll put a flea in his ear if you +don't." + +"Bill," said Archie, "I've made it a rule never to open my mouth in any +gambling game unless my money was on the table. Understand? Then, +whatever happens, there's no come-back at me. Think it over." + +"But the man is your guest!" + +"Exactly. He's my guest. If you see fit to warn him----" Archie shrugged +his shoulders. + +Well, what could I say after that? I took my shower bath and dressed. +Then I went into the lounging room. Small was, if anything, a trifle +noisier than ever. + +"Any game that I can bet on is the game for me," said he, "but I hate a +piker. Don't you hate a piker, Colonel?" + +"A man," said Colonel Jimmy, "should never bet more than he can afford +to lose--cheerfully." + +"Cheerfully. That's the ticket! You're a sport, Colonel. I can see it in +your eye. You don't holler when you lose. Now, Colonel, what would you +consider a good stiff bet, eh? How high would you go? This kindergarten +business wouldn't appeal to either one of us, would it? You wait till I +go around this course a few times and I'll make you a _real_ bet--one +that will be worth playing for, eh? What's the most you ever played for, +Colonel?" It was like casting pearls before swine and he wasn't my +guest, but I did what I could for him. + +"Mr. Small," said I, "if you're going in to town there's room in my car +for you." + +"Thanks. I'm stopping here at the club. Archie fixed me up with a room. +The Colonel is going to stay and have dinner with me, ain't you, +Colonel? Surest thing you know! He's met a lot of friends of mine out +West. Small world, ain't it? Going, eh? Well, behave yourself!... Now +then, Colonel, gimme a few more days of this cow-pasture pool and I'll +show you what a real bet looks like!" + +I left the wolf and the lamb together, and I don't mind admitting that I +liked one as well as the other. + +Business took me out of town for ten days, and when I returned home I +was told that Archie had been telephoning me all the morning. I rang him +at his office. + +"Oh, hello, Bill! You're back just in time for the big show.... Eh? Oh, +Colonel Jimmy is due for another attack of lumbago this afternoon.... +Small telephoned me last night that he was complaining a little.... The +goat? Why, Small, of course! The chinless boy is playing alone these +days; better pickings elsewhere.... Yes, you oughtn't to miss it. See +you later. 'Bye." + + +IV + +Now, very little happens at Meadowmead, in the clubhouse or on the +links, without David Cameron's knowledge. The waiters talk, the steward +gossips, the locker-room boys repeat conversations which they overhear, +and the caddies are worse than magpies. David, listening patiently and +rubbing his ear, comes by a great deal of interesting information. I +felt certain that he would have a true line on the wool market. I found +him sitting in front of his shop. He was wearing a collar and tie, which +is always a sign that he is at liberty for the afternoon. "You're +dressed up to-day, David," said I. + +"Ay," said he, "I'm thinkin' I'll be a gallery." + +"Is there a match?" + +"Ay, a money match. The ter-rms were agreed on at eleven this mornin'. +The Cur-rnel is gruntin' an' groanin' with the lumba-ago again. Muster +Small has taken a cruel advan-take of the auld man. A cruel advantage." + +"What are they playing for?" I asked. + +David rolled his eyes full upon me and regarded me steadily without +blinking. + +"A thousan' dollars a side," said he quietly. + +"_What?_" + +"Ay. Posted in the safe. Muster Small wanted to make it for two. It was +a compr-romise." + +"But, man, it's highway robbery! One thousand dollars!" + +David continued to look at me fixedly. + +"Do ye ken, Muster Bell," said he at last, "that's precisely what I'm +thinkin' it is mysel'--juist highway robbery." + +"What handicap is he giving Small?" + +"None. Muster Small wouldna listen to it. He said the Cur-rnel was +a'ready handicapped wi' auld age, lumba-ago, an' cauld feet. His remarks +were quite personal, ye'll understand, an' he counted down the notes on +the table an' blethered an' howled an' reminded the Cur-rnel that he had +lost three hunder to him the last week. The auld gentleman was fair +be-damned an' bullied into makin' the match, an' he was in such a +towerin' rage he could scarce write a check.... Ay, I'm thinkin' it will +be a divertin' match to watch." + +Archie arrived just as Small and Colonel Jimmy started for the first +tee. We formed the gallery, with David Cameron trailing along +unobtrusively in the rear, sucking reflectively on a briar pipe. The +Colonel gave us one look, which said very plainly that he hoped we would +choke, but thought better of it and dropped back to shake hands and +explain his position in the matter. + +"Pretty stiff money match, isn't it, Colonel?" asked Archie. + +"And surely you're not playing him _even_!" said I. "No handicap?" + +Colonel Jimmy had the grace to blush; I wouldn't have believed he knew +how. I suppose if you should catch a wolf in a sheepfold the wolf would +blush too--not because he felt that he was doing anything wrong by his +own standards, but because of the inferences that might be drawn from +the wool in his teeth. The Colonel didn't in the least mind preying on +lambs, but he hated to have a gallery catch him at it. He hastened to +explain that it was all the lamb's fault. + +He said that he found himself in an unfortunate situation because he had +allowed his temper to get away from him and had "answered a fool +according to his folly." He blamed Small for forcing him into a position +where he might falsely be accused of taking an unfair advantage. He +whined pitifully about his lumbago--the worst attack he remembered--and +earnestly hoped that "the facts would not be misrepresented in any way." +He also said that he regretted the entire incident and had offered to +call off the match, but had been grossly insulted and accused of having +cold feet. + +"It isn't that I want the man's money," said he, "but I feel that he +should have a lesson in politeness!" + +On the whole, it was a very poor face for a wolf to wear. He groaned +some more about his lumbago, which he said was killing him by inches, +and went forward to join Small on the tee. + +"The old pirate!" said Archie. "He wasn't counting on any witnesses, and +our being here is going to complicate matters. Did you get what he said +about hoping the facts would not be misrepresented? He's wondering what +we'll tell the other members, and for the looks of the thing he won't +dare rook Small too badly. Our being here will force him to make the +match as close as he can." + +"Yes," said I, "there ought to be some pretty fair comedy." + +Small came over to us while the Colonel was teeing his ball. He looked +bigger and rawer than ever in white flannel, and he didn't seem in the +least worried about his bet. He was just as offensive as ever, and I +could appreciate the Colonel's point about giving him a lesson in +politeness. + +As early as the first hole it became evident--painfully so--that Colonel +Jimmy was out to make the match a close one at any cost. It would never +do to give Small the impression that his pockets had been picked. In +order to make him think that he had had a run for his money, the Colonel +had to play as bad golf as Small--and he did it, shades of Tom Morris +and other departed golfers, he did it! + +Bad golf is a depressing spectacle to watch, but deliberately bad golf, +cold-blooded, premeditated and studied out in advance, is a crime, and +that is the only word which fits Colonel Jimmy's shameless exhibition. +His only excuse was that it needed criminally bad golf to make the match +seem close. The old fellow's driving was atrocious, he slopped and +flubbed his iron shots in a disgusting manner, and his putting would +have disgraced a blind man. Lumbago was his alibi, and he worked it +overtime for our benefit. After every shot he would drop his club, clap +his hands on his back, and groan like an entire hospital ward. + +The only noticeable improvement in Small's playing was that he managed +somehow or other to keep his ball on the course, though the lopsided, +thumb-handed, clubfooted way he went at his shots was enough to make +angels weep. Then, too, he didn't have so much to say and didn't yell +after he hit the ball. + +Thirteen holes they played, and I venture the statement that nothing +like that match has ever been seen since the time when golf balls were +stuffed with feathers. By playing just as badly as he knew how, getting +into all the bunkers, and putting everywhere but straight at the cup, +Colonel Jimmy arrived on the fourteenth tee all square with Small. They +had each won two holes; the others had been halved in scandalous +figures. + +I could tell by the way the Colonel messed the fourteenth hole that he +wanted to halve that too. He certainly didn't try to win it. Small's +fifth shot was in the long grass just off the edge and to the right of +the putting green. Colonel Jimmy laid his sixth within three feet of the +cup. + +"Boy, give me that shovel!" said Small, and the caddie handed him a +niblick. It wasn't really a bad lie, but the ball had to be chopped out +of three inches of grass. + +"In a case of this kind," said Small, "I guess you trust to luck, what?" +He played a short chop shot and the ball went hopping toward the pin, +hit the back of the cup with a plunk, and dropped for a six. Of course +it was a pure accident. + +"Fluke!" said Colonel Jimmy, rather annoyed. + +"Sure!" said Small. "But it wins the hole just the same!" + +I knew then that the comedy was over for the day. Four holes remained to +be played, and the Colonel was one down. It was never his policy to +leave anything to chance. He would run the string out at top speed. +David Cameron came up from the rear. + +"They'll play golf from here in," he whispered. + +"They!" said I. "One of 'em will!" + +"Do ye really think so?" said David. + +Our Number Fifteen is 278 yards long, over perfectly level ground. There +are bunkers to the right and left of the putting green and a deep sand +trap behind it. It is a short hole, but the sort of one which needs +straight shooting and an accurate pitch. Of all the holes on the course, +I think it is the Colonel's favourite. + +"My honour, eh?" said Small. "That being the case, I guess I'll just rap +it out of the lot!" + +He didn't bother to measure the distance or take a practice swing. He +didn't even address the ball. He walked up to it and swung his driver +exactly as a man would swing a baseball bat--tremendous power but no +form whatever--and the wonder is that he hit it clean. A white speck +went sailing up the course, rising higher and higher in the air. When +the ball stopped rolling it was 260 yards from the tee and on a direct +line with the pin. + +"Beat that!" said Small. + +Colonel Jimmy didn't say anything, but he grunted whole volumes. It +takes more than a long drive to rattle that old reprobate. He whipped +his ball 200 yards down the course and stepped off the tee so well +satisfied with himself that he forgot to groan and put his hands on his +back. Small laughed. + +"Lumbago not so bad now, eh?" said he. + +"I--I may be limbering up a bit," said the Colonel. "The long drive +isn't everything, you know; it's the second shot that counts!" + +"All right," said Small. "Let's see one!" + +Colonel Jimmy studied his lie for some time and went through all the +motions, but when the shot came it was a beauty--a mashie pitch which +landed his ball five feet from the cup. + +"Beat that one!" said he. + +"I'll just do that thing!" said Small. And he did. Of course he had a +short approach, as approaches go, but even so I was not prepared to see +him play a push shot and rim the cup, leaving his ball stone dead for a +three. Colonel Jimmy was not prepared to see it either, and I have +reason to believe that the push shot jarred the old rascal from his +rubber heels upward. He went about the sinking of that five-foot putt +with as much deliberation as if his thousand dollars depended on it. He +sucked in his breath and got down on all fours--a man with lumbago +couldn't have done it on a bet--and he studied the roll of the turf for +a full minute--studied it to some purpose, for when he tapped the ball +it ran straight and true into the cup, halving the hole. + +"You're getting better every minute!" said Small. "I'm some little +lumbago specialist, believe me!" + +Colonel Jimmy didn't answer, but he looked thoughtful and just the least +mite worried. One down and three to go for a thousand dollars--it's a +situation that will worry the best of 'em. + +Number Sixteen was where the light dawned on me. It is a long, tricky +hole--bogey 6, par 5--and if the Colonel hadn't made another phenomenal +approach, laying his ball dead from fifty yards off the green, Small +would have won that too. They halved in fives, but it was Small's second +shot that opened my eyes. He used a cleek where most players would try a +brassie, and he sent the ball screaming toward the flag--220 yards--and +at no time was it more than ten feet from the ground. I was behind him +when he played, and I can swear that there wasn't an inch of hook or +slice on that ball. The cleek is no club for a novice. I remembered the +niblick shot on the fourteenth. That was surely a fluke, but how about +the push shot on fifteen? English professionals have written whole books +about the push shot, but mighty few men have ever learned to play it. +Putting that and the cleek shot together, the light broke in on me--and +my first impulse was to kick Archie MacBride. + +I don't know who Colonel Jimmy wanted to kick, but he looked as if he +would relish kicking somebody. He had been performing sums in mental +addition, too, and he got the answer about the same time that I did. + +"It's queer about that lumbago," said Small again. + +"Yes," snapped the old man, "but it's a lot queerer the way you've +picked up this game in the last two holes!" + +"Well," and Small laughed, "you remember that I warned you I never could +play for piker money, Colonel--that is, not very _well_." + +Colonel Jimmy gave him a look that was all wolf--and cornered wolf at +that. He answered Small with a nasty sneer. + +"So you can't play well unless big money is bet, eh? That is exactly +what I'm beginning to think, sir!" + +"At any rate," said Small, "I've cured your lumbago for you, Colonel. +You can charge that thousand to doctor bills!" + +Colonel Jimmy gulped a few times, his neck swelled and his face turned +purple. There wasn't a single thing he could find to say in answer to +that remark. He started for the seventeenth tee, snarling to himself. I +couldn't stand it any longer. I drew Archie aside. + +"I think you might have told me," I said. + +"Told you what?" + +"Why, about Small--if that's his name. What have you done? Rung in a +professional on the old man?" + +"Professional, your grandmother!" said Archie. "Small is an amateur in +good standing. Darned good standing. If the Colonel knew as much about +the Middle West as he pretends to know, he'd have heard of Small. +Wonder how the old boy likes the Chicago method of shearing a pig?" + +The old boy didn't like it at all, but the seventeenth hole put the +crown on his rage and mortification. Small drove another long straight +ball, and after the Colonel had got through sneering about that he +topped his own drive, slopped his second into a bunker, and reached the +green in five when he should have been there in two. I thought the agony +was over, but I didn't give Small credit for cat-and-mouse tendencies. + +"In order to get all the good out of this lumbago treatment," said he, +"it ought to go the full eighteen holes." Then, with a deliberation that +was actually insulting, he played his second shot straight into a deep +sand trap. I heard a queer clucking, choking noise behind me, but it was +only David Cameron doing his best to keep from laughing out loud. + +"Muster Small is puttin' the shoe on the other foot!" said David. "Ay, +it's his turn to waste a few now." + +"Cheer up, Colonel!" said Small. "You fooled away a lot of shots early +in the match--on account of your lumbago, of course. I'm just as +generous as you are when it comes to halving holes with an easy mark." +To prove it Small missed a niblick shot a foot, but pitched out on his +fourth, and, by putting all over the green, finally halved the hole. + +When Small stood up on the eighteenth tee for his last drive he looked +over at the Colonel and nodded his head. "Colonel?" said he. + +Colonel Jimmy grunted--rather a profane grunt, I thought. + +"Dormie!" said Small. + +"Confound it, sir! You talk too much!" + +"So I've heard," said Small. "I'll make you a business proposition, +Colonel. Double or quits on the last hole? I understand that's what you +do when you're sure you can win. Two thousand or nothing?... No? Oh, all +right! No harm done, I suppose?" + +Colonel Jimmy had a burglar's chance to halve the match by winning the +last hole, and he fought for it like a cornered wolf. They were both on +the green in threes, Small ten feet from the cup and the Colonel at +least fifteen. If he could sink his putt and Small should miss his, the +match would be square again. + +The old man examined every blade of grass between his ball and the hole. +Three times he set himself to make the putt, and then got down to take +another look at the roll of the green--proof that his nerve was breaking +at last. When he finally hit the ball it was a weak, fluttering stroke, +and though the ball rolled true enough, it stopped four feet short of +the cup. + +"Never up, never in!" said Small. "Well, here goes for the +thousand-dollar doctor bill! Lumbago is a very painful ailment, Colonel. +It's worth something to be cured of it." Colonel Jimmy didn't say a +word. He looked at Small and then he turned and looked at MacBride. All +his smooth and oily politeness had deserted him; his little tricks and +hypocrisies had dropped away and left the wolf exposed--snarling and +showing his teeth. I thought that he was going to throw his putter at +Archie, but he turned and threw it into the lake instead--into the +middle, where the water is deep. Then he marched into the clubhouse, +stiff as a ramrod, and so he missed seeing Small sink his ten-foot putt. + +"An' ye were really surprised?" said David Cameron to me. + +"I was," said I. "When did you find it out, David?" + +"Come out to the shop," said the professional. He showed me a list of +the players rated by the Western Golf Association. A man by the name of +Small was very close to the top--very close indeed. + +We don't know whether the Colonel is going to lay the case before the +committee or not. If he does, we shall have to explain why he has not +had an attack of lumbago since. + + + + +THE MAN WHO QUIT + + +I + +Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes squinted along the line of his short putt, +breathed hard through his prominent and highly decorative nose, +concentrated his mighty intellect upon the task before him, and tapped +the small white ball ever so lightly. It rolled toward the cup, wavered +from the line, returned to it again, seemed about to stop short of its +destination, hovered for one breathless instant on the very lip, and at +last fell into the hole. + +Mr. Parkes, who had been hopping up and down on one leg, urging the ball +forward with inarticulate commands and violent contortions of his body, +and behaving generally in the manner of a baseball fan or a financially +interested spectator at a horse race, suddenly relaxed with a deep grunt +of relief. He glanced at his opponent--a tall, solemn-looking +gentleman--who was regarding Mr. Parkes with an unblinking stare in +which disgust, chagrin and fathomless melancholy were mingled. + +"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announced +Parkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time. +"Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and I +licked you"--here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "I +licked you on an even game! An even game--d'you get that, Bob? Didn't +have to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on an +even game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I had +it in me, did you?" + +The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr. +Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victor +became aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream of +self-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. There +was a short, painful silence. + +"I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically; +"but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn't +think I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicap +man before----" + +"Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of one +who brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off--I +don't care. Give yourself a _loud_ cheer while you're at it. I'm not +paying any attention to you." + +Mr. Parkes was not exactly pleased with the permission thus handsomely +granted. + +"No need for you to get sore about it," was the sulky comment. + +The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitter +undertone in his mirth. + +"Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like you +handed me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?" + +"Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'd +better haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and you +look as if you'd lost your last friend." + +"I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost my +game. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any game +to lose. It's awful--awful!" + +"Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while." + +"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I +was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was +working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong--my shots left me. +I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the +course--couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game +would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some +improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows any +more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself +do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've +changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my +life--and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a +battle!" + +"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worry +too much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's a +sport--a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but I +never worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten; +to-day----" + +"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I suppose +you call that good--eh?" + +"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind! +Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on, +take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. The +match is over, so you won't have that to worry about." + +"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golfer +yourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not being +beaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and then +falling down on the execution--that's what breaks my heart! If ever you +get so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and your +game leaves you overnight--steps right out from under you and leaves you +flat--then you'll know how I feel." + +"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a bad +player--oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. And +just to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in--no +handicap--not even a bisque. What say?" + +"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time tee +shots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!" + + * * * * * + +Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward the +clubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. He +grinned from ear to ear and illustrated an animated discourse with +sweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him, +kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders sagged +listlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on +the ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of his +drooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himself +heavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out of +the window but seeing nothing. + +"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated before +the stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-lustre +eyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand. + +"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with this +double-dash-blanked game." + +Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a full +heart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne's +friends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement was +received with calmness--not to say a certain amount of levity. + +"We've all been there!" chuckled one of the listeners. + +"Many's the time!" supplemented another. + +"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'd +been slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the damned shaft. Did me +a lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual, +and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that has +been annoying you. Try it some time." + +"Humph!" grunted Mr. Coyne. "I'd have to break 'em all!" + +"Maybe you don't drink enough," hazarded another. + +"Cheer up!" said the first speaker. "You'll be all right this +afternoon." + +The afflicted one lifted his head again and gazed mournfully at his +friends. + +"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong. +I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks--not one. I--I don't +know what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you." + +"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like an +April zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-bad +golfer--ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to my +ball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-foot +putt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine trimming +this morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three and +two without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn't +make him like it. What do you think of that, eh?" + +"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?" +Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window. + +"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight. +Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just to +put some life into him and stir up his--er--cupidity. I guess that's the +word. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do? +Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up his +ball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of Hell's +Half Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!" + +"He has cause--if you beat him," said one of the older members. + +"I wish I could win from a _well_ man once in a while," complained +Parkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on an +invalid." + +"Oh, shut up and let Bob alone!" + +"Yes; quit riding him." + +"Don't rub it in!" + +Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him, +and the general conversation languished until the devil himself prompted +one of the veteran golfers to offer advice: + +"I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Bob. You're overgolfed. You've +been playing too much lately." + +"You've gone stale," said another. + +"Nonsense!" argued a third. "You don't go stale at golf; you simply get +off your game. Now what Bob ought to do is to take one club and a dozen +balls and stay with that club until he gets his shots back." + +"That's no good," said a fourth. "If his wood has gone bad on him he +ought to leave his driver in his bag and use an iron off the tee. Chick +Evans does that." + +"An iron off the tee," said the veteran, "is a confession of weakness." + +"Bob, why don't you get the 'pro' to give you a lesson or two? He might +be able to straighten you out." + +"Oh, what does a professional know about the theory of golf? All he can +do is to tell you to watch him and do the way he does. Now what Bob +needs----" + +Every man who plays golf, no matter how badly, feels himself competent +to offer advice. For a long ten minutes the air was heavy with +well-meant suggestions. Coming at the wrong time, nothing is more +galling than sympathetic counsel. Bob Coyne, six-handicap man and +expert in the theory of golf, hunched his shoulders and endured it all +without comment or protest. Somewhere in his head an idea was taking +definite shape. Slowly but surely he was being urged to the point where +decision merges into action. + +"I tell you," said the veteran with the calm insistence of age, "Bob +ought to take a lay-off. He ought to forget golf for a while." + +Coyne rose and moved toward the door. As his hand touched the knob the +irrepressible Parkes hurled the last straw athwart a heavy burden. + +"If ever I get so that I can't enjoy this game any more," said he, "I +hope I'll have strength of character enough to quit playing it." + +"Oh, you do, do you?" demanded Coyne with the cold rage of a quiet man, +goaded beyond the limit of his endurance. "Well, don't flatter yourself. +You haven't--and you won't!" + +The door closed behind this rather cryptic remark, and the listeners +looked at each other and shook their heads. + +"Never knew Bob to act like this before," said one. + +"Anything can happen when a man's game is in a slump," said the veteran. +"Take a steady, brainy player--a first-class golfer; let him lose his +shots for a week and there's no telling what he'll do. Nothing to +it--this is the most interesting and the most exasperating outdoor +sport in the world. + +"Just when you think you've learned all there is to learn about +it--bang! And there you are, flat!" + +"He's been wolfing at me all morning," said Parkes. "Kind of silly to +let a game get on your nerves, eh?" + +"You'll never know how a real golfer feels when his shots go bad on +him," was the consoling response. "There he goes with his bag of clubs. +Practice won't help him any. What he needs is a lay-off." + +"He's headed for the caddie shed," said Parkes. "I'd hate to carry his +bag this afternoon. Be afraid he'd bite me, or something.... Say, have +you fellows heard about the two Scotchmen, playing in the finals for a +cup? It seems that MacNabb lost his ball on the last hole, and MacGregor +was helping him look for it----" + +"I always did like that yarn," interrupted the veteran. "It's just as +good now as it was twenty years ago. Shoot!" + + * * * * * + +A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested they +listened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carrying +profession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the name +of Butch: + +"And you oughta seen him at the finish--all he needed was an undertaker! +You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time. +The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag--darned if it wasn't +pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the +last hole----" + +"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the +clubhouse. "Here he comes now!" + +Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free +discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of +expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first +thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances +turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was +unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in +the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what +brought him into their midst. + +"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced +cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which +one would you take?" + +"If I had a _what_?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement. + +"Which one of these clubs do you like the best?" + +"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's +hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!" + +Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag. + +"It's yours," said he briefly. + +"Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You--you ain't _giving_ it to me, are you?" +Coyne nodded. "But--but what's the idea? You can't get along without +that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!" + +"Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf." + +"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the +privileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get so +old they can't walk!" + +"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of +these other boys----" + +"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you +meant it at first. I----" + +"Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?" + +"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This +ain't Injun givin'? Because--me, I had my eye on that brassy for some +time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, +mister! Gee! What do think of that--hey? Some club!" + +At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager +youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So +far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing +history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later +for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the +getting was good. + +"Please, can I have that driver?" + +"Aw, mister, you know me!" + +"The mashie would be my pick!" + +"Who ast _you_ to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old brass putter +there, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a brass putter." + +"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's a +mighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!" + +In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entire +collection of golfing instruments, representing the careful and +discriminating accumulation of years, passed into new hands. Everybody +knows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite, +once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possesses +something more than proper weight and balance; it has personality and +is, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver, +the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, the +scarred old niblick, the two putters--everything was swept away in one +wild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these old +friends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all," +said he at length. + +"Mr. Coyne," said Butch, who had been practising imaginary approach +shots with the light mid-iron, "you wouldn't care if I had about an inch +taken off this shaft, would you? It's a little too long for me." + +"Cut a foot off it if you like." + +"I just wanted to know," said Butch apologetically. "Lots of people say +they're going to quit; but----" + +"It isn't a case of going to quit with me," said Coyne. "I _have_ quit! +You can make kindling wood out of that shaft if you like." + +Then, with the empty bag under his arm, and his bridges aflame behind +him, he marched back to the clubhouse, his chin a bit higher in the air +than was absolutely necessary. + +Later his voice was heard in the shower room, loud and clear above the +sound of running water. It suited him to sing and the ditty of his +choice was a cheerful one; but the rollicking words failed to carry +conviction. An expert listener might have detected a tone smacking +strongly of defiance and suspected that Mr. Coyne was singing to keep up +his courage. + +When next seen he was clothed, presumably in his right mind, and +rummaging deep in his locker. On the floor was a pile of miscellaneous +garments--underwear, sweaters, shirts, jackets, knickerbockers and +stockings. To his assistance came Jasper, for twenty years a fixture in +the locker room and as much a part of the club as the sun porch or the +front door. + +"Gettin' yo' laundry out, suh? Lemme give you a hand." + +Now Jasper was what is known as a character; and, moreover, he was a +privileged one. He was on intimate terms with every member of the +Country Club and entitled to speak his mind at all times. He had made a +close study of the male golfing animal in all his varying moods; he knew +when to sympathise with a loser, when to congratulate a winner, and when +to remain silent. Jasper was that rare thing known as the perfect locker +room servant. + +"This isn't laundry," explained Coyne. "I'm just cleaning house--that's +all.... Think you can use these rubber-soled golf shoes?" + +"Misteh Coyne, suh," said Jasper, "them shoes is as good as new. Whut +you want to give 'em away faw?" + +"Because I won't be wearing 'em any more." + +"H-m-m! Too small, maybe?" + +"No; they fit all right. Fact of the matter is, Jasper, I'm sick of this +game and I'm going to quit it." + +Jasper's eyes oscillated rapidly. + +"Aw, no, Misteh Coyne!" said he in the tone one uses when soothing a +peevish child. "You jus' _think_ you goin' to quit--tha's all!" + +"You never heard me say I was going to quit before, did you?" demanded +Coyne. + +"No, suh; no." + +"Well, when I say I'm going to quit, you can bet I mean it!" Jasper +reflected on this statement. + +"Yes, suh," said he gently. "Betteh let me put them things back, Misteh +Coyne. They in the way here." + +"What's the use of putting 'em back in the locker? They're no good to +me. Make a bundle of 'em and give 'em to the poor." + +"Mph! Po' folks ain't wearin' them shawt pants much--not this season, +nohow!" + +"I don't care what you do with 'em! Throw 'em away--burn 'em up--pitch +'em out. I don't care!" + +"Yes, suh. All right, suh. Jus' as you say." Jasper rolled the heap into +a bundle and began tying it with the sleeves of a shirt. "I'll look +afteh 'em, suh." + +"Never mind looking after 'em. Get rid of the stuff. I'm through, I tell +you--done--finished--quit!" + +"Yes, suh. I heard you the firs' time you said it." + +The negro was on his knees fumbling with the knot. Something in his tone +irritated Coyne--caused him to feel that he was not being taken +seriously. + +"I suppose a lot of members quit--eh?" said he. + +"Yes, suh," replied Jasper with a flash of ivory. "Some of 'em quits +oncet a month, reg'leh." + +"But you never heard of a case where a player gave all his clubs away, +did you?" demanded Coyne. + +"Some of 'em _breaks_ clubs," said Jasper; "but they always gits new +shafts put in. Some of 'em th'ow 'em in the lake; but they fish 'em out +ag'in. But--give 'em away? No, suh! They don' neveh do that." + +"Well," said Coyne, "when I make up my mind to do a thing I do it right. +I've given away every club I owned." + +Jasper lifted his head and stared upward, mouth open and eyelids +fluttering rapidly. + +"You--you given yo' clubs away!" he ejaculated. "Who'd you give 'em to, +suh?" + +"Oh, to the caddies," was the airy response. "Made a sort of general +distribution. One club to each kid." + +"Misteh Coyne," said Jasper earnestly, "tha's foolishness--jus' plain +foolishness. S'pose you ain' been playin' yo' reg'leh game +lately--s'pose you had a lot o' bad luck--that ain' no reason faw you to +do a thing like that. Givin' all them expensible clubs to them +pin-headed li'l' boys! Lawd! Lawd! They don't know how to treat 'em! +They'll be splittin' the shafts, an' crackin' the heads, an' nickin' up +the irons, an'----" + +"Well," interrupted Coyne, "what of it? I hope they do break 'em!" + +Jasper shook his head sorrowfully and returned to the bundle. While +studying golfers he had come to know the value placed on golfing tools. + +"O' course," said he slowly, "yo' own business is yo' own business, +Misteh Coyne. Only, suh, it seem like a awful shame to me. Seem like +bustin' up housekeepin' afteh you been married a long time.... Why not +wait a few days an' see how you feel then?" + +"No! I'm through." + +Jasper jerked his head in the direction of the lounging room. + +"You tol' the otheh gen'lemen whut you goin' to do?" he asked. + +"What's the use? They'd only laugh. They wouldn't believe me. Let 'em +find it out for themselves. And, by the way--there's my empty bag in the +corner. Dispose of it somehow. Give it away--sell it. You can have +whatever you get for it." + +"Thank you, suh. You comin' back to see us once in a while?" + +"Oh, I suppose so. With the wife and the kids. Well, take care of +yourself." + +Jasper followed him to the door and watched until the little runabout +disappeared down the driveway. + +"All foolishness--tha's whut it is!" soliloquised the negro. + +"This golf game--she's sutny a goat getteh when she ain' goin' right. +Me, I ratheh play this Af'ican golf with two dice. That's some goat +getteh, too, an' lots of people quits it; but I notice they always +comes back. Yes, suh; they always comes back." + + +II + +As the runabout coughed and sputtered along the county road the man at +the wheel had time to think over the whole matter. Everything +considered, he decided that he had acted wisely. + +"Been playing too much golf, anyway," he told himself. "Wednesday and +Saturday afternoons, Sundays and holidays--too much!... And then +worrying about my game in between. It'll be off my mind now.... One +thing sure--Mary'll be glad to hear the news. That old joke of hers +about being a golf widow won't go any more. Yes, she'll have to dig up a +new one.... Maybe I have been a little selfish and neglectful. I'll make +up for it now, though. Sundays we can take the big car and go on +picnics. The kids'll like that." + +He pursued this train of thought until he felt almost virtuous. He could +see himself entering the house; he could picture his wife's amazement +and pleasure; he could hear himself saying something like this: + +"Well, my dear, you've got your wish at last. After thinking it all over +I've decided to cut out the golf and devote myself to the family. Yes; +I'm through!" + +In this highly commendable spirit he arrived at home, only to find the +shades drawn and the front door locked. As Coyne felt for his key ring +he remembered that his wife had said something about taking the children +to spend the day with her mother. It was also the servant's afternoon +off and the house was empty. Coyne was conscious of a slight +disappointment; he was the bearer of glad tidings, but he had no +audience. + +"Oh, well," he thought; "it's been a long time since I had a quiet +Sunday afternoon at home. Do me good. Guess I'll read a while and then +run over to mother's for supper. I don't read as much as I used to. Man +ought to keep up to date." + +Then, because he was a creature of habit and the most methodical of men, +he must have his pipe and slippers before sitting down with his book. +Mary Coyne was a good wife and a faithful mother, but she abominated a +pipe in the living room; and she tolerated slippers only when they were +of her own choosing. + +Now there are things which every woman knows; but there is one thing +which no woman has ever known and no woman will ever know--namely, that +she is not competent to select slippers for her lord and master. Bob +Coyne was a patient man, but he loathed slippers his wife picked out for +him. He was pledged to a worn and disreputable pair of the pattern known +as Romeos--relics of his bachelor days. They were run down at the heel +and thin of sole; but they were dear to his heart and he clung to them +obstinately in spite of their shabby appearance. After the honeymoon it +had been necessary to speak sternly with his wife on the subject of the +Romeos, else she would have thrown them on the ash heap. Since that +interview Mrs. Coyne--obedient soul!--had spent a great portion of her +married life in finding safe hiding places for those wretched slippers; +but no matter where she put them, they seemed certain of a triumphant +resurrection. + +Coyne went on a still hunt for the Romeos, and found them at last, +tucked away in the clothes closet of the spare room upstairs. This +closet was a sort of catchall, as the closets of spare rooms are apt to +be; and as Coyne stooped to pick up the slippers he knocked down +something which had been standing in a dark corner. It fell with a heavy +thump, and there on the floor at his feet was a rusty old mid-iron--the +first golf club Coyne had ever owned. + +He had not seen that mid-iron in years, but he remembered it well. He +picked it up, sighted along the shaft, found it still reasonably +straight and unwarped, balanced the club in his hands, waggled it once +as if to make a shot; then he replaced it hastily, seized the slippers, +and hurried downstairs. + +The book of his selection was one highly recommended by press and +pulpit, hence an ideal tale for a Sunday afternoon; so he dragged an +easy-chair to the front window, lighted his pipe, put his worn Romeos +on a taboret, and settled down to solid comfort. In spite of the fact +that the book was said to be gripping, and entertaining from cover to +cover, Coyne encountered some difficulty in getting into the thing. He +skimmed through the first chapter, yawned and looked at his watch. + +"They're just getting away for the afternoon round," said he; and then, +with the air of one who has caught himself in a fault, he attacked +Chapter Two. It proved even worse than the first. He told himself that +the characters were out of drawing, the situations impossible, and the +humour strained or stale. + +At the end of Chapter Three he pitched the book across the room and +closed his eyes. Five minutes later he rose, knocked the ashes from his +pipe, and went slowly upstairs. He assured himself he was not in search +of anything; but his aimless wanderings brought him at last to the spare +room, where he seated himself on the edge of the bed. He remained there +for twenty minutes, motionless, staring into space. Then he rose, +crossed the room and disappeared in the clothes closet. When he came out +the rusty mid-iron came with him. Was this a sign of weakness, of +deterioration in the moral fibre, an indication of regret! Perish the +thought! The explanation Mr. Coyne offered himself was perfectly +satisfactory. He merely wished to examine the ten-year-old shaft and +ascertain whether it was cracked or not. He carried the venerable +souvenir to the window and scrutinised it closely; the shaft was sound. + +"A good club yet," he muttered. + +As he stood there, holding the old mid-iron in his hands, ten years +slipped away from him. He remembered that club very well--almost as well +as a man remembers his first sweetheart. He remembered other things +too--remembered that, as a youth, he had never had the time or the +inclination to play at games of any sort. He had been too busy getting +his start, as the saying goes. Then, at thirty, married and well on his +way to business success, he had felt the need of open air and exercise. +He had mentioned this to a friend and the friend had suggested golf. + +"But that's an old man's game!" Yes; he had said that very thing. His +ears burned at the recollection of his folly. + +"Think so? Tackle it and see." + +He had been persuaded to spend one afternoon at the Country Club. Is +there a golfer in all the world who needs to be told what happened to +Mr. Robert Coyne? He had hit one long, straight tee shot; he had holed +one difficult putt; and the whole course of his serious, methodical +existence had been changed. The man who does not learn to play any game +until he is thirty years of age is quite capable of going daft over +tiddledywinks or dominoes. If he takes up the best and most interesting +of all outdoor sports his family may count itself fortunate if he does +not become violent. + +Never the sort of person who could be content to do anything badly, Bob +Coyne had applied himself to the Royal and Ancient Pastime with all the +simple earnestness and dogged determination of a silent, self-centred +man. He had taken lessons from the professional. He had brought his +driver home and practised with it in the back yard. He had read books on +the subject. He had studied the methods and styles of the best players. +He had formed theories of his own as to stance and swing. He had even +talked golf to his wife--which is the last stage of incurable golfitis. + +As he stood at the window, turning the rusty mid-iron in his hands, he +recalled the first compliment ever paid him by a good player--the more +pleasing because he had not been intended to hear it. It came after he +had fought himself out of the duffer class and had reached the point +where he was too good for the bad ones, but not considered good enough +for the topnotchers. + +One day Corkrane had invited him into a foursome--Coyne had been the +only man in sight--and Corkrane had taken him as a partner against such +redoubtable opponents as Millar and Duffy. Coyne had halved four holes +and won two, defeating Millar and Duffy on the home green. Nothing had +been said at the time; but later on, while polishing himself with a +towel in the shower room, Coyne had heard Corkrane's voice: + +"Hey, Millar!" + +"Well?" + +"That fellow Coyne--he's not so bad." + +"I believe you, Corky. He won the match for you." + +"Thought I'd have to carry him on my back; but he was right there all +the way round. Yep; Coyne's a comer, sure as you live!" + +And the subject of this kindly comment had blushed pink out of sheer +gratification. + +A pretty good bunch, those fellows out at the club! If it had done +nothing else for him, Coyne reflected, golf had widened his circle of +friends. Suddenly there came to him the realisation that he would have a +great deal of spare time on his hands in the future. Wednesdays and +Saturdays would be long days now; and Sundays----Coyne sighed deeply and +swung the rusty mid-iron back and forth as if in the act of studying a +difficult approach. + +"But what's the use?" he asked himself. "I haven't got a shot left--not +a single shot!" + +He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mid-iron between his knees and +his head in his hands. At the end of twenty minutes he rose and began to +prowl about the house, looking into corners, behind doors, and +underneath beds and bureaus. + +"Seems to me I saw it only the other day," said he. "Of course Bobby +might have been playing with it and lost it." + +It was in the children's playroom that he came upon the thing, which he +told himself he found by accident. It was much the worse for wear; +nearly all the paint had been worn off it and its surface was covered +with tiny dents. Bob Junior had been teaching his dog to fetch and carry +and the dents were the prints of sharp puppy teeth. + +"Well, what do you think of that!" ejaculated Mr. Coyne, pretending to +be surprised. "As I live--a golf ball! Yes; a golf ball!" + +He stood looking at it for some time; but at last he picked it up. With +the rusty mid-iron in one hand and the ball in the other, he went +downstairs, passed through the house, unlocked the back door and went +into the yard. Behind the garage was a smooth stretch of lawn, fifty +feet in diameter, carefully mowed and rolled. In the centre of this +emerald carpet was a hole, and in the hole was a flag. This was Mr. +Coyne's private putting green. + +"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. All +confounded foolishness!" + +So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his works +dropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The lie +did not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted his +disreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron a +few times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attempted +that most difficult of all performances--the chip shot. The ball hopped +across the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolled +straight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from the +hole. + +"Heavens above!" gasped Mr. Coyne, rubbing his eyes. "Look at that, will +you? I hit the pin, by golly--_hit the pin_!" + + * * * * * + +At dusk Mrs. Coyne returned. The first thing she noticed was that a +large rug was missing from the dining room. Having had experience, she +knew exactly where to look for it. On the back porch she paused, her +hands on her hips. The missing rug was hanging over the clothesline, and +her lord and master, in shirtsleeves and the unspeakable Romeos, was +driving a single golf ball against it. + +Whish-h-h! Click! Thud! + +"And I guess that's getting my weight into the swing!" babbled Mr. +Coyne. "I've found out what I've been doing that was wrong. Watch me hit +this one, Mary." + +Mrs. Coyne was everything that a good wife should be, but she sniffed +audibly. + +"I've told you a dozen times that I didn't want you knocking holes in +that rug!" said she. + +"Why, there isn't a hole in it, my dear." + +"Well, there will be if you keep on. It seems to me, Bob, that you might +get enough golf out at the club. Then you won't scandalise the +neighbours by practising in the back yard on Sunday afternoons. What do +you suppose they'll think of you?" + +"They'll think I'm crazy," was the cheerful response; "but, just between +you and me, my dear, I'm not near so crazy right now as I have been!" + + +III + +Jasper was cleaning up the locker room--his regular Monday-morning job. +As he worked he crooned the words of an old negro melody: + + "_Ole bline hawss, come outen the wilderness, + Outen the wilderness, outen the wilderness; + Ole bline hawss_----" + +The side door opened and Jasper dropped his mop. + +"Who's that?" he asked. "This early in the mawnin'?" But when he +recognised the caller he did not show the faintest symptoms of surprise. +Jasper was more than a perfect servant; he was also a diplomat. "Good +mawnin', Misteh Coyne." + +The caller seemed embarrassed. He attempted to assume a cheerful +expression, but succeeded in producing a silly grin. + +"Jasper," said he, "I was a little bit sore yesterday----" + +"Yes, suh; an' nobody could blame you," said the negro, coming +gallantly to the rescue. + +"And you know how it is with a man when he's sore." + +"Yes, suh. Man don' always mean whut he say--that is, he mean it all +right at the _time_. Yes, suh. At--the--time. 'N'en ag'in, he might +_change_." + +"That's it exactly!" said Coyne, and floundered to a full stop. + +Jasper's face was grave, but he found it necessary to fix his eyes on +the opposite wall. + +"Yes, suh," said he. "Las' month I swo' off too." + +"Swore off on what?" + +"Craps, Misteh Coyne. Whut Bu't Williams calls Af'ican golf. Yes, suh, I +swo' off; but las' night--well, I kind o' fell f'um grace. I fell, suh; +but I wasn't damaged so much as some o' them boys in the game." Jasper +chuckled to himself. "Yes, suh; I sutny sewed 'em up propeh! Look like I +come back in my ole-time fawm!" + +"That's it!" Coyne agreed eagerly. "I've got my chip shot back, Jasper. +Last night, at home, I was hitting 'em as clean as a whistle. I--I ran +out here this morning to have a little talk with you. You remember about +those clubs?" Jasper nodded. "That was a foolish thing to do----" began +Coyne. + +"No, suh!" interrupted Jasper positively. "No, suh! When a man git good +an' sore he do a lot o' things whut awdinarily he wouldn't think o' +doin'! Las' month I th'owed away the best paih o' crap dice you eveh +saw. You givin' away yo' clubs is exackly the same thing." + +"That was what I wanted to see you about," said Coyne with a shamefaced +grin. "I was wondering if there wouldn't be some way to get those clubs +back--buying 'em from the boys. You could explain----" + +Jasper cackled and slapped his knees. + +"Same thing all oveh ag'in!" said he. "I th'owed them dice away, Misteh +Coyne; but I th'owed 'em kind o' _easy_, an' I knowed where to look. So, +when you tol' me 'bout them clubs I--well, suh, I ain' been c'nected +with this club twenty yeahs faw nothin'. If I was you, suh, I think I'd +look in my lockeh." + +Coyne drew the bolt and opened the door. His clothes were hanging on the +hooks; his shoes were resting on the steel floor; his golf bag was +leaning in the corner, and it was full of clubs--the clubs he had given +away the day before! Coyne tried to speak, but the words would not come. + +"You see, Misteh Coyne," explained Jasper, "I knowed them fool boys +would bust them clubs or somethin', an' I kind of s'pected you'd be +wantin' 'em back ag'in; so I didn't take no chances. Afteh you left +yestiddy I kind o' took mattehs in my own hands. I tol' them caddies you +was only foolin'. The younges' ones, they was open to conviction; but +them oldeh boys--they had to be showed. Now that light mid-iron--I had +to give Butch a dollah an' twenty cents faw it. That brassy was a dollah +an' a half----" + +Ten minutes later the incomparable Jasper was alone in the locker room, +examining a very fine sample of the work turned out by the Bureau of +Engraving and Printing at Washington, D. C. Across the bottom of this +specimen were two words in large black type: Twenty Dollars. + +"Haw!" chuckled Jasper. "I wisht some mo' of these membehs would quit +playin' golf!" + + + + +THE OOLEY-COW + + +I + +After the explosion, and before Uncle Billy Poindexter and Old Man +Sprott had been able to decide just what had hit them, Little Doc Ellis +had the nerve to tell me that he had seen the fuse burning for months +and months. Little Doc is my friend and I like him, but he resembles +many other members of his profession in that he is usually wisest after +the post mortem, when it is a wee bit late for the high contracting +party. + +And at all times Little Doc is full of vintage bromides and figures of +speech. + +"You have heard the old saw," said he. "A worm will turn if you keep +picking on him, and so will a straight road if you ride it long enough. +A camel is a wonderful burden bearer, but even a double-humped ship of +the desert will sink on your hands if you pile the load on him a bale of +hay at a time." + +"A worm, a straight road, a camel and a sinking ship," said I. "Whither +are we drifting?" + +Little Doc did not pay any attention to me. It is a way he has. + +"Think," said he, "how much longer a camel will stand up under +punishment if he gets his load straw by straw, as it were. The Ooley-cow +was a good thing, but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott did not use any +judgment. They piled it on him too thick." + +"Meaning," I asked, "to compare the Ooley-cow with a camel?" + +"Merely a figure of speech," said Little Doc; "but yes, such was my +intention." + +"Well," said I, "your figures of speech need careful auditing. A camel +can go eight days without a drink----" + +Little Doc made impatient motions at me with both hands. He has no sense +of humour, and his mind is a one-way track, totally devoid of spurs and +derailing switches. Once started, he must go straight through to his +destination. + +"What I am trying to make plain to your limited mentality," said he, "is +that Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott needed a lesson in conservation, and +they got it. The Ooley-cow was the easiest, softest picking that ever +strayed from the home pasture. With care and decent treatment he would +have lasted a long time and yielded an enormous quantity of nourishment, +but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were too greedy. They tried to corner +the milk market, and now they will have to sign tags for their drinks +and their golf balls the same as the rest of us. They have killed the +goose that laid the golden eggs." + +"A minute ago," said I, "the Ooley-cow was a camel. Now he is a goose--a +dead goose, to be exact. Are you all done figuring with your speech!" + +"Practically so, yes." + +"Then," said I, "I will plaster up the cracks in your argument with the +cement of information. I can use figures of speech myself. You are +barking up the wrong tree. You are away off your base. It wasn't the +loss of a few dollars that made Mr. Perkins run wild in our midst. It +was the manner in which he lost them. Let us now dismiss the worm, the +camel, the goose and all the rest of the menagerie, retaining only the +Ooley-cow. What do you know about cows, if anything?" + +"A little," answered my medical friend. + +"A mighty little. You know that a cow has hoofs, horns and a tail. The +same description would apply to many creatures, including Satan himself. +Your knowledge of cows is largely academic. Now me, I was raised on a +farm, and there were cows in my curriculum. I took a seven-year course +in the gentle art of acquiring the lacteal fluid. Cow is my specialty, +my long suit, my best hold. Believe it or not, when we christened old +Perkins the Ooley-cow we builded better than we knew." + +"I follow you at a great distance," said little Doc. "Proceed with the +rat killing. Why did we build better than we knew when we did not know +anything!" + +"Because," I explained, "Perkins not only looks like a cow and walks +like a cow and plays golf like a cow, but he has the predominant +characteristic of a cow. He has the one distinguishing trait which all +country cows have in common. If you had studied that noble domestic +animal as closely as I have, you would not need to be told what moved +Mr. Perkins to strew the entire golf course with the mangled remains of +the two old pirates before mentioned. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott +were milking him, yes, and it is quite likely that the Ooley-cow knew +that he was being milked, but that knowledge was not the prime cause of +the late unpleasantness." + +"I still follow you," said Little Doc plaintively, "but I am losing +ground every minute." + +"Listen carefully," said I. "Pin back your ears and give me your +undivided attention. There are many ways of milking a cow without +exciting the animal to violence. I speak now of the old-fashioned +cow--the country cow--from Iowa, let us say." + +"The Ooley-cow is from Iowa," murmured Little Doc. + +"Exactly. A city cow may be milked by machinery, and in a dozen +different ways, but the country cow does not know anything about new +fangled methods. There is one thing--and one thing only--which will make +the gentlest old mooley in Iowa kick over the bucket, upset the milker, +jump a four-barred fence and join the wild bunch on the range. Do you +know what that one thing is?" + +"I haven't even a suspicion," confessed Little Doc. + +Then I told him. I told him in words of one syllable, and after a time +he was able to grasp the significance of my remarks. If I could make +Little Doc see the point I can make you see it too. We go from here. + + * * * * * + +Wesley J. Perkins hailed from Dubuque, but he did not hail from there +until he had gathered up all the loose change in Northeastern Iowa. When +he arrived in sunny Southern California he was fifty-five years of age, +and at least fifty of those years had been spent in putting aside +something for a rainy day. Judging by the diameter of his bankroll, he +must have feared the sort of a deluge which caused the early settlers to +lay the ground plans for the Tower of Babel. + +Now it seldom rains in Southern California--that is to say, it seldom +rains hard enough to produce a flood--and as soon as Mr. Perkins became +acquainted with climatic conditions he began to jettison his ark. He +joined an exclusive downtown club, took up quarters there and spent his +afternoons playing dominoes with some other members of the I've-got-mine +Association. Aside from his habit of swelling up whenever he mentioned +his home town, and insisting on referring to it as "the Heidelberg of +America," there was nothing about Mr. Perkins to provoke comment, +unfavourable or otherwise. He was just one more Iowan in a country where +Iowans are no novelty. + +In person he was the mildest-mannered man that ever foreclosed a +short-term mortgage and put a family out in the street. His eyes were +large and bovine, his mouth drooped perpetually and so did his jowls, +and he moved with the slow, uncertain gait of a venerable milch cow. He +had a habit of lowering his head and staring vacantly into space, and +all these things earned for him the unhandsome nickname by which he is +now known. + +"But why the Ooley-cow?" some one asked one day. "It doesn't mean +anything at all!" + +"Well," was the reply, "neither does Perkins." + +But this was an error, as we shall see later. + +It was an increasing waistline that caused the Ooley-cow to look about +him for some form of gentle exercise. His physician suggested golf, and +that very week the board of directors of the Country Club was asked to +consider his application for membership. There were no ringing cheers, +but he passed the censors. + +I will say for Perkins that when he decided to commit golf he went about +it in a very thorough manner. He had himself surveyed for three +knickerbocker suits, he laid in a stock of soft shirts, imported +stockings and spiked shoes, and he gave our professional _carte +blanche_ in the matter of field equipment. It is not a safe thing to +give a Scotchman permission to dip his hand in your change pocket, and +MacPherson certainly availed himself of the opportunity to finger some +of the Dubuque money. He took one look at the novice and unloaded on him +something less than a hundredweight of dead stock. He also gave him a +lesson or two, and sent him forth armed to the teeth with wood, iron and +aluminum. + +Almost immediately Perkins found himself in the hands of Poindexter and +Sprott, two extremely hard-boiled old gentlemen who have never been +known to take any interest in a financial proposition assaying less than +seven per cent, and that fully guaranteed. Both are retired capitalists, +but when they climbed out of the trenches and retreated into the realm +of sport they took all their business instincts with them. + +Uncle Billy can play to a twelve handicap when it suits him to do so, +and his partner in crime is only a couple of strokes behind him; but +they seldom uncover their true form, preferring to pose as doddering and +infirm invalids, childish old men, who only think they can play the game +of golf, easy marks for the rising generation. New members are their +victims; beginners are just the same as manna from heaven to them. They +instruct the novice humbly and apologetically, but always with a small +side bet, and no matter how fast the novice improves he makes the +astounding discovery that his two feeble old tutors are able to keep +pace with him. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott are experts at nursing a +betting proposition along, and they seldom win any sort of a match by a +margin of more than two up and one to go. Taking into account the +natural limitations of age they play golf very well, but they play a +cinch even better--and harder. It is common scandal that Uncle Billy has +not bought a golf ball in ten years. Old Man Sprott bought one in 1915, +but it was under the mellowing influence of the third toddy and, +therefore, should not count against him. + +The Ooley-cow was a cinch. When he turned up, innocent and guileless and +eager to learn the game, Uncle Billy and his running mate were quick to +realise that Fate had sent them a downy bird for plucking, and in no +time at all the air was full of feathers. + +They played the Ooley-cow for golf balls, they played him for caddy +hire, they played him for drinks and cigars, they played him for +luncheons and they played him for a sucker--played him for everything, +in fact, but the locker rent and the club dues. How they came to +overlook these items is more than I know. The Ooley-cow would have stood +for it; he stood for everything. He signed all the tags with a loose and +vapid grin, and if he suffered from writer's cramp he never mentioned +the fact. His monthly bill must have been a thing to shudder at, but +possibly he regarded this extra outlay as part of his tuition. + +Once in a while he was allowed to win, for Poindexter and Sprott +followed the system practised by other confidence men; but they never +forgot to take his winnings away from him the next day, charging him +interest at the rate of fifty per cent for twenty-four hours. The +Ooley-cow was so very easy that they took liberties with him, so +good-natured about his losses that they presumed upon that good nature +and ridiculed him openly; but the old saw sometimes loses a tooth, the +worm turns, the straight road bends at last, so does the camel's back, +and the prize cow kicks the milker into the middle of next week. And, as +I remarked before, the cow usually has a reason. + + +II + +One morning I dropped into the downtown club which Perkins calls his +home. I found him sitting in the reception room, juggling a newspaper +and watching the door. He seemed somewhat disturbed. + +"Good morning," said I. + +"It is not a good morning," said he. "It's a bad morning. Look at this." + +He handed me the paper, with his thumb at the head of the Lost-and-Found +column, and I read as follows: + +"LOST--A black leather wallet, containing private papers and a sum of +money. A suitable reward will be paid for the return of same, and no +questions asked. Apply to W. J. P., Argonaut Club, City." + +"Tough luck," said I. "Did you lose much?" + +"Quite a sum," replied the Ooley-cow. "Enough to make it an object. In +large bills mostly." + +"Too bad. The wallet had your cards in it?" + +"And some papers of a private nature." + +"Have you any idea where you might have dropped it? Or do you think it +was stolen?" + +"I don't know what to think. I had it last night at the Country Club +just before I left. I know I had it then, because I took it out in the +lounging room to pay a small bet to Mr. Poindexter--a matter of two +dollars. Then I put the wallet back in my inside pocket and came +straight here--alone in a closed car. I missed it just before going to +bed. I telephoned to the Country Club. No sign of it there. I went to +the garage myself. It was not in the car. Of course it may have been +there earlier in the evening, but I think my driver is honest, and----" + +At this point we were interrupted by a clean-cut looking youngster of +perhaps seventeen years. + +"Your initials are W. J. P., sir?" he asked politely. + +"They are." + +"This is your 'ad' in the paper?" + +"It is." + +The boy reached in his pocket and brought out a black leather wallet. "I +have returned your property," said he, and waited while the Ooley-cow +thumbed a roll of yellow-backed bills. + +"All here," said Perkins with a sigh of relief. Then he looked up at the +boy, and his large bovine eyes turned hard as moss agates. "Where did +you get this?" he demanded abruptly. "How did you come by it?" + +The boy smiled and shook his head, but his eyes never left Perkins' +face. "No questions were to be asked, sir," said he. + +"Right!" grunted the Ooley-cow. "Quite right. A bargain's a bargain. +I--I beg your pardon, young man.... Still, I'd like to know.... Just +curiosity, eh?... No?... Very well then. That being the case"--he +stripped a fifty-dollar note from the roll and passed it over--"would +you consider this a suitable reward?" + +"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir." + +"Good day," said Perkins, and put the wallet into his pocket. He stared +at the boy until he disappeared through the street door. + +"Something mighty queer about this," mused the Ooley-cow thoughtfully. +"Mighty queer. That boy--he looked honest. He had good eyes and he +wasn't afraid of me. I couldn't scare him worth a cent. Couldn't bluff +him.... Yet if he found it somewhere, there wasn't any reason why he +shouldn't have told me. He didn't steal it--I'll bet on that. Maybe he +got it from some one who did. Oh, well, the main thing is that he +brought it back.... Going out to the Country Club this afternoon?" + +I said that I expected to play golf that day. + +"Come out with me then," said the Ooley-cow. "Poindexter and Sprott will +be there too. Yesterday afternoon I played Poindexter for the lunches +to-day. Holed a long putt on the seventeenth green, and stuck him. Come +along, and we'll make Poindexter give a party--for once." + +"It can't be done," said I. "Uncle Billy doesn't give parties." + +"We'll make him give one," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "We'll insist on it." + +"Insist if you want to," said I, "but you'll never get away with it." + +"Meet me here at noon," said the Ooley-cow. "If Poindexter doesn't give +the party I will." + +I wasn't exactly keen for the Ooley-cow's society, but I accepted his +invitation to ride out to the club in his car. He regaled me with a +dreary monologue, descriptive of the Heidelberg of America, and solemnly +assured me that the pretty girls one sees in Chicago are all from +Dubuque. + +It was twelve-thirty when we arrived at the Country Club, and Uncle +Billy and Old Man Sprott were there ahead of us. + +"Poindexter," said Perkins, "you are giving a party to-day, and I have +invited our friend here to join us." + +Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott, and both laughed uproariously. +Right there was where I should have detected the unmistakable odour of a +rodent. It was surprise number one. + +"Dee-lighted!" cackled Uncle Billy. "Glad to have another guest, ain't +we, Sprott?" + +Sprott grinned and rubbed his hands. "You bet! Tell you what let's do, +Billy. Let's invite everybody in the place--make it a regular party +while you're at it!" + +"Great idea!" exclaimed Uncle Billy. "The more the merrier!" This was +surprise number two. The first man invited was Henry Bauer, who has +known Uncle Billy for many years. He sat down quite overcome. + +"You shouldn't do a thing like that, Billy," said he querulously. "I +have a weak heart, and any sudden shock----" + +"Nonsense! You'll join us?" + +"Novelty always appealed to me," said Bauer. "I'm forever trying things +that nobody has ever tried before. Yes, I'll break bread with you, +but--why the celebration? What's it all about?" + +That was what everybody wanted to know and what nobody found out, but +the luncheon was a brilliant success in spite of the dazed and mystified +condition of the guests, and the only limit was the limit of individual +capacity. Eighteen of us sat down at the big round table, and +sandwich-and-milk orders were sternly countermanded by Uncle Billy, who +proved an amazing host, recommending this and that and actually ordering +Rhine-wine cup for all hands. I could not have been more surprised if +the bronze statue in the corner of the grill had hopped down from its +pedestal to fill our glasses. Uncle Billy collected a great pile of tags +beside his plate, but the presence of so much bad news waiting at his +elbow did not seem to affect his appetite in the least. When the party +was over he called the head waiter. "Mark these tags paid," said Uncle +Billy, capping the collection with a yellow-backed bill, "and hand the +change to Mr. Perkins." + +"Yes sir," said the head waiter, and disappeared. + +I looked at the Ooley-cow, and was just in time to see the light of +intelligence dawn in his big soft eyes. He was staring at Uncle Billy, +and his lower lip was flopping convulsively. Everybody began asking +questions at once. + +"One moment, gentlemen," mooed the Ooley-cow, pounding on the table. +"One moment!" + +"Now don't get excited, Perkins," said Old Man Sprott. "You got your +wallet back, didn't you? Cost you fifty, but you got it back. Next time +you won't be so careless." + +"Yes," chimed in Uncle Billy, "you oughtn't to go dropping your money +round loose that way. It'll teach you a lesson." + +"It will indeed." The Ooley-cow lowered his head and glared first at one +old pirate and then at the other. His soft eyes hardened and the +moss-agate look came into them. He seemed about to bellow, paw up the +dirt and charge. + +"The laugh is on you," cackled Poindexter, "and I'll leave it to the +boys here. Last night our genial host dropped his wallet on the floor +out in the lounging room. I kicked it across under the table to Sprott +and Sprott put his foot on it. We intended to give it back to him +to-day, but this morning there was an 'ad' in the paper--reward and no +questions asked--so we sent a nice bright boy over to the Argonaut Club +with the wallet. Perkins gave the boy a fifty-dollar note--very liberal, +I call it--and the boy gave it to me. Perfectly legitimate transaction. +Our friend here has had a lesson, we've had a delightful luncheon party, +and the joke is on him." + +"And a pretty good joke, too!" laughed Old Man Sprott. + +"Yes," said the Ooley-cow at last, "a pretty good joke. Ha, ha! A mighty +good joke." And place it to his credit that he managed a very fair +imitation of a fat man laughing, even to the shaking of the stomach and +the wrinkles round the eyes. He looked down at the tray in front of him +and fingered the few bills and some loose silver. + +"A mighty good joke," he repeated thoughtfully, "but what I can't +understand is this--why didn't you two jokers keep the change? It would +have been just that much funnier." + + +III + +The Ooley-cow's party was generally discussed during the next ten days, +the consensus of club opinion being that some one ought to teach +Poindexter and Sprott the difference between humour and petty larceny. +Most of the playing members were disgusted with the two old skinflints, +and one effect of this sentiment manifested itself in the number of +invitations that Perkins received to play golf with real people. He +declined them all, much to our surprise, and continued to wallop his way +round the course with Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott, apparently on as +cordial terms as ever. + +"What are you going to do with such a besotted old fool as that?" asked +Henry Bauer. "Here I've invited him into three foursomes this week--all +white men, too--and he's turned me down cold. It's not that we want to +play with him, for as a golfer he's a terrible thing. It's not that +we're crazy about him personally, for socially he's my notion of zero +minus; but he took his stinging like a dead-game sport and he's entitled +to better treatment than he's getting. But if he hasn't any better sense +than to pass his plate for more, what are you going to do about it?" + +"'Ephraim is joined to idols,'" quoted Little Doc Ellis. "'Let him +alone.'" + +"No, it's the other way round," argued Bauer. "His idols are joined to +him--fastened on like leeches. The question naturally arises, how did +such a man ever accumulate a fortune? Who forced it on him, and when, +and where, and why?" + +That very afternoon the Ooley-cow turned up with his guest, a large, +loud person, also from the Heidelberg of America, who addressed Perkins +as "Wesley," and lost no time in informing us that Southern California +would have starved to death but for Iowa capital. His name was +Cottle--Calvin D. Cottle--and he gave each one of us his card as he was +introduced. There was no need. Nobody could have forgotten him. Some +people make an impression at first sight--Calvin D. Cottle made a deep +dent. His age was perhaps forty-five, but he spoke as one crowned with +Methuselah's years and Solomon's wisdom, and after each windy statement +he turned to the Ooley-cow for confirmation. + +"Ain't that so, Wesley? Old Wes knows, you bet your life! He's from my +home town!" + +It was as good as a circus to watch Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott +sizing up this fresh victim. It reminded me of two wary old dogs +circling for position, manoeuvring for a safe hold. They wanted to +know something about his golf game--what was his handicap, for +instance? + +"Handicap?" repeated Cottle. "Is that a California idea? Something new, +ain't it?" + +Uncle Billy explained the handicapping theory. + +"Oh!" said Cottle. "You mean what do I go round in--how many strokes. +Well, sometimes I cut under a hundred; sometimes I don't. It just +depends. Some days I can hit 'em, some days I can't. That's all there is +to it." + +"My case exactly," purred Old Man Sprott. "Suppose we dispense with the +handicap?" + +"That's the stuff!" agreed Cottle heartily. "I don't want to have to +give anybody anything; I don't want anybody to give me anything. I like +an even fight, and what I say is, may the best man win! Am I right, +gentlemen?" + +"Absolutely!" chirped Uncle Billy. "May the best man win!" + +"You bet I'm right!" boomed Cottle. "Ask old Wes here about me. Raised +right in the same town with him, from a kid knee-high to a grasshopper! +I never took any the best of it in my life, did I, Wes? No, you bet not! +Remember that time I got skinned out of ten thousand bucks on the land +deal? A lot of fellows would have squealed, wouldn't they? A lot of +fellows would have hollered for the police; but I just laughed and gave +'em credit for being smarter than I was. I'm the same way in sport as I +am in business. I believe in giving everybody credit. I win if I can, +but if I can't--well, there's never any hard feelings. That's me all +over. You may be able to _lick_ me at this golf thing--likely you will; +but you'll never _scare_ me, that's a cinch. Probably you gentlemen play +a better game than I do--been at it longer; but then I'm a lot younger +than you are. Got more strength. Hit a longer ball when I do manage to +land on one right. So it all evens up in the long run." + +Mr. Cottle was still modestly cheering his many admirable qualities when +the Perkins party went in to luncheon, and the only pause he made was on +the first tee. With his usual caution Uncle Billy had arranged it so +that Dubuque was opposed to Southern California, and he had also +carefully neglected to name any sort of a bet until after he had seen +the stranger drive. + +Cottle teed his ball and stood over it, gripping his driver until his +knuckles showed white under the tan. "Get ready to ride!" said he. +"You're about to leave this place!" + +The club head whistled through the air, and I can truthfully say that I +never saw a man of his size swing any harder at a golf ball--or come +nearer cutting one completely in two. + +"Topped it, by gum!" ejaculated Mr. Cottle, watching the maimed ball +until it disappeared in a bunker. "Topped it! Well, better luck next +time! By the way, what are we playing for? Balls, or money, or what?" + +"Whatever you like," said Uncle Billy promptly. "You name it." + +"Good! That's the way I like to hear a man talk. Old Wes here is my +partner, so I can't bet with him, but I'll have a side match with each +of you gentlemen--say, ten great, big, smiling Iowa dollars. Always like +to bet what I've got the most of. Satisfactory?" + +Uncle Billy glanced at Old Man Sprott, and for an instant the old +rascals hesitated. The situation was made to order for them, but they +would have preferred a smaller wager to start with, being petty +larcenists at heart. + +"Better cut that down to five," said Perkins to Cottle in a low tone. +"They play a strong game." + +"Humph!" grunted his guest. "Did you ever know me to pike in my life? I +ain't going to begin now. Ten dollars or nothing!" + +"I've got you," said Old Man Sprott. + +"This once," said Uncle Billy. "It's against my principles to play for +money; but yes, this once." + +And then those two old sharks insisted on a foursome bet as well. + +"Ball, ball, ball," said the Ooley-cow briefly, and proceeded to follow +his partner into the bunker. Poindexter and Sprott popped conservatively +down the middle of the course and the battle was on. + +Battle, did I say! It was a massacre of the innocents, a slaughter of +babes and sucklings. Our foursome trailed along behind, and took note of +Mr. Cottle, of Dubuque, in his fruitless efforts to tear the cover off +the ball. He swung hard enough to knock down a lamp-post, but he seldom +made proper connections, and when he did the ball landed so far off the +course that it took him a dozen shots to get back again. He was +hopelessly bad, so bad that there was no chance to make the side matches +close ones. On the tenth tee Cottle demanded another bet--to give him a +chance to get even, he said. Poindexter and Sprott each bet him another +ten dollar note on the last nine, and this time Uncle Billy did not say +anything about his principles. + +After it was all over Cottle poured a few mint toddies into his system +and floated an alibi to the surface. + +"It was those confounded sand greens that did it," said he. "I'm used to +grass, and I can't putt on anything else. Bet I could take you to +Dubuque and flail the everlasting daylights out of you!" + +"Shouldn't be surprised," said Uncle Billy. "You did a lot better on the +last nine--sort of got into your stride. Any time you think you want +revenge----" + +"You can have it," finished Old Man Sprott, as he folded a crisp +twenty-dollar note. "We believe in giving a man a chance--eh, Billy?" + +"That's the spirit!" cried Cottle enthusiastically. "Give a man a +chance; it's what I say, and if he does anything, give him credit. You +beat me to-day, but I never saw this course before. Tell you what we'll +do: Let's make a day of it to-morrow. Morning and afternoon both. +Satisfactory! Good! You've got forty dollars of my dough and I want it +back. Nobody ever made me quit betting yet, if I figure to have a +chance. What's money? Shucks! My country is full of it! Now then, +Wesley, if you'll come out on the practise green and give me some +pointers on this sand thing, I'll be obliged to you. Ball won't run on +sand like it will on grass--have to get used to it. Have to hit 'em a +little harder. Soon as I get the hang of the thing we'll give these +Native Sons a battle yet! Native Sons? Native Grandfathers! Come on!" +Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott and Old Man Sprott looked at Uncle +Billy, but they did not begin to laugh until the Ooley-cow and his guest +were out of earshot. Then they clucked and cackled and choked like a +couple of hysterical old hens. + +"His putting!" gurgled Uncle Billy. "Did he have a putt to win a hole +all the way round?" + +"Not unless he missed count of his shots. Say, Billy!" + +"Well?" + +"We made a mistake locating so far West. We should have stopped in Iowa. +By now we'd have owned the entire state!" + + +IV + +I dropped Mr. Calvin D. Cottle entirely out of my thoughts; but when I +entered the locker room shortly after noon the next day something +reminded me of him. Possibly it was the sound of his voice. + +"Boy! Can't we have 'nother toddy here? What's the matter with some +service? How 'bout you, Wes? Oh, I forgot--you never take anything till +after five o 'clock. Think of all the fun you're missing. When I get to +be an old fossil like you maybe I'll do the same. Good rule.... You +gentlemen having anything? No? Kind of careful, ain't you? Safety first, +hey?... Just one toddy, boy, and if that mint ain't fresh, I'll .... +Yep, you're cagey birds, you are, but I give you credit just the same. +And some cash. Don't forget that. Rather have cash than credit any time, +hey? I bet you would! But I don't mind a little thing like that. I'm a +good sport. You ask Wes here if I ain't. If I ain't a good sport I ain't +anything.... Still, I'll be darned if I see how you fellows do it! +You're both old enough to have sons in the Soldiers' Home over yonder, +but you take me out and lick me again--lick me and make me like it! A +couple of dried-up mummies with one foot in the grave, and I'm right in +the prime of life! Only a kid yet! It's humiliating, that's what it is, +humiliating! Forty dollars apiece you're into me--and a flock of golf +balls on the side! Boy! Where's that mint toddy? Let's have a little +service here!" + +I peeped through the door leading to the lounging room. The +Dubuque-California foursome was grouped at a table in a corner. The +Ooley-cow looked calm and placid as usual, but his guest was sweating +profusely, and as he talked he mopped his brow with the sleeve of his +shirt. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were listening politely, but the +speculative light in their eyes told me that they were wondering how far +they dared go with this outlander from the Middle West. + +"Why," boomed Cottle, "I can hit a ball twice as far as either one of +you! 'Course I don't always know where it's going, but the main thing is +I got the _strength_. I can throw a golf ball farther than you old +fossils can hit one with a wooden club, yet you lick me easy as breaking +sticks. Can't understand it at all.... Twice as strong as you are.... +Why, say, I bet I can take one hand and outdrive you! _One hand!_" + +"Easy, Calvin," said the Ooley-cow reprovingly. "Don't make wild +statements." + +"Well, I'll bet I can do it," repeated Cottle stubbornly. "If a man's +willing to bet his money to back up a wild statement, that shows he's +got the right kind of a heart anyway. + +"I ought to be able to stick my left hand in my pocket and go out there +and trim two men of your age. I ought to, and I'll be damned if I don't +think I can!" + +"Tut, tut!" warned the Ooley-cow. "That's foolishness." + +"Think so?" Cottle dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out a +thick roll of bills. "Well, this stuff here says I can do it--at least I +can _try_--and I ain't afraid to back my judgment." + +"Put your money away," said Perkins. "Don't be a fool!" + +Cottle laughed uproariously and slapped the Ooley-cow on the back. + +"Good old Wes!" he cried. "Ain't changed a bit. Conservative! Always +conservative! Got rich at it, but me I got rich taking chances. What's a +little wad of bills to me, hey? Nothing but chicken-feed! I'll bet any +part of this roll--I'll bet _all_ of it--and I'll play these sun-dried +old sports with one hand. Now's the time to show whether they've got any +sporting blood or not. What do you say, gentlemen?" + +Uncle Billy looked at the money and moistened his lips with the tip of +his tongue. + +"Couldn't think of it," he croaked at length. + +"Pshaw!" sneered Cottle. "I showed you too much--I scared you!" + +"He ain't scared," put in Old Man Sprott. "It would be too much like +stealing it." + +"I'm the one to worry about that," announced Cottle. "It's my money, +ain't it? I made it, didn't I? And I can do what I damn please with +it--spend it, bet it, burn it up, throw it away. When you've worried +about everything else in the world it'll be time for you to begin +worrying about young Mr. Cottle's money! This slim little roll--bah! +Chicken-feed! Come get it if you want it!" He tossed the money on the +table with a gesture which was an insult in itself. "There it is--cover +it! Put up or shut up!" + +"Oh, forget it!" said the Ooley-cow wearily. "Come in and have a bite to +eat and forget it!" + +"Don't want anything to eat!" was the stubborn response. "Seldom eat in +the middle of the day. But I'll have 'nother mint toddy.... Wait a +second, Wes. Don't be in such a rush. Lemme understand this thing. +These--these gentlemen here, these two friends of yours, these dead-game +old Native Sons have got eighty dollars of my money--not that it makes +any difference to me, understand, but they've got it--eighty dollars +that they won from me playing golf. Now I may have a drink or two in me +and I may not, understand, but anyhow I know what I'm about. I make +these--gentlemen a sporting proposition. I give 'em a chance to pick up +a couple of hundred apiece, and they want to run out on me because it'll +be like stealing it. What kind of a deal is that, hey? Is it +sportsmanship? Is it what they call giving a man a chance? Is it----" + +"But they know you wouldn't have a chance," interrupted the Ooley-cow +soothingly. "They don't want a sure thing." + +"They've had one so far, haven't they?" howled Cottle. "What are they +scared of now? 'Fraid I'll squeal if I lose? Tell 'em about me, Wes. +Tell 'em I never squealed in my life! I win if I can, but if I +can't--'s all right. No kick coming. There never was a piker in the +Cottle family, was there, Wes? No, you bet not! We're sports, every one +of us. Takes more than one slim little roll to send us up a tree! If +there's anything that makes me sick, it's a cold-footed, penny-pinching, +nickel-nursing, sure-thing player!" + +"Your money does not frighten me," said Uncle Billy, who was slightly +nettled by this time. "It is against my principles to play for a cash +bet----" + +"But you and your pussy-footed old side-partner got into me for eighty +dollars just the same!" scoffed Cottle. "You and your principles be +damned!" + +Uncle Billy swallowed this without blinking, but he did not look at +Cottle. He was looking at the roll of bills on the table. + +"If you are really in earnest----" began Poindexter, and glanced at Old +Man Sprott. + +"Go ahead, Billy," croaked that aged reprobate. "Teach him a lesson. He +needs it." + +"Never mind the lesson," snapped Cottle. "I got out of school a long +time ago. The bet is that I can leave my left arm in the clubhouse +safe--stick it in my pocket--and trim you birds with one hand." + +"We wouldn't insist on that," said Old Man Sprott. "Play with both hands +if you want to." + +"Think I'm a welsher?" demanded Cottle. "The original proposition goes. +'Course I wouldn't really cut the arm off and leave it in the safe, but +what I mean is, if I use two arms in making a shot, right there is where +I lose. Satisfactory?" + +"Perkins," said Uncle Billy, solemnly wagging his head, "you are a +witness that this thing has been forced on me. I have been bullied and +browbeaten and insulted into making this bet----" + +"And so have I," chimed in Old Man Sprott. "I'm almost ashamed----" + +The Ooley-cow shrugged his shoulders. + +"I am a witness," said he quietly. "Calvin, these gentlemen have stated +the case correctly. You have forced them to accept your proposition----" + +"And he can't blame anybody if he loses," finished Uncle Billy as he +reached for the roll of bills. + +"You bet!" ejaculated Old Man Sprott. "He was looking for trouble, and +now he's found it. Count it, Billy, and we'll each take half." + +"That goes, does it?" asked Cottle. + +"Sir?" cried Uncle Billy. + +"Oh, I just wanted to put you on record," said Cottle, with a grin. +"Wesley, you're my witness too. I mislaid a five-hundred-dollar note the +other day, and it may have got into my change pocket. Might as well see +if a big bet will put these safety-first players off their game! Anyhow, +I'm betting whatever's there. I ain't sure how much it is." + +"I am," said Uncle Billy in a changed voice. He had come to the +five-hundred-dollar bill, sandwiched in between two twenties. He looked +at Old Man Sprott, and for the first time I saw doubt in his eyes. + +"Oh, it's there, is it!" asked Cottle carelessly. "Well, let it all +ride. I never backed up on a gambling proposition in my life--never +pinched a bet after the ball started to roll. Shoot the entire works--'s +all right with me!" + +Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott exchanged significant glances, but after +a short argument and some more abuse from Cottle they toddled over to +the desk and filled out two blank checks--for five hundred and eighty +dollars apiece. + +"Make 'em payable to cash," suggested Cottle. "You'll probably tear 'em +up after the game. Now the next thing is a stakeholder----" + +"Is that--necessary?" asked Old Man Sprott. + +"Sure!" said Cottle. "I might run out on you. Let's have everything +according to Hoyle--stakeholder and all the other trimmings. Anybody'll +be satisfactory to me; that young fellow getting an earful at the door; +he'll do." + +So I became the stakeholder--the custodian of eleven hundred and sixty +dollars in coin and two checks representing a like amount. I thought I +detected a slight nervousness in the signatures, and no wonder. It was +the biggest bet those old petty larcenists had ever made in their lives. +They went in to luncheon--at the invitation of the Ooley-cow, of +course--but I noticed that they did not eat much. Cottle wandered out +to the practise green, putter in hand, forgetting all about the mint +toddy which, by the way, had never been ordered. + + +V + +"You drive first, sir," said Uncle Billy to Cottle, pursuing his usual +system. "We'll follow you." + +"Think you'll feel easier if I should hit one over into the eucalyptus +trees yonder?" asked the man from Dubuque. "Little nervous, eh? Does a +big bet scare you? I was counting on that.... Oh, very well, I'll take +the honour." + +"Just a second," said Old Man Sprott, who had been prowling about in the +background and fidgeting with his driver. "Does the stakeholder +understand the terms of the bet? Mr. Cottle is playing a match with each +of us individually----" + +"Separately and side by each," added Cottle. + +"Using only one arm," said Old Man Sprott. + +"If he uses both arms in making a shot," put in Uncle Billy, "he +forfeits both matches. Is that correct, Mr. Cottle?" + +"Correct as hell! Watch me closely, young man. I have no moustache to +deceive you--nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Watch me +closely!" + +He teed his ball, dropped his left arm at his side, grasped the driver +firmly in his right hand and swung the club a couple of times in +tentative fashion. The head of the driver described a perfect arc, +barely grazing the top of the tee. His two-armed swing had been a thing +of violence--a baseball wallop, constricted, bound up, without +follow-through or timing, a combination of brute strength and +awkwardness. Uncle Billy's chin sagged as he watched the easy, natural +sweep of that wooden club--the wrist-snap applied at the proper time, +and the long graceful follow-through which gives distance as well as +direction. Old Man Sprott also seemed to be struggling with an entirely +new and not altogether pleasant idea. + +"Watch me closely, stakeholder," repeated Cottle, addressing the ball. +"Nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Would you gentlemen like to +have me roll up my sleeve before I start?" + +"Drive!" grunted Uncle Billy. + +"I'll do that little thing," said Cottle, and this time he put the power +into the swing. The ball, caught squarely in the middle of the +club-face, went whistling toward the distant green, a perfect screamer +of a drive without a suspicion of hook or slice. It cleared the +cross-bunker by ten feet, carried at least a hundred and eighty yards +before it touched grass, and then bounded ahead like a scared rabbit, +coming to rest at least two hundred and twenty-five yards away. "You +like that?" asked Cottle, moving off the tee. "I didn't step into it +very hard or I might have had more distance. Satisfactory, +stakeholder?" And he winked at me openly and deliberately. + +"Wha--what sort of a game is this?" gulped Old Man Sprott, finding his +voice with an effort. + +"Why," said Cottle, smiling cheerfully, "I wouldn't like to say off-hand +and so early in the game, but you might call it golf. Yes, call it golf, +and let it go at that." + +At this point I wish to go on record as denying the rumour that our two +old reprobates showed the white feather. That first tee shot, and the +manner in which it was made, was enough to inform them that they were up +against a sickening surprise party; but, though startled and shaken, +they did not weaken. They pulled themselves together and drove the best +they knew how, and I realised that for once I was to see their true +golfing form uncovered. + +Cottle tucked his wooden club under his arm and started down the course, +and from that time on he had very little to say. Uncle Billy and Old Man +Sprott followed him, their heads together at a confidential angle, and I +brought up the rear with the Ooley-cow, who had elected himself a +gallery of one. + +The first hole is a long par four. Poindexter and Sprott usually make it +in five, seldom getting home with their seconds unless they have a wind +behind them. Both used brassies and both were short of the green. Then +they watched Cottle as he went forward to his ball. + +"That drive might have been a freak shot," quavered Uncle Billy. + +"Lucky fluke, that's all," said Old Man Sprott, but I knew and they knew +that they only hoped they were telling the truth. + +Cottle paused over his ball for an instant, examined the lie and drew a +wooden spoon from his bag. Then he set himself, and the next instant the +ball was on its way, a long, high shot, dead on the pin. + +"And maybe that was a fluke!" muttered the Ooley-cow under his breath. +"Look! He's got the green with it!" + +From the same distance I would have played a full mid-iron and trusted +in Providence, but Cottle had used his wood, and I may say that never +have I seen a ball better placed. It carried to the little rise of turf +in front of the putting green, hopped once, and trickled onto the sand. +I was not the only one who appreciated that spoon shot. + +"Say," yapped Old Man Sprott, turning to Perkins, "what are we up +against here? Miracles?" + +"Yes, what have you framed up on us?" demanded Uncle Billy vindictively. + +"Something easy, gentlemen," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "A soft thing from +my home town. Probably he's only lucky." + +The two members of the Sure-Thing Society went after their customary +fives and got them, but Cottle laid his approach putt stone dead at the +cup and holed out in four. He missed a three by the matter of half an +inch. I could stand the suspense no longer. I took Perkins aside while +the contestants were walking to the second tee. + +"You might tell a friend," I suggested. "In strict confidence, what are +they up against?" + +"Something easy," repeated the Ooley-cow, regarding me with his soft, +innocent eyes. "They wanted it and now they've got it." + +"But yesterday, when he played with both arms----" I began. + +"That was yesterday," said Perkins. "You'll notice that they didn't have +the decency to offer him a handicap, even when they felt morally certain +that he had made a fool bet. Not that he would have accepted it--but +they didn't offer it. They're wolves, clear to the bone, but once in a +while a wolf bites off more than he can chew." And he walked away from +me. Right there I began reconstructing my opinion of the Ooley-cow. + +In my official capacity as stakeholder I saw every shot that was played +that afternoon. I still preserve the original score card of that amazing +round of golf. There are times when I think I will have it framed and +present it to the club, with red-ink crosses against the thirteenth and +fourteenth holes. I might even set a red-ink star against the difficult +sixth hole, where Cottle sent another tremendous spoon shot down the +wind, and took a four where most of our Class-A men are content with a +five. I might make a notation against the tricky ninth, where he played +a marvellous shot out of a sand trap to halve a hole which I would have +given up as lost. I might make a footnote calling attention to his +deadly work with his short irons. I say I think of all these things, but +perhaps I shall never frame that card. The two men most interested will +never forget the figures. It is enough to say that Old Man Sprott, +playing such golf as I had never seen him play before, succumbed at the +thirteenth hole, six down and five to go. Uncle Billy gave up the ghost +on the fourteenth green, five and four, and I handed the money and the +checks to Mr. Calvin D. Cottle, of Dubuque. He pocketed the loot with a +grin. + +"Shall we play the bye-holes for something?" he asked. "A drink--or a +ball, maybe?" And then the storm broke. I do not pretend to quote the +exact language of the losers. I merely state that I was surprised, yes, +shocked at Uncle Billy Poindexter. I had no idea that a member of the +Episcopal church--but let that pass. He was not himself. He was the +biter bitten, the milker milked. It makes a difference. Old Man Sprott +also erupted in an astounding manner. It was the Ooley-cow who took the +centre of the stage. + +"Just a minute, gentlemen," said he. "Do not say anything which you +might afterward regret. Remember the stakeholder is still with us. My +friend here is not, as you intimate, a crook. Neither is he a +sure-thing player. We have some sure-thing players with us, but he is +not one of them. He is merely the one-armed golf champion of +Dubuque--and the Middle West." + +Imagine an interlude here for fireworks, followed by pertinent +questions. + +"Yes, yes, I know," said Perkins soothingly. "He can't play a lick with +two arms. He never could. Matter of fact, he never learned. He fell off +a haystack in Iowa--how many years ago was it, Cal?" + +"Twelve," said Mr. Cottle. "Twelve next July." + +"And he broke his left arm rather badly," explained the Ooley-cow. +"Didn't have the use of it for--how many years, Cal?" + +"Oh, about six, I should say." + +"Six years. A determined man can accomplish much in that length of time. +Cottle learned to play golf with his right arm--fairly well, as you must +admit. Finally he got the left arm fixed up--they took a piece of bone +out of his shin and grafted it in--newfangled idea. Decided there was no +sense in spoiling a one-armed star to make a dub two-armed golfer. +Country full of 'em already. That's the whole story. You picked him for +an easy mark, a good thing. You thought he had a bad bet and you had a +good one. Don't take the trouble to deny it. Gentlemen, allow me to +present the champion one-armed golfer of Iowa and the Middle West!" + +"Yes," said Cottle modestly, "when a man does anything, give him credit +for it. Personally I'd rather have the cash!" + +"How do you feel about it now?" asked the Ooley-cow. + +Judging by their comments, they felt warm--very warm. Hot, in fact. The +Ooley-cow made just one more statement, but to me that statement +contained the gist of the whole matter. + +"This," said he, "squares us on the wallet proposition. I didn't say +anything about it at the time, but that struck me as a scaly trick. So I +invited Cal to come out and pay me a visit.... Shall we go back to the +clubhouse?" + + * * * * * + +I made Little Doc Ellis see the point; perhaps I can make you see it +now. + +Returning to the original simile, the Ooley-cow was willing to be milked +for golf balls and luncheons and caddie hire. That was legitimate +milking, and he did not resent it. He would have continued to give down +in great abundance, but when they took fifty dollars from him, in the +form of a bogus reward, he kicked over the bucket, injured the milkers +and jumped the fence. + +Why? I'm almost ashamed to tell you, but did you ever hear of a country +cow--an Iowa cow--that would stand for being milked from the wrong side? + +I think this will be all, except that I anticipate a hard winter for the +golfing beginners at our club. + + + + +ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND + + +I + +Now that Winthrop Watson Wilkins has taken his clubs away and cleaned +out his locker some of the fellows are ready enough to admit that he +wasn't half bad. On this point I agree with them. He was not. He was +two-thirds bad, and the remainder was pure, abysmal, impenetrable +ignorance. + +Windy Wilkins may have meant well--perhaps he did--but when a fellow +doesn't know, and doesn't know that he doesn't know and won't let +anybody tell him that he doesn't know, he becomes impossible and out of +place in any respectable and exclusive golf club. I suppose his +apologists feel kindly toward him for eliminating Adolphus Kitts and +squaring about a thousand old scores with that person, but I claim it +was a case of dog eat dog and neither dog a thoroughbred. I for one am +not mourning the departure of Windy Winkins, and if I never see him +again, I will manage to bear it somehow. + +They say that every golf club has one member who slips in while the +membership committee is looking the other way. In Windy's case the +committee had no possible excuse. There was an excuse for Adolphus +Kitts. Adolphus got in when our club absorbed the Crystal Springs +Country Club, and out of courtesy we did not scrutinise the Crystal +Springs membership list, but Windy's name was proposed in the regular +manner. All that was known of him was that he was a stranger in the +community who had presumably never been in jail and who had money. The +club didn't need his initiation fee and wasn't after new members, but +for some reason or other the bars were down and Windy got in. The first +thing we knew he landed in our midst with a terrific splash and began +slapping total strangers on the back and trying to sign all the +tags and otherwise making an ass of himself. He didn't wait for +introductions--just butted in and took things for granted. + +"You see, boys," he explained, "I've always been more or less of an +ath-a-lete and I've tried every game but this one. Now that I'm gettin' +to the time of life when I can't stand rough exercise any more, I +thought I'd kind of like to take up golf. I would have done it when I +lived in Chicago, but my friends laughed me out of it--said it was silly +to get out and whale a little white pill around the country--but I guess +anything that makes a man sweat is healthy, hey? And then my wife +thought it would be a good thing socially, you know, and--no, waiter, +this round is on me. Oh, but I insist! My card, gentlemen. That's right; +keep 'em. I get 'em engraved by the thousand. Waiter! Bring some cigars +here--perfectos, cigarettes--anything the gentlemen'll have, and let it +be the best in the house! I don't smoke cigarettes myself, but my +friends tell me that's the next step after takin' up golf! Ho, ho! No +offence to any of you boys; order cigarettes if you want 'em. Everybody +smokes on the new member!" + +Well, that was Windy's tactful method of introducing himself. Is it any +wonder that we asked questions of the membership committee? No +out-and-out complaints, you understand. We just wanted to know where +Windy came from and how he got in and who was to blame for it. Most of +the information was furnished by Cupid Cutts. + +Cupid is pretty nearly the whole thing at our club. In every golf club +there is one man who does the lion's share of the work and gets nothing +but abuse and criticism for it, and Cupid is our golfing wheel horse, as +you might say. He is a member of the board of directors, a member of the +house committee, chairman of the greens committee, and the Big Stick on +the membership committee. He is also the official handicapper, which is +a mighty good thing to bear in mind when you play against him. I have +known Cupid to cut a man's handicap six strokes for beating him three +ways on a ball-ball-ball Nassau. + +Cutts is no Chick Evans, or anything like that, but, considering his +physical limitations, he is a remarkable golfer and steady as an +eight-day clock. He is so fat that he can't take a full-arm swing to +save his life, but his little half-shot pops the ball straight down the +middle of the course every time, and he plays to his handicap with a +persistency that has broken many a youngster's heart. Straight on the +pin all the time--that's his game, and whenever he's within a hundred +yards of the cup he's liable to lay his ball dead. + +There are lots of things I might tell you about Cupid Cutts--he's a sort +of social Who's Who in white flannels and an obesity belt, and an +authority on scandal and gossip, past and present--but the long and +short of it is that it would be hard to get on without him, even harder +than it is to get on with him. Well, we asked Cupid about Windy Wilkins, +and Cupid went to the bat immediately. + +"Absolutely all right, fellows, oh, absolutely! A little rough, perhaps, +a diamond in the rough, but a good heart. And all kinds of money. He +won't play often enough to bother anybody." + +That was where Cupid was wrong two ways. Windy played every day, rain or +shine, and he bothered everybody. He was just as noisy on the course as +he was in the locker room, and when he missed his putt on the +eighteenth green the fellows who were driving off at No. 1 had to wait +until he cooled down. And when he managed to hit his drive clean he +yelled like a Comanche and jumped up and down on the tee. He did all the +things that can't be done, and when we spoke to him kindly about golfing +etiquette he snorted and said he never had much use for red tape anyway +and thought it was out of place in sport. + +He tramped around on the greens and bothered people who wanted to putt. +He talked and laughed when others were driving. He played out of his +turn. He drove into foursomes whenever he was held up for a minute, just +to let the players know that he was behind 'em. + +He was absolutely impossible, socially and otherwise, but the most +astonishing thing was the way he picked up the game after the first +month or so. Windy was a tremendously big man and looked like the hind +end of an elephant in his knickers; but for all his size he developed a +powerful, easy swing and a reasonable amount of accuracy. As for form, +he didn't know the meaning of the word. His stance was never twice the +same, his grip was a relic of the dark ages, he handled his irons as a +labouring man handles a pick, he did everything that the books say you +mustn't do, and, in spite of it, his game improved amazingly. And he +called us moving-picture golfers! + +"Every move a picture!" he would say. "You have to plant your dear +little feet just so. Your tee has got to be just so high. Your grip must +be right to the fraction of an inch. You must waggle the club back and +forth seven times before you dare to swing it, and then chances are you +don't get anywhere! Step up and paste her on the nose the way I do! +Forget this Miss Nancy stuff and hit the ball!" + +When Windy got down around 90 he swelled all out of shape, and the next +step, of course, was to have some special clubs built by MacLeish, the +professional. They were such queer-looking implements that Cupid joked +him about them one Saturday noon in the locker room. It was then that we +got a real line on Windy, and Cupid found out that even a rough diamond +may have a cutting edge. + +"You're just like all beginners," said Cupid. "You make a few rotten +shots and then think the clubs must be wrong. The regular models aren't +good enough for you. You have to have some built to order, with bigger +faces and stiffer shafts. Get it into your head that the trouble is with +you, not with the club. The ball will go straight if you hit it right." + +"Clubs make a lot of difference," said Windy. "Ten strokes anyway." + +"Nonsense! A good, mechanical golfer can play with any clubs!" + +"I suppose you think you can do it?" + +"I know I can." + +"And you'd bet on it?" + +"Certainly." + +Windy didn't say anything for as much as two minutes. The rascal was +thinking. + +"_All_ right," said he at last. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll make you a +little proposition. You say you can play with any clubs. Give me the +privilege of pickin' 'em out for you, and I'll bet you fifty dollars +that I trim you on an even game--no handicap." + +"Yes, but where are you going to get these clubs for me to play with? +Off a scrap pile or something?" + +"Right out of MacLeish's shop! Brand-new stuff, selected from the +regular stock. And I'll go against you even, just to prove that you +don't know it all, even if you have been playin' golf for twenty years!" + +It was a flat, out-and-out challenge. Cupid looked Windy up and down +with a pitying smile--the same smile he uses when an 18-handicap man +asks to be raised to 24. + +"I'd be ashamed to rob you, Wilkins," said he. + +Windy didn't say anything, but he went into his locker and brought out a +roll of bills about the size of a young grindstone. He counted fifty +dollars off it, and you couldn't have told the difference. It looked +just as big as before. He handed the fifty to me. + +"It would be stealing it," said Cupid, but there was a hungry look in +his eye. + +"If you get away with it," said Windy, "I won't complain to the police. +Put up or shut up." + +Well, it looked like finding the money. We knew that Windy couldn't +break a 90 to save his life, and Cupid had done the course in an 84, +using nothing but a putting cleek. + +"How many clubs can I have?" asked Cupid with his usual caution in the +matter of bets. + +"Oh, six or eight," answered Windy. "Makes no difference to me." + +"I'll take eight," said Cupid briskly. "And if you don't mind, I'll post +a check. I'm not in the habit of carrying the entire cash balance in my +jeans." + +"Fair enough!" said Windy. "You boys are all witnesses to the terms of +this bet. I'm to pick out eight clubs--eight new ones--and Cutts here is +to play with 'em. Is that understood?" + +"Perfectly!" grinned Cupid. "It'll just cost you fifty fish to find out +that a mechanical golfer can lick you with strange weapons." + +Windy went out and Cupid promised us all a dinner on the proceeds of the +match. + +"I don't want the fellow's money," said he, "but Windy's entirely too +fresh for a new member. A beating will do him good and make him humble. +Eight clubs. If he brings me only two or three that I can use--a driver, +a mid-iron, and a putter--I'll hang his hide on the fence too easy. He's +made a bad bet." + +But it wasn't such a bad bet after all. Windy came back with eight +clubs in the crook of his arm, and when Cupid caught a glimpse of the +collection he howled himself purple in the face, and no wonder. Eight +nice, new, shiny, mashie niblicks! + +You see, nothing was said about the _sort_ of clubs Windy was to pick +out, and he had selected eight of the same pattern, no good on earth +except for digging out of bunkers or popping the ball straight up in the +air! Harry Vardon himself can't _drive_ with a mashie niblick! + +"What are you beefin' about?" asked Windy. "Eight clubs, you said, and +here they are. Play or pay." + +"Pay! Why, man alive, it's a catch bet--a cinch bet! It's not being done +this year at all! It's like stealing the money!" + +"And you thought you could steal mine," was the cool reply. "You thought +you had a cinch bet, didn't you? Be honest now. Eight clubs, by the +terms of the agreement, and you'll play with 'em or forfeit the fifty." + +Cupid looked at the mashie niblicks and then he looked at Windy. I +looked at him too and began to understand how he got his money. His face +was as hard as granite. "You'd collect that sort of a bet--from a +friend?" It was Cupid's last shot. + +"Just as quick as you would," said Windy. + +"I'll write you a check," and Cupid turned on his heel and started for +the office. + +Windy tried to turn it into a joke--after he got the check--but nobody +seemed to know where to laugh, and following that little incident he +found it a bit hard to get games. Whenever Windy was hunting a match the +foursomes were full and there was nothing doing. A sensitive man would +have suffered tortures, but Windy, with about as much delicacy as a +rhinoceros, continued to infest the course morning, noon, and night. +When he couldn't find any one weak-minded enough to play with him he +played with himself, and somehow managed to make just as much noise as +ever with only a caddie to talk to. + +This was the state of affairs when Adolphus Kitts returned from the +East, barely in time to shoot a 91 in the qualifying round of the Annual +Handicap. We had hoped that he would miss this tournament, but no; there +he was, large as life--which is pretty large--and ugly as ever. Grim and +silent and nasty, he stepped out on No. 1 tee, and Cupid Cutts groaned +as he watched him drive off. + +"That fellow," said Cupid, "would hang his harp on the walls of the New +Jerusalem and come back from the golden shore just to get into a +handicap event, where nobody wants him, nobody will speak to him, and +every one wishes him an ulcerated tooth! Why didn't he stay in the +East?" + +There were about four hundred and seventy-six reasons why Adolphus was +unpopular with us; a few will suffice. In the first place, he was a cup +hunter. He had an unholy passion for silver goblets and trophies with +the club emblem on them, and he preferred a small silver vase--worth not +to exceed three dollars, wholesale--to the respect and admiration of his +fellow golfers. Heaven knows why he wanted trophies! They are never any +good unless a man has friends to show them to! + +In the second place, Adolphus didn't care how he won a cup, and, as +Cupid used to say, the best club in his bag was the book of rules. + +If you don't know it already, I must tell you that golf is the most +strictly governed game in the world, and also the most ceremonious. It +is as full of "thou shalt nots" as the commandments. There are rules for +everything and everybody on the course, and the breaking of a rule +carries a penalty with it--the loss of a stroke or the loss of a hole, +as the case may be. Very few golfers play absolutely to the letter of +the law; even those who know the rules incur penalties through +carelessness, and in such a case it is not considered sporting to demand +the pound of flesh; but there was nothing sporting about Adolphus Kitts. + +He knew every obscure rule and insisted on every penalty. Question him, +and he fished out the book. That book of rules stiffened his match play +tremendously, besides making his opponents want to murder him. It was +rather a rotten system, but Kitts hadn't a drop of sporting blood in +his whole big body, and the element of sportsmanship didn't enter into +his calculations at all. He claimed strokes and holes even when not in +competition, and because of this he found it difficult to obtain +partners or opponents. + +"He's a golf lawyer, that's what he is--a technical lawyer!" said Cupid +one day. "And I wouldn't even play the nineteenth hole with him--I +wouldn't, on a bet!" + +Come to think of it, that is about the bitterest thing you can say of a +golfer. + + +II + +Our Annual Handicap is the blue-ribbon event of the year so far as most +of us are concerned. The star players turn up their noses at it a bit, +but that is only because they realise that they have a mighty slim +chance to carry off the cup. The high-handicap men usually eliminate the +crack performers, which is the way it should be. What's the good of a +handicap event if a scratch man is to win it every year? + +Sixty-four members qualify and are paired off into individual matches, +which are played on handicaps, the losers dropping out. The man who +"comes through" in the top half of the drawing meets the survivor of the +lower half in the final match for the cup, which is always a very +handsome and valuable trophy, calculated to rouse all the cupidity in a +cup hunter's nature. + +When the pairings were posted on the bulletin board Kitts was in the +upper half and Windy in the lower one. Kitts had a handicap of 8 +strokes, and was really entitled to 12, but Cupid wouldn't listen to his +wails of anguish. Windy was a 12 man, and nobody figured the two +renegades as dangerous until the sixty-four entrants had narrowed down +to eight survivors. Kitts had won his matches by close margins, but +Windy had simply smothered his opponents by lopsided scores, and there +they were, in the running and too close to the finals for comfort. + +We began to sit up and take notice. Cupid read the riot act to Dawson, +who was Windy's next opponent, and also had a talk with Aubrey, who was +to meet Kitts. "Wilkins and Kitts must be stopped!" raved Cupid. "We +don't want 'em to get as far as the semi-finals, and it's up to you +chaps to play your heads off and beat these rotters!" + +Dawson and Aubrey saw their duty to the club, but that was as far as +they got with it. Windy talked from one end of his match to the other +and made Dawson so nervous that any one could have beaten him, and Kitts +pulled the book of rules on Aubrey and literally read him out of the +contest. + +After this the interest in the tournament grew almost painful. +Overholzer and Watts were the other semifinalists, and we told them +plainly that they might as well resign from the club if they did not win +their matches. Overholzer spent a solid week practicing on his approach +shots, and Watts carried his putter home with him nights, but it wasn't +the slightest use. Windy tossed an 83 at Overholzer, along with a lot of +noisy conversation, and an 83 will beat Overholzer every time he starts. +Poor Watts went off his drive entirely and gave such a pitiful +exhibition that Kitts didn't need the rule book at all. + +And there we were, down to the finals for the beautiful handicap cup, +sixty-two good men and true eliminated, and a pair of bounders lined up +against each other for the trophy! + +"This," said Cupid Cutts, "is a most unfortunate situation. I can't root +for a sure-thing gambler and daylight highwayman like Wilkins, and as +for the other fellow I hope he falls into a bunker and breaks both his +hind legs off short! Think of one of those fellows carrying home that +lovely cup! Ain't it enough to make you sick?" + +It made us all sick, nevertheless quite a respectable gallery assembled +to watch Wilkins and Kitts play their match. + +"Looks like we're goin' to have a crowd for the main event!" said Windy, +who had put in the entire morning practicing tee shots. "In that case +I'll buy everybody a little drink, or sign a lunch card--whatever's +customary. Don't be bashful, boys. Might as well drink with the winner +before as well as after, you know!" + +At this point Adolphus came in from the locker room and there was an +embarrassed silence, broken at last by Windy. "Somebody introduce me to +my victim," said he. "We've never met." + +"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Cupid. "Of all the men in this club, I'd +think you fellows ought to know each other! Kitts, this is +Wilkins--shake hands and get together!" + +Among the other reasons for not liking him, Adolphus had a face. I'm +aware that a man cannot help his face, but he can make it easier to look +at by wearing a pleasant expression now and then. Kitts seldom used his +face to smile with. As he turned to shake hands with Windy I noticed +that his left hip pocket bulged a trifle, and I knew that Adolphus was +taking no chances. That's where he carries the book of rules. + +"How do," said Kitts, looking hard at Windy. "I'm ready if you are, +sir." + +"Oh, don't be in such a hurry!" said Wilkins. "We've got a lot of drinks +comin' here. Sit down and have one." + +"Thank you, I never drink," replied Adolphus. + +"Well, then, have a sandwich. Might as well load up; you've got a hard +afternoon ahead of you." + +"Thanks, I've had my lunch." + +"Then let's talk a little," urged Windy. "Let's get acquainted. This is +the first time I ever had a whack at a cup, and I don't know how to act. +I play golf by main strength and awkwardness, but I get there just the +same. They tell me you're a great man for rules." + +Windy paused, but Kitts didn't say anything, and Cupid stepped on my +foot under the table. + +"Now, I don't go very strong on the rules," continued Windy wheedlingly. +"I like to play a sporty game--count all my shots, of course--but damn +this technical stuff is what _I_ say. For instance, if you should +accidentally tap your ball when you was addressin' it, and it should +turn over, I wouldn't call a stroke on you. I'd be ashamed to do it. If +I win, I want to win on my _playin'_ and not on any technicalities. +Ain't that the way you feel about it, hey?" + +Kitts looked uncomfortable, but he wouldn't return a straight answer to +the question. He said something about hoping the best man would win, and +went out to get his clubs. + +"Cheerful kind of a party, ain't he?" said Windy. "I've told him where I +stand. _I_ ain't goin' to claim anything on him if his foot slips, and +he oughtn't to claim anything on _me_. If he's a real sport, he won't. +What do you boys think?" + +We thought a great deal, but nobody offered any advice. + +"Well," said Windy, getting up and stretching, "he's got to start me 2 +up, on handicap, and I'm drivin' like a fool. I should worry about his +technicalities!" + + +III + +Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player is +very well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot. +It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, rough +to the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guarding +the green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee. + +"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts. _I_ always drive best +when people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, they +say. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when I +address the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this: +'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! And +the little white devil certainly took a ride--long, low, and straight up +the middle of the course--the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it to +make it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixty +yards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pill +beside that one--if you think you can!" + +"You're a 12-handicap man--and you drive like that!" said Kitts, which +was, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot. + +"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. I +really play to a 6." + +Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversational +leads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberate +players who must make just so many motions before they pull off their +shots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he moved +up on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forth +over it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out a +nice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all, +he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker. + +"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot! +Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of a +contest----" + +"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windy +winked at the rest of us. + +"His goat is loose already!" said he in a stage whisper. "He can't stand +the gaff!" + +Adolphus got out of the tall grass on his third shot, but dropped his +fourth into a deep sand pit short of the green. + +"With a lot of luck," said Windy, reaching for his brassy, "you may get +an 8--but I doubt it. Pretty soft for me, pretty soft!" And with the +sole of his club he patted the turf behind his ball, smoothing it +down--three gentle little pats. "Pret-ty soft!" murmured Windy, and sent +the ball whistling straight on to the green for a sure 4. Then he turned +to Kitts. "D'you give up?" said he. "Might just as well; you haven't got +a burglar's chance!" + +"I claim the hole," said Adolphus calmly, fishing out the book of rules. + +"You--what?" + +"Rule No. 10," said Kitts, beginning to read. "'In playing through the +green, irregularities of surface which could in any way affect the +player's stroke shall not be removed nor pressed down by the player----' +You patted the grass behind your ball and improved the lie by smoothing +it down. I claim the hole." + +Windy went about the colour of a nice ripe Satsuma plum. His neck +swelled so much that his ears moved outward. "You don't mean to say that +you're goin' to call a thing like that on me when you're already licked +for the hole?" He spoke slowly, as if he found it hard to believe that +the situation was real. + +"I claim it," repeated Adolphus monotonously. "You can appeal to Mr. +Cutts, as chairman of the greens committee." + +"Hey, Fatty! All I did was pat the grass a few times with my club, and +this--this _gentleman_ here says he claims the hole." + +"You violated the rule," shortly answered Cupid, who may be fat but does +not like to be reminded of it so publicly. + +"And you're goin' to let him get away with that?" demanded Windy. "I'm +on the green in two, and he's neck-deep in the sand on his fourth----" + +"Makes no difference," said Cupid, turning away. "You ought to know the +rules by now. Kitts wins the hole." + +Well, Windy finally accepted the situation, but he was in a savage frame +of mind--so savage that he walked all the way to the second tee without +opening his mouth. There he stepped aside, with a low bow to Kitts. + +"Your _honour_, I believe," said he with nasty emphasis. + +No. 2 is a short hole--a drive and a pitch. Windy got a good ball, and +it rolled almost to the edge of the green. Kitts's drive was short but +straight, and he pitched his second to the green, some thirty feet from +the pin, and the advantage seemed to be with Windy until it was +discovered that his ball was lying in a cuppy depression of the turf. + +"That's lovely, ain't it?" growled Windy. "A fine drive--and look at +this for a lie! I was goin' to use a putter, but a putter won't get the +ball out of there. Hey, Fatty, had I better use a niblick here?" + +"I claim the hole," said Kitts, reaching for the book. + +"But I haven't done anything!" howled Windy. "How can you claim the hole +when I haven't played the shot?" + +"You asked advice," said Kitts, reading. "'A player may not ask for nor +willingly receive advice from any one except his own caddie, his +partner, or his partner's caddie.' This is not a foursome, so you have +no partner. Advice is defined as any suggestion which could influence a +player in determining the line of play, in the choice of a club, or in +the method of making a stroke. You asked whether you should use a +niblick--and you lose the hole." + +Windy, knocked speechless for once in his life, looked over at Cupid, +and Cupid nodded his head. + +"The match is now all square," said Kitts as he started for the third +tee. + +"And squared by a couple of petty larceny protests!" said Windy. "Hey, +Mister Bookworm, wait a minute! I want to tell you something for your +own good!" + +"Oh, play golf!" said Kitts, over his shoulder. + +Windy strode after him and took him by the arm. It wasn't a gentle grasp +either. + +"That's exactly what I want to say. _You_ play golf, Mr. Kitts! Play it +with your clubs, and forget that book in your hip pocket. If you pull it +on me again, I'll--I'll----" + +Adolphus tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort. + +"You can't intimidate me," said he. + +"Maybe not," said Windy, quite earnestly, "but I can lick you within an +inch of your life--and I will. Is there anything in the book about +that? If you read me out of this cup, you better make arrangements to +have it sent direct to the hospital. It'll make a nice flower holder--if +you've got any friends that think enough of you to send flowers!" + +"You gentlemen are witnesses to these threats," said Kitts, appealing to +the gallery. + +"We didn't hear a word," said Cupid. "Not a word. Go on and play your +match and stop squabbling. You act like a couple of fishwives!" + +The contestants walked off in the direction of the tee, with Windy still +rubbing it in. + +"A word to the wise. Keep that damn' book in your pocket, if you don't +want to eat it--cover and all!" + +"Suppose they do mix it?" said Cupid, mopping his brow. "Sweet little +golfing scandal, eh? Can't you see the headlines in the newspapers? +'Country Club finalists in fist fight on links!' And some of these +roughneck humourists will congratulate us on golf becoming one of the +vital, red-blooded sports! Oh, lovely!" + +"Bah!" said I. "There will be no fight. No man will fight who smiles +like a coyote when he is getting a call down." + +"But a coyote will fight if you put it up to him, don't make any mistake +about that. And Kitts will spring the book on Windy again, I feel it in +my bones, and if he does--choose your partners for the one-step! Oh, why +did we ever let these rotters into the club?" + + +IV + +I see no reason for inflicting upon you a detailed description of the +next fifteen holes of golfing frightfulness. Golf is a game which +requires mental calm, and the contestants were entirely out of calmness +after the second hole and could not concentrate on their shots. + +Windy began driving all over the shop, hooking and slicing tremendously, +and Kitts manhandled his irons in a manner fit to make a hardened +professional weep. Neither of them could have holed a five-foot putt in +a washtub, and they staggered along side by side, silent and nervous and +savage, and if Windy managed to win a hole Kitts would be sure to take +the next one and square the match. But he didn't take any holes with the +book. When Windy broke a rule--which he did every little while--Kitts +would sneer and pretend to look the other way. He tried to convey the +impression that it was pity and contempt that made him blind to Windy's +lapses, but he didn't fool me for a minute. It was fear of consequences. + +And so they came to the last hole, all square, and also all in. + +Our eighteenth has a vicious reputation among those golfing unfortunates +who slice their tee shots. The drive must carry a steep hill, the right +slope of which pitches away to a deep, narrow ravine--a ravine scarred +and marred by thousands of niblick shots, but otherwise as disgusted +Nature left it. We call it Hell's Half Acre, though the first part of +the name would be quite sufficient. + +The only improvements that have ever been made in this sinister locality +have been made by golf clubs, despairingly wielded. Hell's Half Acre is +full of stunted trees with roots half out of the ground, and thick brush +and matted weeds, and squarely in the middle of this desolation is a +deep sink, or pit, known as the Devil's Kitchen. Hell's Half Acre is bad +enough, believe one who knows, but the Devil's Kitchen is the last hard +word in hazards, and it is a crime to allow such a plague spot within a +mile of a golf course. + +At a respectful distance we watched the renegades drive from the +eighteenth tee. Kitts had the honour--if there is any honour in winning +a four hole in eight strokes--and messed about over his ball even longer +than usual. His drive developed a lovely curve to the right, and went +skipping and bounding down the hill toward the ravine. + +"And that'll be in the Kitchen unless something stops it!" said Cupid +with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid the blighters might halve this one +and need extra holes!" + +Now with Adolphus in the Devil's Kitchen all Windy needed was a straight +ball over the brow of the hill--in fact, a ball anywhere on the course +would be almost certain to win the hole and the match--but when he +walked out on the tee it was plain to be seen that he had lost +confidence in his wooden club. Any golfer knows what it means to lose +confidence in his wood, and Windy had reason to doubt his driver. His +tee shots had been fearfully off direction, and here was one that _had_ +to go straight. + +He teed his ball, swung his club a couple of times, and shook his head. +Then he yelled at his caddie. + +"Oh, boy! Bring me my cleek!" + +Now, a cleek is a wonderful club if a man knows how to use one, but it +produces a low tee shot, as a general thing. It produced one for +Windy--a screamer, flying with the speed of a rifle bullet. I thought at +first that it was barely going to clear the top of the hill, but I +misjudged it. Three feet higher and the ball would have been over, but +it struck the ground and kicked abruptly to the right, disappearing in +the direction of the Devil's Kitchen. We heard a crashing noise. It was +Windy splintering his cleek shaft over the tee box. + +"Both down!" ejaculated Cupid. "Suffering St. Andrew, what a finish!" + +We arrived on the rim of the Kitchen and peered into that wild +amphitheatre. Kitts had already found his ball, and was staring at it +with an expression of dumb anguish on his face. It was lying underneath +a tangle of sturdy oak roots, as safely protected as if an octopus was +trying to hatch something out of it. + +Windy was combing the weeds which grew on the abrupt sides of the pit, +too full of his own trouble to pay any attention to his opponent. + +"If it's a lost ball----" said Cupid. + +But it wasn't. Windy found it, half-way up the left slope, hidden in the +weeds, and not a particularly bad lie except for the fact that nothing +human could have taken a stance on that declivity. Having found his +ball, Windy took a look at Kitts's lie and then, for the first and only +time in his golfing career, Wilkins recognised the rules of the game. +"You're away, sir," said he to Kitts. "Play!" + +Adolphus took his niblick and attacked the octopus. His first three +strokes did not even jar the ball, but they damaged the oak roots beyond +repair. On his eighth attempt the ball popped out of its nest, and the +next shot was a very pretty one, sailing up and out to the fair green, +but there was no applause from the gallery. + +"Countin' the drive," said Windy, "that makes ten, eh?" + +A man may play nine strokes in a hazard, but he hates to admit it. +Adolphus grunted and withdrew to the other side of the pit, from which +point he watched Windy morosely. With victory in sight the latter became +cheerful again; conversation bubbled out of him. + +"Boy, slip me the niblick and get up yonder on the edge of the ravine +where you can watch this ball. I'm goin' to knock it a mile out of here. +Ten shots he's had. If it was me, I'd give up. How am I to get a +footin' on this infernal side hill? Spikes won't hold in that stuff. +Wish I was a goat. Aha! The very thing!" + +Suddenly he delivered a powerful blow at the slope some distance below +his ball and three or four feet to the left of it. Cupid gasped and +opened his mouth to say something, but I nudged him and he subsided, +clucking like a nervous hen. + +"What's the idea?" demanded Kitts. + +"To make little boys ask questions," was the calm reply. "I climbed the +Alps once. Had to dig holes for my feet. Guess I haven't forgotten how, +but diggin' with a blasted niblick is hard work." + +"Oh!" said Kitts. + +Windy continued to hack at the wall, the gallery looking on in tense +silence. Nobody would have offered a suggestion; we all felt that it was +their own affair, and on the knees of the gods, as the saying is. When +Windy had hacked out a place for his right foot he cut another one for +his left. The weeds were tough and the soil was hard, and he grunted as +he worked. + +"Yep--that Alps trip--taught me something. Comes in--handy now. Pretty +nifty--job, hey?" + +I suppose a mountain climber would have called it a nifty job. Cupid +began to mutter. + +"Be quiet!" said I. "Let's see if Kitts has nerve enough to call it on +him!" + +With the shaft of his niblick in his teeth, Windy swarmed up the side +of the wall, found the footholds and planted himself solidly. Grasping a +bush above his head with his left hand, he measured the distance with +his eye, steadied himself and swung the niblick with his powerful right +arm. It was a wonderful shot, even if Windy Wilkins did make it; the +ball went soaring skyward, far beyond all trouble. + +"_Some--out!_" he panted, looking over his shoulder at Kitts. "I guess +that'll clinch the match!" + +For just a second Adolphus hesitated; then he must have thought of the +cup. "I rather think it will," said he. "You're nicely out, Wilkins--in +forty-seven strokes." + +"Forty-seven devils!" shouted Windy. "I'm out _in two_!" + +"In a hazard," quoted Kitts, "the club shall not touch the ground, nor +shall anything be touched or moved before the player strikes at the +ball." At this point Adolphus made a serious mistake; he reached for the +book. "Under the rule," he continued, "I could claim the hole on you, +but I won't do that. I'll only count the strokes you took in chopping a +stance for yourself----" + +That was where Windy dropped the niblick and jumped at him, and Cupid +was correct about the coyote. Put him in a hole where he can't get out, +attack him hard enough, and he _will_ fight. + +Adolphus dropped the book and nailed Windy on the chin with a right +upper cut that jarred the whole Wilkins family. + +"Keep out of it, everybody!" yelled Cupid with a sudden flash of +inspiration. "It's an elimination contest! More power to both of +'em--and may they both lose!" + +Inside of two seconds the whole floor of the Devil's Kitchen was +littered up with fists and elbows and boots and knees. They fought into +clinches and battered their way out of them; they tripped over roots and +scrambled to their feet again; they tossed all rules to the winds except +the rule of self-preservation. The air was full of heartfelt grunts and +sounds as of some one beating a rag carpet, and the language which +floated to us was--well, elemental, to say the least. And through it all +the gallery looked down in decent silence; there was no favourite for +whom any one cared to cheer. + +When Windy came toiling up out of the pit alone, but one remark was +addressed to him. + +"Aren't you going to play it out?" asked Cupid. + +"Huh?" said Windy, pausing. His coat was torn off his back, his soiled +white trousers were out at the knees, his nose was bleeding freely, and +his mouth was lopsided. + +"Aren't you going to finish the match? You've only played 46. Kitts made +a mistake in the count." + +"Finish--hell!" snarled Windy. "You roosted up here like a lot of +buzzards and let me chop myself out of the contest! I feel like +finishin' the lot of you, and I'm through with any club that'll let a +swine like Kitts be a member!" + +Oddly enough, this last statement was substantially the same as the one +Adolphus made when he recovered consciousness. + +The wily Cupid, concealing from each the intentions of the other, and +becoming a bearer of pens, ink, and paper, managed to secure both their +resignations before they left the clubhouse that evening, and peace now +reigns at the Country Club. + +We have been given to understand that in the future the committee on +membership will require gilt-edged certificates of character and that no +rough diamonds need apply. + +Nobody won the handicap cup, and nobody knows what to do with it, though +there is some talk of having it engraved as follows: + +"Elimination Trophy--won by W. W. Wilkins, knockout, one round." + + + + +Other Fiction + + +ZANE GREY'S NOVELS + + _THE MAN OF THE FOREST_ + _THE DESERT OF WHEAT_ + _THE U. P. TRAIL_ + _WILDFIRE_ + _THE BORDER LEGION_ + _THE RAINBOW TRAIL_ + _THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT_ + _RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE_ + _THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS_ + _THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN_ + _THE LONE STAR RANGER_ + _DESERT GOLD_ + _BETTY ZANE_ + _LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS_ + The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody + Wetmore, with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey + + +_ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS_ + + _KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE_ + _THE YOUNG LION HUNTER_ + _THE YOUNG FORESTER_ + _THE YOUNG PITCHER_ + _THE SHORT STOP_ + _THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES_ + + * * * * * + +STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER + + +_MICHAEL O'HALLORAN._ Illustrated by Frances Rogers. + +Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward. + + +_LADDIE._ Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. + +This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery. + + +_THE HARVESTER._ Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. + +"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality. + + +_FRECKLES._ Illustrated. + +Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment. + + +_A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST._ Illustrated. + +The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. + + +_AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW._ Illustrations in colors. + +The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. +The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and +its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. + + +_THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL._ Profusely illustrated. + +A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor. + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + + +_DANGEROUS DAYS._ + +A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine purpose and +stirring appeal. + + +_THE AMAZING INTERLUDE._ + +Illustrations by The Kinneys. + +The story of a great love which cannot be pictured--an +interlude--amazing, romantic. + + +_LOVE STORIES._ + +This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love +affairs--sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness. + + +_"K."_ Illustrated. + +K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where +beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The +joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympathetic +appreciation. + + +_THE MAN IN LOWER TEN._ Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. + +An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the +"Man in Lower Ten." + + +_WHEN A MAN MARRIES._ Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker. + +A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his +aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family +income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met +the situation is entertainingly told. + + +_THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE._ Illustrated by Lester Ralph. + +The occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong on +the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is +announced. Around these two events is woven a plot o£ absorbing +interest. + + +_THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS._ (Photoplay Edition.) + +Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly +realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious +doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with +world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and +slender means. + + * * * * * + + +BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS + + +_SEVENTEEN._ Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. + +No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen. + + +_PENROD._ Illustrated by Gordon Grant. + +This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work. + + +_PENROD AND SAM._ Illustrated by Worth Brehm. + +Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written. + + +_THE TURMOIL._ Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. + +Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibbs' life from failure to success. + + +_THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA._ Frontispiece. + +A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest. + + +_THE FLIRT._ Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. + +The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. + + * * * * * + + +KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES + + +_SISTERS._ Frontispiece by Frank Street. + +The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful story +of sisterly devotion and sacrifice. + + +_POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY._ Frontispiece by George Gibbs. + +A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and +"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures. + + +_JOSSELYN'S WIFE._ Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. + +The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness +and love. + + +_MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED._ Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. + +The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions. + + +_THE HEART OF RACHAEL._ Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. + +An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a second +marriage. + + +_THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE._ Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. + +A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure and +lonely, for the happiness of life. + + +_SATURDAY'S CHILD._ Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. + +Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheer +determination to the better things for which her soul hungered? + + +_MOTHER._ Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. + +A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every +girl's life, and some dreams which came true. + + * * * * * + + +SEWELL FORD'S STORIES + + +_SHORTY McCABE._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, +sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. + + +_SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human +nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for +"side-stepping with Shorty." + + +_SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to +the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," +and gives joy to all concerned. + + +_SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for +physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at +swell yachting parties. + + +_TORCHY._ Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. + +A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the +youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his +experiences. + + +_TRYING OUT TORCHY._ Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the +previous book. + + +_ON WITH TORCHY._ Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but +that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, +which brings about many hilariously funny situations. + + +_TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC._ Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for +the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious +American slang. + + +_WILT THOU TORCHY._ Illustrated by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown. + +Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, +in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his +friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place +an engagement ring on Vee's finger. + + * * * * * + + +ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS + + +_JUST DAVID_ + +The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts +of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left. + + +_THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING_ + +A compelling romance of love and marriage. + + +_OH, MONEY! MONEY!_ + +Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his +relatives, sends them each a check for $100,000, and then as plain John +Smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment. + + +_SIX STAR RANCH_ + +A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six Star +Ranch. + + +_DAWN_ + +The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of +despair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to the +service of blind soldiers. + + +_ACROSS THE YEARS_ + +Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some of +the best writing Mrs. Porter has done. + + +_THE TANGLED THREADS_ + +In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all +her other books. + + +_THE TIE THAT BINDS_ + +Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent for +warm and vivid character drawing. + + * * * * * + + +ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS + + +_THE LAMP IN THE DESERT_ + +The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lamp +of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to +final happiness. + + +_GREATHEART_ + +The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul. + + +_THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE_ + +A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance." + + +_THE SWINDLER_ + +The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith. + + +_THE TIDAL WAVE_ + +Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false. + + +_THE SAFETY CURTAIN_ + +A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other +long stories of equal interest. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fore!, by Charles Emmett Van Loan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORE! *** + +***** This file should be named 36682-8.txt or 36682-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/6/8/36682/ + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Van Loan. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.sidenote { + width: 20%; + padding-bottom: .5em; + padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; + padding-right: .5em; + margin-left: 1em; + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; + color: black; + background: #eeeeee; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: + 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + .poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fore!, by Charles Emmett Van Loan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fore! + +Author: Charles Emmett Van Loan + +Release Date: July 9, 2011 [EBook #36682] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORE! *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<h1>FORE!</h1> + +<h2>BY CHARLES E. VAN LOAN</h2> + +<h3>AUTHOR OF BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES, TAKING THE COUNT, SCORE BY +INNINGS, <span class="smcap">Etc.</span></h3> + + +<h3>GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> +PUBLISHERS NEW YORK</h3> + +<h3>Made in the United States of America</h3> + +<h3>COPYRIGHT, 1918,<br /> +BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY</h3> + +<h3>Copyright, 1914, 1916, by P. F. Collier & Son</h3> + +<h3>Copyright, 1917, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company</h3> + +<h3>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<blockquote><p>My dear Ed. Tufts:—</p> + +<p>Once, when a mere child, I strayed as far away from home as +Pico Street, and followed that thoroughfare westward until the +houses gave way to open country, hedged by a dense forest of +real estate signs.</p> + +<p>In the midst of that wilderness I chanced upon a somewhat +chubby gentleman engaged in the pursuit of a small white ball, +which, when he came within striking distance, he beat savagely +with weapons of wood and iron. That, sir, was my first sight of +you, and my earliest acquaintance with the game of golf. I +remember scanning the horizon for your keeper.</p> + +<p>Times have changed since then. The old Pico Street course is +covered with bungalows and mortgages. Golf clubs are +everywhere. The hills are dotted with middle-aged gentlemen who +use the same weapons of wood and iron and the same red-hot +adjectives. A man may now admit that he commits golf and the +statement will not be used against him. Everybody is doing it. +The pastime has become popular.</p> + +<p>But it took courage to be a pioneer, to listen to the sneers +about "Cow-pasture pool" and to remain cool, calm and collected +when putting within sight of the country road and within +hearing of the comments of the Great Unenlightened. That +courage entitles you to this small recognition, and also +entitles you to purchase as many copies of this book as you can +afford.</p> + +<p>Yours as usual,</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Charles E. Van Loan</span></p> + +<p>To Mr. Edward B. Tufts of the Los Angeles Country Club.</p> + +<p>Los Angeles, Cal., January 17, 1918.</p></blockquote> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#GENTLEMEN_YOU_CANT_GO_THROUGH"><span class="smcap">Gentlemen, You Can't Go Through</span></a><br /> +<a href="#LITTLE_POISON_IVY"><span class="smcap">Little Poison Ivy</span></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_MAJOR_DOS"><span class="smcap">The Major, D.O.S.</span></a><br /> +<a href="#A_MIXED_FOURSOME"><span class="smcap">A Mixed Foursome</span></a><br /> +<a href="#SIMILIA_SIMILIBUS_CURANTUR">"<span class="smcap">Similia Similibus Curantur</span>"</a><br /> +<a href="#A_CURE_FOR_LUMBAGO"><span class="smcap">A Cure for Lumbago</span></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_MAN_WHO_QUIT"><span class="smcap">The Man Who Quit</span></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_OOLEY-COW"><span class="smcap">The Ooley-Cow</span></a><br /> +<a href="#ADOLPHUS_AND_THE_ROUGH_DIAMOND"><span class="smcap">Adolphus and the Rough Diamond</span></a><br /><br /> +<a href="#Other_Fiction">Other Fiction</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="GENTLEMEN_YOU_CANT_GO_THROUGH" id="GENTLEMEN_YOU_CANT_GO_THROUGH"></a>GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH!</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<blockquote><p>There has been considerable argument about it—even a mention +of ethics—though where ethics figures in this case is more +than I know. I'd like to take a flat-footed stance as claiming +that the end justified the means. Saint George killed the +Dragon, and Hercules mopped up the Augean stables, but little +Wally Wallace—one hundred and forty-two pounds in his summer +underwear—did a bigger job and a better job when the betting +was odds-on-and-write-your-own-ticket that it couldn't be done. +I wouldn't mind heading a subscription to present him with a +gold medal about the size of a soup plate, inscribed as +follows, to wit and viz.:</p> + +<p><i>W. W. Wallace—He Put the Fore in Foursome.</i></p></blockquote> + +<p>Every golfer who ever conceded himself a two-foot putt because he was +afraid he might miss it has sweated and suffered and blasphemed in the +wake of a slow foursome. All the clubs that I have ever seen—and I've +travelled a bit—are cursed with at least one of these Creeping +Pestilences which you observe mostly from the rear.</p> + +<p>You're a golfer, of course, and you know the make-up of a slow foursome +as well as I do: Four nice old gentlemen, prominent in business circles, +church members, who remember it even when they top a tee shot, pillars +of society, rich enough to be carried over the course in palanquins, but +too proud to ride, too dignified to hurry, too meek to argue except +among themselves, and too infernally selfish to stand aside and let the +younger men go through. They take nine practice swings before hitting a +shot, and then flub it disgracefully; they hold a prayer meeting on +every putting green and a <i>post-mortem</i> on every tee, and a rheumatic +snail could give them a flying start and beat them out in a fifty-yard +dash. Know 'em? What golfer doesn't?</p> + +<p>But nobody knows why it is that the four slowest players in every club +always manage to hook up in a sort of permanent alliance. Nobody knows +why they never stage their creeping contests on the off days when the +course is clear. Nobody knows why they always pick the sunniest +afternoons, when the locker room is full of young men dressing in a +hurry. Nobody knows why they bolt their luncheons and scuttle out to the +first tee, nor where that speed goes as soon as they drive and start +down the course. Nobody knows why they refuse to walk any faster than a +bogged mooley cow. Nobody knows why they never look behind them. Nobody +knows why they never hear any one yell "Fore!" Nobody knows why they are +so dead set against letting any one through.</p> + +<p>Everybody knows the fatal effect of standing too long over the ball, all +dressed up with nowhere to go. Everybody knows of the tee shots that are +slopped and sliced and hooked; of the indecision caused by the long wait +before playing the second; of the change of clubs when the first choice +was the correct one; of the inevitable penalty exacted by loss of temper +and mental poise. Everybody knows that a slow foursome gives the +Recording Angel a busy afternoon, and leaves a sulphurous haze over an +entire course. But the aged reprobates who are responsible for all this +trouble—do they care how much grief and rage and bitterness simmers in +their wake? You think they do? Think again. Golf and Business are the +only games they have ever had time to learn, and one set of rules does +for both. The rest of the world may go hang! Golf is a serious matter +with these hoary offenders, and they manage to make it serious for +everybody behind them—the fast-walking, quick-swinging fellows who are +out for a sweat and a good time and lose both because the slow foursome +blocks the way.</p> + +<p>Yes, you recognise the thumb-nail sketch—it is the slow foursome which +infests your course; the one which you find in front of you when you go +visiting. You think that four men who are inconsiderate enough to ruin +your day's sport and ruffle your temper ought to be disciplined, called +up on the carpet, taken in hand by the Greens Committee. You think they +are the worst ever—but wait! You are about to hear of the golfing +renegades known as the Big Four, who used to sew us up twice a week as +regularly as the days came round; you are about to hear of Elsberry J. +Watlington, and Colonel Jim Peck, and Samuel Alexander Peebles, and W. +Cotton Hamilton—world's champions in the Snail Stakes, undisputed +holders of the Challenge Belt for Practice Swinging, and undefeated +catch-as-catch-can loiterers on the Putting Green.</p> + +<p>Six months ago we would have backed Watlington, Peck, Peebles and +Hamilton against the wide world, bet dollars against your dimes and +allowed you to select your own stakeholders, timekeepers and judges. +That's how much confidence we had in the Big Four. They were without +doubt and beyond argument the slowest and most exasperating quartette of +obstructionists that ever laid their middle-aged stomachs behind the +line of a putt.</p> + +<p>Do I hear a faint murmur of dissent? Going a little strong, am I? All +right, glad you mentioned it, because we may as well settle this +question of supremacy here and now.</p> + +<p>To save time, I will admit that your foursome is slower than Congress +and more irritating than the Senate. Permit me to ask you one question: +Going back over the years, can you recall a single instance when your +slow foursome allowed you to play through?... A lost ball, was it?... +Well, anyway, you got through them.... Thank you, and your answer puts +you against the ropes. I will now knock you clear out of the ring with +one well-directed statement of fact. Tie on your bonnet good and tight +and listen to this: The Big Four held up our course for seven long and +painful years, and during that period of time they never allowed any one +to pass them, lost ball or no lost ball.</p> + +<p>That stops you, eh? I rather thought it would. It stopped us twice a +week.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Visitors used to play our course on Wednesdays and Saturdays—our big +days—and then sit in the lounging room and try hard to remember that +they were our guests. There were two questions which they never failed +to ask:</p> + +<p>"Don't they ever let anybody through?"</p> + +<p>And then:</p> + +<p>"How long has this been going on?"</p> + +<p>When we answered them truthfully they shook their heads, looked out of +the windows, and told us how much better their clubs were handled. Our +course was all right—they had to say that much in fairness. It was well +trapped and bunkered, and laid out with an eye to the average player; +the fair greens were the best in the state; the putting greens were like +velvet; the holes were sporty enough to suit anybody; but——And then +they looked out of the window again.</p> + +<p>You see, the trouble was that the Big Four practically ran the club as +they liked. They had financed it in its early days, and as a reward had +been elected to almost everything in sight. We used to say that they +shook dice to see who should be president and so forth, and probably +they did. They might as well have settled it that way as any other, for +the annual election and open meeting was a joke.</p> + +<p>It usually took place in the lounging room on a wet Saturday afternoon. +Somebody would get up and begin to drone through a report of the year's +activities. Then somebody else would make a motion and everybody would +say "Ay!" After that the result of the annual election of officers would +be announced. The voting members always handed in the printed slips +which they found on the tables, and the ticket was never scratched—it +would be Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton all the way. The only +real question would be whether or not the incoming president of the club +would buy a drink for all hands. If it was Peck's turn the motion was +lost.</p> + +<p>As a natural result of this sort of thing the Big Four never left the +saddle for an instant. Talk about perpetuation in office—they had it +down to a fine point. They were always on the Board of Directors; they +saw to it that control of the Greens Committee never slipped out of +their hands; they had two of the three votes on the House Committee, and +no outsider was even considered for treasurer. They were dictators with +a large D, and nobody could do a thing about it.</p> + +<p>If a mild kick was ever made or new blood suggested, the kicker was made +to feel like an ingrate. Who started the club anyway? Who dug up the +money? Who swung the deal that put the property in our hands? Why, +Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton, to be sure! Could any one blame +them for wanting to keep an eye on the organisation? Cer-tain-ly not. +The Big Four had us bluffed, bulldozed, buffaloed, licked to a whisper.</p> + +<p>Peck, Peebles and Hamilton were the active heads of the Midland +Manufacturing Company, and it was pretty well known that the bulk of +Watlington's fortune was invested in the same enterprise. Those who knew +said they were just as ruthless in business as they were in golf—quite +a strong statement.</p> + +<p>They seemed to regard the Sundown Golf and Country Club as their private +property, and we were welcome to pay dues and amuse ourselves five days +a week, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays we were not to infringe on the +sovereign rights of the Big Four.</p> + +<p>They never entered any of the club tournaments, for that would have +necessitated breaking up their foursome. They always turned up in a +body, on the tick of noon, and there was an immediate scramble to beat +them to Number One tee. Those who lost out stampeded over to Number Ten +and played the second nine first. Nobody wanted to follow them; but a +blind man, playing without a caddie, couldn't have helped but catch up +with them somewhere on the course.</p> + +<p>If you wonder why the club held together, you have only to recall the +story of the cow-puncher whose friend beckoned him away from the faro +layout to inform him that the game was crooked.</p> + +<p>"Hell!" said the cow-puncher. "I know that; but—it's the only game in +town, ain't it?"</p> + +<p>The S.G. & C.C. was the only golf club within fifty miles.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>When Wally Wallace came home from college he blossomed out as a regular +member of the club. He had been a junior member before, one of the +tennis squad.</p> + +<p>Wally is the son of old Hardpan Wallace, of the Trans-Pacific +outfit—you may have heard of him—and the sole heir to more millions +than he will ever be able to spend; but we didn't hold this against the +boy. He isn't the sort that money can spoil, with nothing about him to +remind you of old Hardpan, unless it might be a little more chin than +he really needs.</p> + +<p>Wally's first act as a full-fledged member of the club was to qualify +for the James Peck Annual Trophy—a pretty fair sort of cup, considering +the donor.</p> + +<p>He turned in a nice snappy eighty-one, which showed us that a college +education had not been wasted on him, and also caused several of the +Class-A men to sit up a bit and take notice.</p> + +<p>He came booming through to the semi-finals with his head up and his tail +over the dash-board. It was there that he ran into me. Now I am no Jerry +Travers, but there are times when I play to my handicap, which is ten, +and I had been going fairly well. I had won four matches—one of them by +default. Wally had also won four matches, but the best showing made +against him was five down and four to go. His handicap was six, so he +would have to start me two up; but I had seen enough of his game to know +that I was up against the real thing, and would need a lot of luck to +give the boy anything like a close battle. He was a strong, heady match +player, and if he had a weakness the men whom he had defeated hadn't +been able to spot it. Altogether it wasn't a very brilliant outlook for +me; but, as a matter of fact, I suppose no ten-handicap man ever ought +to have a brilliant outlook. It isn't coming to him. If he has one it is +because the handicapper has been careless.</p> + +<p>Under our rules a competitor in a club tournament has a week in which +to play his man, and it so happened that we agreed on Wednesday for our +meeting. Wally called for me in his new runabout, and we had lunch +together—I shook him and stuck him for it, and he grinned and remarked +that a man couldn't be lucky at everything. While we were dressing he +chattered like a magpie, talking about everything in the world but golf, +which was a sign that he wasn't worrying much. He expected easy picking, +and under normal conditions he would have had it.</p> + +<p>We left the first tee promptly at one-forty-five <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>, our caddies +carrying the little red flags which demand the right of way over +everything. I might have suggested starting at Number Ten if I had +thought of it, but to tell the truth I was a wee mite nervous and was +wondering whether I had my drive with me or not. You know how the +confounded thing comes and goes. So we started at Number One, and my +troubles began. Wally opened up on me with a four-four-three, making the +third hole in a stroke under par, and when we reached the fourth tee we +were all square and my handicap was gone.</p> + +<p>It was on the fourth tee that we first began to notice signs of +congestion ahead of us. One foursome had just driven off and beckoned us +to come through, another was waiting to go, and the fair green on the +way to the fifth looked like the advance of the Mexican standing army.</p> + +<p>"Somebody has lost the transmission out of his wheel chair," said Wally. +"Well, we should worry—we've got the red flags and the right of way. +Fore!" And he proceeded to smack a perfect screamer down the middle of +the course—two hundred and fifty yards if it was an inch. I staggered +into one and laid my ball some distance behind his, but on the direct +line to the pin. Then we had to wait a bit while another foursome putted +out.</p> + +<p>"There oughtn't to be any congestion on a day like this," said Wally. +"Must be a bunch of old men ahead."</p> + +<p>"It's the Big Four," said I. "Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. +They always take their time."</p> + +<p>From where we were we could see the seventh and eighth fair greens. +There wasn't a player in sight on either one.</p> + +<p>"Good Lord!" said Wally. "They've got the whole United States wide open +ahead of 'em. They're not holding their place on the course."</p> + +<p>"They never do," said I, and just then the foursome moved off the +putting green.</p> + +<p>"Give her a ride, old top!" said Wally.</p> + +<p>I claim that my second shot wasn't half bad—for a ten-handicap man. I +used a brassy and reached the green about thirty feet from the pin, but +the demon Wally pulled a mid-iron out of his bag, waggled it once or +twice, and then made my brassy look sick. When we reached the top of the +hill, there was his ball ten feet from the cup. I ran up, playing it +safe for a par four, but Wally studied the roll of the green for about +ten seconds—and dropped a very fat three. He was decent enough to +apologise.</p> + +<p>"I'm playing over my head," said he.</p> + +<p>I couldn't dispute it—two threes on par fours might well be over +anybody's head. One down and fourteen to go; it had all the earmarks of +a massacre.</p> + +<p>We had quite an audience at the fifth tee—two foursomes were piled up +there, cursing. "What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Wally. "Can't you +get through?"</p> + +<p>"Nobody can get through," said Billy Williams. "It's the Big Four."</p> + +<p>"But they'll respect the red flags, won't they?"</p> + +<p>It was a perfectly natural question for a stranger to ask—and Wally was +practically a stranger, though most of the men knew who he was. It +brought all sorts of answers.</p> + +<p>"You think they will? I'll bet you a little two to one, no limit, that +they're all colour-blind!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, they'll let you through!"</p> + +<p>"They'll <i>ask</i> you to come through—won't they, Billy? They'll insist on +it, what?"</p> + +<p>"They're full of such tricks!"</p> + +<p>Wally was puzzled. He didn't quite know what to make of it. "But a red +flag," said he, "gives you the right of way."</p> + +<p>"Everywhere but here," said Billy Williams.</p> + +<p>"But in this case it's a rule!" argued Wally.</p> + +<p>"Those fellows in front make their own rules."</p> + +<p>"But the Greens Committee——" And this was where everybody laughed.</p> + +<p>Wally stooped and teed his ball.</p> + +<p>"Look here," said he, "I'll bet you anything you like that they let us +through. Why, they can't help themselves!"</p> + +<p>"You bet that they'll let you through of their own accord?" asked Ben +Ashley, who never has been known to pass up a plain cinch.</p> + +<p>"On our request to be allowed to pass," said Wally.</p> + +<p>"If you drive into 'em without their permission you lose," stipulated +Ben.</p> + +<p>"Right!" said Wally.</p> + +<p>"Got you for a dozen balls!" said Ben.</p> + +<p>"Anybody else want some of it?" asked Wally.</p> + +<p>Before he got off the tee he stood to lose six dozen balls; but his +nerve was unshaken and he slammed out another tremendous drive. I sliced +into a ditch and away we went, leaving a great deal of promiscuous +kidding behind us. It took me two shots to get out at all, and Wally +picked up another hole on me.</p> + +<p>Two down—murder!</p> + +<p>On the sixth tee we ran into another mass meeting of malcontents. Old +Man Martin, our prize grouch, grumbled a bit when we called attention to +our red flags.</p> + +<p>"What's the use?" said he. "You're on your way, but you ain't going +anywhere. Might just as well sit down and take it easy. Watlington has +got a lost ball, and the others have gone on to the green so's nobody +can get through. Won't do you a bit of good to drive, Wally. There's two +foursomes hung up over the hill now, and they'll be right there till +Watlington finds that ball. Sit down and be sociable."</p> + +<p>"What'll you bet that we don't get through?" demanded Wally, who was +beginning to show signs of irritation.</p> + +<p>"Whatever you got the most of, sonny—provided you make the bet this +way: they got to <i>let</i> you through. Of course you might drive into 'em +or walk through 'em, but that ain't being done—much."</p> + +<p>"Right! The bet is that they let us through. One hundred fish."</p> + +<p>Old Martin cackled and turned his cigar round and round in the corner of +his mouth—a wolf when it comes to a cinch bet.</p> + +<p>"Gosh! Listen to our banty rooster crow! Want another hundred, sonny?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—grandpa!" said Wally, and sent another perfect drive soaring up +over the hill.</p> + +<p>Number Six is a long hole, and the ordinary player never attempts to +carry the cross-bunker on his second. I followed with a middling-to-good +shot, and we bade the congregation farewell.</p> + +<p>"It's ridiculous!" said Wally as we climbed the hill. "I never saw a +foursome yet that wouldn't yield to a red flag, or one that wouldn't let +a twosome through—if properly approached. And we have the right of way +over everything on the course. The Greens Committee——"</p> + +<p>"Is composed," said I, "of Watlington, Peck and Peebles—three members +of the Big Four. They built the club, they run the club, and they have +never been known to let anybody through. I'm sorry, Wally, but I'm +afraid you're up against it."</p> + +<p>The boy stopped and looked at me.</p> + +<p>"Then those fellows behind us," said he, "were betting on a cinch, eh?"</p> + +<p>"It was your proposition," I reminded him.</p> + +<p>"So it was," and he grinned like the good game kid he is. "The Greens +Committee, eh? 'Hast thou appealed unto Cæsar? unto Cæsar shalt thou +go.' I'm a firm believer in the right method of approach. They wouldn't +have the nerve——"</p> + +<p>"They have nerve enough for anything," said I, and dropped the subject. +I didn't want him to get the idea that I was trying to argue with him +and upset his game. One foursome was lying down just over the hill; the +other was piled up short of the bunker. Watlington had finally found his +ball and played onto the green. The others, of course, had been standing +round the pin and holding things up for him.</p> + +<p>I took an iron on my second and played short, intending to pitch over +the bunker on my third. Wally used a spoon and got tremendous height and +distance. His ball carried the bunker, kicked to the right and stopped +behind a sandtrap. It was a phenomenal shot, and with luck on the kick +would have gone straight to the pin.</p> + +<p>I thought the Big Four would surely be off the green by the time I got +up to my ball, but no, Peck was preparing to hole a three-foot putt. Any +ordinary dub would have walked up to that pill and tapped it in, but +that wasn't Peck's style. He got down on all fours and sighted along the +line to the hole. Then he rose, took out his handkerchief, wiped his +hands carefully, called for his putter and took an experimental stance, +tramping about like a cat "making bread" on a woollen rug.</p> + +<p>"Look at him!" grunted Wally. "You don't mind if I go ahead to my ball? +It won't bother you?"</p> + +<p>"Not in the least," said I.</p> + +<p>"I want to play as soon as they get out of the way," he explained.</p> + +<p>The Colonel's first stance did not suit him, so he had to go all through +the tramping process again. When he was finally satisfied, he began +swinging his putter back and forth over the ball, like the pendulum of a +grandfather's clock—ten swings, neither more nor less. Could any one +blame Wally for boiling inside?</p> + +<p>After the three-footer dropped—he didn't miss it, for a wonder—they +all gathered round the hole and pulled out their cards. Knowing each +other as well as they did, nobody was trusted to keep the score.</p> + +<p>"Fore!" called Wally.</p> + +<p>They paid not the slightest attention to him, and it was fully half a +minute before they ambled leisurely away in the direction of the seventh +tee.</p> + +<p>I played my pitch shot, with plenty of back-spin on it, and stopped ten +or twelve feet short of the hole. Wally played an instant later, a +mashie shot intended to clear the trap, but he had been waiting too long +and was burning up with impatience. He topped the ball, hit the far edge +of the sandtrap and bounced back into a bad lie. Of course I knew why he +had been in such a hurry—he wanted to catch the Big Four on the seventh +tee. His niblick shot was too strong, but he laid his fifth dead to the +hole, giving me two for a win. Just as a matter of record, let me state +that I canned a nice rainbow putt for a four. A four on Number Six is +rare.</p> + +<p>"Nice work!" said Wally. "You're only one down now. Come on, let's get +through these miserable old men!"</p> + +<p>Watlington was just addressing his ball, the others had already driven. +He fussed and he fooled and he waggled his old dreadnaught for fifteen +or twenty seconds, and then shot straight into the bunker—a wretchedly +topped ball.</p> + +<p>"Bless my heart!" said he. "Now why—why do I always miss my drive on +this hole?"</p> + +<p>Peck started to tell him, being his partner, but Wally interrupted, +politely but firmly.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," said he, "if you have no objection we will go through. We +are playing a tournament match. Mr. Curtiss, your honour, I believe."</p> + +<p>Well, sir, for all the notice they took of him he might have been +speaking to four graven images. Not one of them so much as turned his +head. Colonel Peck had the floor.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you, Wat," said he, "I think it's your stance. You're playing +the ball too much off your right foot—coming down on it too much. Now +if you want it to rise more——" They were moving away now, but very +slowly.</p> + +<p>"<i>Fore!</i>"</p> + +<p>This time they had to notice the boy. He was mad clear through, and his +voice showed it. They all turned, took one good look at him, and then +toddled away, keeping well in the middle of the course. Peck was still +explaining the theory of the perfect drive. Wally yelled again; this +time they did not even look at him. "Well!" said he. "Of all the damned +swine! I—I believe we should drive anyway!"</p> + +<p>"You'll lose a lot of bets if you do." Perhaps I shouldn't have said +that. Goodness knows I didn't want to see his game go to pieces behind +the Big Four—I didn't want to play behind them myself. I tried to +explain. The kid came over and patted me on the back.</p> + +<p>"You're perfectly right," said he. "I forgot all about those fool bets, +but I'd gladly lose all of 'em if I thought I could hit that long-nosed +stiff in the back of the neck!" He meant the Colonel. "And so that's the +Greens Committee, eh? Holy jumping Jemima! What a club!"</p> + +<p>I couldn't think of much of anything to say, so we sat still and watched +Watlington dig his way out of the bunker, Peck offering advice after +each failure. When Watlington disagreed with Peck's point of view he +took issue with him, and all hands joined in the argument. Wally was +simply sizzling with pent-up emotion, and after Watlington's fifth shot +he began to lift the safety-valve a bit. The language which he used was +wonderful, and a great tribute to higher education. Old Hardpan himself +couldn't have beaten it, even in his mule-skinning days.</p> + +<p>At last the foursome was out of range and I got off a pretty fair tee +shot. Wally was still telling me what he thought of the Greens Committee +when he swung at the ball, and never have I seen a wider hook. It was +still hooking when it disappeared in the woods, out of bounds. His next +ball took a slice and rolled into long grass.</p> + +<p>"Serves me right for losing my temper," said he with a grin. "I can play +this game all right, old top, but when I'm riled it sort of unsettles +me. Something tells me that I'm going to be riled for the next half hour +or so. Don't mind what I say. It's all meant for those hogs ahead of +us."</p> + +<p>I helped him find his ball, and even then we had to wait on Peebles and +Hamilton, who were churning along down the middle of the course in easy +range. I lighted a cigarette and thought about something else—my income +tax, I think it was. I had found this a good system when sewed up behind +the Big Four. I don't know what poor Wally was thinking about—man's +inhumanity to man, I suppose—for when it came time to shoot he failed +to get down to his ball and hammered it still deeper into the grass.</p> + +<p>"If it wasn't for the bets," said he, "I'd pick up and we'd go over to +Number Eight. I'm afraid that on a strict interpretation of the terms of +agreement Martin could spear me for two hundred fish if we skipped a +hole."</p> + +<p>"He could," said I, "and what's more to the point, he would. They were +to let us through—on request."</p> + +<p>Wally sighed.</p> + +<p>"I've tried one method of approach," said he, "and now I'll try another +one. I might tell 'em that I bet two hundred dollars on the suspicion +that they were gentlemen, but likely they'd want me to split the +winnings. They look like that sort."</p> + +<p>Number Seven was a gift on a golden platter. I won it with a frightful +eight, getting into all sorts of grief along the way, but Wally was +entirely up in the air and blew the short putt which should have given +him a half.</p> + +<p>"All square!" said he. "Fair enough! Now we shall see what we shall +see!"</p> + +<p>His chin was very much in evidence as he hiked to Number Eight tee, and +he lost no time getting into action. Colonel Peck was preparing to drive +as Wally hove alongside. The Colonel is very fussy about his drive. He +has been known to send a caddie to the clubhouse for whispering on the +bench. Wally walked up behind him.</p> + +<p>"Stand still, young man! Can't you see I'm driving?"</p> + +<p>It was in the nature of a royal command.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Wally. "Meaning me, I presume. Do you know, it strikes me +that for a golfer with absolutely no consideration for others, you're +quite considerate—of yourself!"</p> + +<p>Now I had always sized up the Colonel for a bluffer. He proved himself +one by turning a rich maroon colour and trying to swallow his Adam's +apple. Not a word came from him.</p> + +<p>"Quiet," murmured old Peebles, who looks exactly like a sheep. "Absolute +quiet, please."</p> + +<p>Wally rounded on him like a flash.</p> + +<p>"Another considerate golfer, eh?" he snapped. "Now, gentlemen, under the +rules governing tournament play I demand for my opponent and myself the +right to go through. There are open holes ahead; you are not holding +your place on the course——"</p> + +<p>"Drive, Jim," interposed Watlington in that quiet way of his. "Don't pay +any attention to him. Drive."</p> + +<p>"But how can I drive while he's hopping up and down behind me? He puts +me all off my swing!"</p> + +<p>"I'm glad my protest has some effect on you," said Wally. "Now I +understand that some of you are members of the Greens Committee of this +club. As a member of the said club, I wish to make a formal request that +we be allowed to pass."</p> + +<p>"Denied," said Watlington. "Drive, Jim."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean to say that you refuse us our rights—that you won't let us +through?"</p> + +<p>"Absolutely," murmured old Peebles. "Absolutely."</p> + +<p>"But why—why? On what grounds?"</p> + +<p>"On the grounds that you're too fresh," said Colonel Peck. "On the +grounds that we don't want you to go through. Sit down and cool off."</p> + +<p>"Drive, Jim," said Watlington. "You talk too much, young man."</p> + +<p>"Wait a second," said Wally. "I want to get you all on record. I have +made a courteous request——"</p> + +<p>"And it has been refused," said old Peebles, blinking at both of us. +"Gentlemen, you can't go through!"</p> + +<p>"Is that final?"</p> + +<p>"It is—absolutely."</p> + +<p>And Watlington and Peck nodded.</p> + +<p>"Drive, Jim!"</p> + +<p>This time it was Hamilton who spoke.</p> + +<p>"Pardon me," said Wally. He skipped out in front of the tee, lifted his +cap and made a low bow. "Members of the Greens Committee," said he, "and +one other hog as yet unclassified, you are witnesses that I default my +match to Mr. Curtiss. I do this rather than be forced to play behind +four such pitiable dubs as you are. Golf is a gentleman's game, which +doubtless accounts for your playing it so poorly. They tell me that you +never let any one through. God giving me strength, the day will come +when you will not only allow people to pass you, but you will <i>beg</i> them +to do it. Make a note of that. Come along, Curtiss. We'll play the last +nine—for the fun of the thing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Curtiss!" It was Watlington speaking. "How many did you have him +down when he quit?"</p> + +<p>The insult would have made a saint angry, but no saint on the calendar +could have summoned the vocabulary with which Wally replied. It was a +wonderful exhibition of blistering invective. Watlington's thick hide +stood him in good stead. He did not turn a hair or bat an eye, but +waited for Wally to run out of breath. Then:</p> + +<p>"Drive, Jim," said he.</p> + +<p>Now I did not care to win that match by default, and I did everything in +my power to arrange the matter otherwise. I offered to play the +remaining holes later in the day, or skip the eighth and begin all +square on the ninth tee.</p> + +<p>"Nothing doing," said Wally. "You're a good sport, but there are other +men still in the tournament, and we're not allowed to concede anything. +The default goes, but tell me one thing—why didn't you back me up on +that kick?"</p> + +<p>I was afraid he had noticed that I had been pretty much in the +background throughout, so when he asked me I told him the truth.</p> + +<p>"Just a matter of bread and butter," said I. "My uncle's law firm +handles all the Midland's business. I'm only the junior member, but I +can't afford——"</p> + +<p>"The Midland?" asked Wally.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the Midland Manufacturing Company—Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. +Watlington's money is invested in the concern too."</p> + +<p>"Why," said Wally, "that's the entire gang, isn't it—Greens Committee +and all?"</p> + +<p>"The Big Four," said I. "You can see how it is. They're rather +important—as clients. There has been no end of litigation over the site +for that new plant of theirs down on Third Avenue, and we've handled all +of it."</p> + +<p>But Wally hadn't been listening to me.</p> + +<p>"So all the eggs are in one basket!" he exclaimed. "That simplifies +matters. Now, if one of 'em had been a doctor and one of 'em a lawyer +and one of 'em——"</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about?" I demanded.</p> + +<p>"Blest if I know!" said Wally.</p> + +<p>So far as I could learn no official action was taken by the Big Four +because of conduct and language unbecoming a gentleman and a golfer. +Before I left the clubhouse I had a word or two with Peebles. He was +sitting at a table in the corner of the lounging room, nibbling at a +piece of cheese and looking as meek as Moses.</p> + +<p>"We—ah—considered the source," said he. "The boy is young and—rash, +quite rash. His father was a mule-skinner—it's in the blood—can't help +it possibly. Yes, we considered the source. Absolutely!"</p> + +<p>I didn't see very much of Wally after that, but I understood that he +played the course in the mornings and gave the club a wide berth on +Wednesdays and Saturdays. His default didn't help me any. I was +handsomely licked in the finals—four and three, I believe it was. About +that time something happened which knocked golf completely out of my +mind.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>I was sitting in my office one morning when Atkinson, of the C. G. & N., +called me on the phone. The railroad offices are in the same building, +on the floor above ours.</p> + +<p>"That you, Curtiss? I'll be right down. I want to see you."</p> + +<p>Now, our firm handles the legal end for the C. G. & N., and it struck me +that Atkinson's voice had a nervous worried ring to it. I was wondering +what could be the matter, when he came breezing in all out of breath.</p> + +<p>"You told me," said he, "that there wouldn't be any trouble about that +spur track along Third Avenue."</p> + +<p>"For the Midland people, you mean? Oh, that's arranged for. All we have +to do is appear before the City Council and make the request for a +permit. To-morrow morning it comes off. What are you so excited about?"</p> + +<p>"This," said Atkinson. He pulled a big red handbill out of his pocket +and unfolded it. "Possibly I'm no judge, Curtiss, but this seems to be +enough to excite anybody."</p> + +<p>I spread the thing out on my desk and took a look at it. Across the top +was one of those headlines that hit you right between the eyes:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">SHALL THE CITY COUNCIL<br /></span> +<span class="i0">LICENSE CHILD MURDER?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Well, that was a fair start, you'll admit, but it went on from there. I +don't remember ever reading anything quite so vitriolic. It was a bitter +attack on the proposed spur track along Third Avenue, which is the +habitat of the down-trodden workingman and the playground of his +children. Judging solely by the handbill, any one would have thought +that the main idea of the C. G. & N. was to kill and maim as many +toddling infants as possible. The Council was made an accessory before +the fact, and the thing wound up with an appeal to class prejudice and a +ringing call to arms.</p> + +<p>"Men of Third Avenue, shall the City Council give to the bloated +bondholders of an impudent monopoly the right to torture and murder your +innocent babes? Shall your street be turned into a speedway for a modern +car of Juggernaut? Let your answer be heard in the Council Chamber +to-morrow morning—'No, a thousand times, no!'"</p> + +<p>I read it through to the end. Then I whistled.</p> + +<p>"This," said I, "is hot stuff—very hot stuff! Where did it come from?"</p> + +<p>"The whole south end of town is plastered with bills like it," said +Atkinson glumly. "What have we done now, that they should be picking on +us? When have we killed any children, I would like to know? What started +this? Who started it? Why?"</p> + +<p>"That isn't the big question," said I. "The big question is: Will the +City Council stand hitched in the face of this attack?"</p> + +<p>The door opened and the answer to that question appeared—Barney +MacShane, officially of the rank and file of the City Council of our +fair city, in reality the guiding spirit of that body of petty pirates. +Barney was moist and nervous, and he held one of the bills in his right +hand. His first words were not reassuring.</p> + +<p>"All hell is loose—loose for fair!" said he. "Take a look at this +thing."</p> + +<p>"We have already been looking at it," said I with a laugh intended to be +light and carefree. "What of it? You don't mean to tell me that you are +going to let a mere scrap of paper bother you?"</p> + +<p>Barney mopped his forehead and sat down heavily.</p> + +<p>"You can laugh," said he, "but there is more than paper behind this. The +whole west end of town is up in arms overnight, and I don't know why. +Nobody ever kicked up such a rumpus about a spur track before. That's my +ward, you know, and I just made my escape from a deputation of women and +children. They treed me at the City Hall—before all the newspaper +men—and they held their babies up in their arms and they dared me—yes, +dared me—to let this thing go through. And the election coming on and +all. It's hell, that's what it is!"</p> + +<p>"But, Barney," I argued, "we are not asking for anything which the city +should not be glad to grant. Think what it means to your ward to have +this fine big manufacturing plant in it! Think of the men who will have +work——"</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking of them," said Barney sorrowfully. "They're coming to the +Council meeting to-morrow morning, and if this thing goes through I may +as well clean out my desk. Yes, they're coming, and so are their wives +and their children, and they'll bring transparencies and banners and God +knows what all——"</p> + +<p>"But listen, Barney! This plant means prosperity to every one of your +people——"</p> + +<p>"They're saying they'll make it an issue in the next campaign," mumbled +MacShane. "They say that if that spur track goes down on Third Avenue +it's me out of public life—and they mean it too. God knows what's got +into them all at once—they're like a nest of hornets. And the women +voting now too. That makes it bad—awful bad! You know as well as I do +that any agitation with children mixed up in it is the toughest thing in +the world to meet." He struck at the poster with a sudden spiteful +gesture. "From beginning to end," he snarled, "it's just an appeal not +to let the railroad kill the kids!"</p> + +<p>"But that's nonsense—bunk!" said Atkinson. "Every precaution will be +taken to prevent accidents. You've got to think of the capital +invested."</p> + +<p>Barney rolled a troubled eye in his direction.</p> + +<p>"You go down on Third Avenue," said he, "and begin talking to them +people about capital! Try it once. What the hell do they care about +capital? They was brought up to hate the sound of the word! You know and +I know that capital ain't near as black as it's painted, but can you +tell them that? Huh! And a railroad ain't ever got any friends in a +gang standing round on the street corners!"</p> + +<p>"But," said I, "this isn't a question of friends—it's a straight +proposition of right and wrong. The Midland people have gone ahead and +put up this big plant. They were given to understand that there would be +no opposition to the spur track going down. They've got to have it! The +success of their business depends on it! Surely you don't mean to tell +me that the Council will refuse this permit?"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Barney slowly, "I've talked with the boys—Carter and +Garvey and Dillon. They're all figuring on running again, and they're +scared to death of it. Garvey says we'd be damned fools to go against an +agitation like this—so close to election, anyhow."</p> + +<p>I argued the matter from every angle—the good of the city; the benefit +to Barney's ward—but I couldn't budge him.</p> + +<p>"They say that the voice of the people is the voice of God," said he, +"but we know that most of the time it's only noise. Sometimes the noise +kind of dies out, and then's the time to step in and cut the melon. But +any kind of noise so close to election? Huh! Safety first!"</p> + +<p>Before the meeting adjourned it was augmented by the appearance of the +president and vice-president of the Midland Manufacturing Company, +Colonel Jim Peck and old Peebles, and never had I seen those +stiff-necked gentlemen so humanly agitated.</p> + +<p>"This is terrible!" stormed the Colonel. "Terrible! This is unheard of! +It is an outrage—a crime—a crying shame to the city! Think of our +investment! Other manufacturing plants got their spur tracks for the +asking. There was no talk of killing children. Why—why have we been +singled out for attack—for—for blackmail?"</p> + +<p>"You can cut out that kind of talk right now!" said Barney sternly. +"There ain't a nickel in granting this permit, and you know it as well +as I do. Nobody ain't trying to blackmail you! All the dough in town +won't swing the boys into line behind this proposition while this rumpus +is going on. And since you're taking that slant at it, here's the last +word—sit tight and wait till after election!"</p> + +<p>"But the pl-plant!" bleated Peebles, tearing a blotter to shreds with +shaking fingers. "The plant! Think of the loss of time—and we—we +expected to open up next month!"</p> + +<p>"Go ahead and open up," said Barney. "You can truck your stuff to the +depots, can't you? Yes, yes—I get you about the loss! Us boys in the +Council—we got something to lose too. Now here it is, straight from the +shoulder, and you can bet on it." Barney spoke slowly, wagging his +forefinger at each word. "If that application comes up to-morrow +morning, with the Council chamber jammed with folks from the south end +of the town—good-a-by, John! Fare thee well! It ain't in human nature +to commit political suicide when a second term is making eyes at you. +Look at our end of it for a while. We got futures to think of, too, and +Garvey—Garvey wants to run for mayor some day. You can't afford to have +that application turned down, can you? Of course not. Have a little +sense. Keep your shirts on. Get out and see who's behind this thing. +Chances are somebody wants something. Find out what it is—rig up a +compromise—get him to call off the dogs. Then talk to me again, and +I'll promise you it'll go through as slick as a greased pig!"</p> + +<p>"I believe there's something in that," said I. "We've never run into +such a hornets' nest as this before. There must be a reason. Atkinson, +you've got a lot of gumshoe men on your staff. Why don't you turn 'em +loose to locate this opposition?"</p> + +<p>"You're about two hours late with that suggestion," said the railroad +representative. "Our sleuths are on the job now. If they find out +anything I'll communicate with you P. D. Q."</p> + +<p>"Good!" ejaculated Colonel Peck. "And if it's money——"</p> + +<p>"Aw, you make me sick!" snapped Barney MacShane. "You think money can do +everything, don't you? Well, it can't! For one thing, it couldn't get me +to shake hands with a stiff like you!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I was called away from the dinner table on the following Friday +evening. Watlington was on the telephone.</p> + +<p>"That you, Curtiss? Well, we think we've got in touch with the bug under +the chip. Can you arrange to meet us in Room 85 at the Hotel Brookmore +at nine to-night?... No, I can't tell you a thing about it. We're asked +to be there—you're asked to be there—and that's as far as my +information goes. Don't be late."</p> + +<p>When I entered Room 85 four men were seated at a long table. They were +Elsberry J. Watlington, Colonel Jim Peck, Samuel Alexander Peebles and +W. Cotton Hamilton. They greeted me with a certain amount of nervous +irritability. The Big Four had been through a cruel week and showed the +marks of strain.</p> + +<p>"Where's Atkinson?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"It was stipulated, expressly stipulated," said old Peebles, "that only +the five of us should be present. The whole thing is most mysterious. +I—I don't like the looks of it."</p> + +<p>"Probably a hold-up!" grunted Colonel Peck.</p> + +<p>Watlington didn't say anything. He had aged ten years, his heavy +smooth-shaven face was set in stern lines and his mouth looked as if it +might have been made with a single slash of a razor.</p> + +<p>Hamilton mumbled to himself and kept trying to light the end of his +thumb instead of his cigar. Peck had his watch in his hand. Peebles +played a tattoo on his chin with his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Good thing we didn't make that application at the Council meeting," +said Hamilton. "I never saw such a gang of thugs!"</p> + +<p>"Male and female!" added Colonel Peck. "Well, time's up! Whoever he is, +I hope he won't keep us waiting!"</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said a cheerful voice. "You don't like to be held up on the tee, +do you, Colonel?"</p> + +<p>There in the doorway stood Wally Wallace, beaming upon the Big Four. Not +even on the stage have I ever seen anything to match the expressions on +the faces round that table. Old Peebles' mouth kept opening and +shutting, like the mouth of a fresh caught carp. The others were frozen, +petrified. Wally glanced at me as he advanced into the room, and there +was a faint trembling of his left eyelid.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Wally briskly, "shall we proceed with the business of the +meeting?"</p> + +<p>"Business!" Colonel Peck exploded like a firecracker.</p> + +<p>"With—you?" It was all Watlington could do to tear the two words out of +his throat. He croaked like a big bullfrog.</p> + +<p>"With me," said Wally, bowing and taking his place at the head of the +table. "Unless," he added, "you would prefer to discuss the situation +with the rank and file of the Third Avenue Country Club."</p> + +<p>The silence which followed that remark was impressive. I could hear +somebody's heart beating. It may have been my own. As usual Colonel Peck +was first to recover the power of speech, and again as usual he made +poor use of it.</p> + +<p>"You—you young whelp!" he gurgled. "So it was——"</p> + +<p>"Shut up, Jim!" growled Watlington, whose eyes had never left Wally's +face. Hamilton carefully placed his cigar in the ashtray and tried to +put a match into his mouth. Then he turned on me, sputtering.</p> + +<p>"Are you in on this?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Be perfectly calm," said Wally. "Mr. Curtiss is not in on it, as you so +elegantly express it. I am the only one who is in on it. Me, myself, W. +W. Wallace, at your service. If you will favour me with your attention, +I will explain——"</p> + +<p>"You'd better!" ripped out the Colonel.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said the youngster, grinning at Peck, "always a little nervous on +the tee, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"Drive, young man!" said Watlington.</p> + +<p>A sudden light flickered in Wally's eyes. He turned to Elsberry J. with +an expression that was almost friendly.</p> + +<p>"Do you know," said he, "I'm beginning to think there may be human +qualities in you after all."</p> + +<p>Watlington grunted and nodded his head.</p> + +<p>"Take the honour!" said he.</p> + +<p>Wally rose and laid the tips of his fingers on the table.</p> + +<p>"Members of the Greens Committee and one other"—and here he looked at +Hamilton, whose face showed that he had not forgotten the unclassified +hog—"we are here this evening to arrange an exchange of courtesies. You +think you represent the Midland Manufacturing Company at this meeting. +You do not. You represent the Sundown Golf and Country Club. I represent +the Third Avenue Country Club—an organisation lately formed. You may +have heard something of it, though not under that name."</p> + +<p>He paused to let this sink in.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," he continued, "you may recall that I once made a courteous +request of you for something which was entirely within my rights. You +made an arbitrary ruling on that request. You refused to let me through. +You told me I was too fresh, and advised me to sit down and cool off. I +see by your faces that you recall the occasion.</p> + +<p>"You may also recall that I promised to devote myself to the task of +teaching you to be more considerate of others. Gentlemen, I am the +opposition to your playing through on Third Avenue. I am the Man Behind. +I am the Voice of the People. I am a singleton on the course, holding +you up while I sink a putt. If you ask me why, I will give you your own +words in your teeth: You can't go through because I don't want you to go +through."</p> + +<p>Here he stopped long enough to light a cigarette, and again his left +eyelid flickered, though he did not look at me. I think if he had I +should have erupted.</p> + +<p>"You see," said he, flipping the match into the air, "it has been +necessary to teach you a lesson—the lesson, gentlemen, of courtesy on +the course, consideration for others. I realised that this could never +be done on a course where you have power to make the rules—or break +them. So I selected another course. Members of the Greens Committee and +one other, you do not make the rules on Third Avenue. You are perfectly +within your rights in asking to go through; but I have blocked you. I +have made you sit down on the bench and cool off. Gentlemen, how do you +like being held up when you want to play through? How does it feel?"</p> + +<p>I do not regret my inability to quote Colonel Peck's reply to this +question.</p> + +<p>"Quit it, Jim!" snapped Watlington. "Your bark was always worse than +your bite, and it's not much of a bark at that—'Sound and fury, +signifying nothing.' Young man, I take it you are the chairman of the +Greens Committee of this Third Avenue Country Club, empowered to act. +May I ask what are our chances of getting through?"</p> + +<p>"I <i>know</i> I'm going to like you—in time!" exclaimed Wally. "I feel it +coming on. Let's see, to-morrow is Saturday, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"What's that got to do with it?" mumbled Hamilton.</p> + +<p>"Much," answered Wally. "Oh, much, I assure you! I expect to be at the +Sundown Club to-morrow." His chin shot out and his voice carried the +sting of a lash. "I expect to see you gentlemen there, playing your +usual crawling foursome. I expect to see you allowing your fellow +members to pass you on the course. You might even invite them to come +through—you might <i>insist</i> on it, courteously, you understand, and with +such grace as you may be able to muster. I want to see every member of +that club play through you—every member!"</p> + +<p>"All d-damned nonsense!" bleated Peebles, sucking his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" ordered Watlington savagely. "And, young man, if we do +this—what then?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, then!" said Wally. "Then the reward of merit. If you show me that +you can learn to be considerate of others—if you show me that you can +be courteous on the course where you make the rules—I feel safe in +promising that you will be treated with consideration on this other +course which has been mentioned. Yes, quite safe. In fact, gentlemen, +you may even be <i>asked</i> to play through on Third Avenue!"</p> + +<p>"But this agitation?" began Hamilton.</p> + +<p>"Was paid for by the day," smiled the brazen rascal, with a graceful +inclination of his head. "People may be hired to do anything—even to +annoy prominent citizens and frighten a City Council." Hamilton stirred +uneasily, but Wally read his thought and froze him with a single keen +glance. "Of course," said he, "you understand that what has been done +once may be done again. Sentiment crystallises—when helped out with a +few more red handbills—a few more speeches on the street corners——"</p> + +<p>"The point is well taken!" interrupted Watlington hurriedly. "Damn well +taken! Young man, talk to me. <i>I'm</i> the head of this outfit. Pay no +attention to Jim Peck. He's nothing but a bag of wind. Hamilton doesn't +count. His nerves are no good. Peebles—he's an old goat. <i>I'm</i> the one +with power to act. Talk to me. Is there anything else you want?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Wally. "I think your streak of consideration is likely +to prove a lasting one. If not—well, I may have to spread this story +round town a bit——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my Lord!" groaned Colonel Peck.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was a noble and inspiring sight to see the Big Four, caps in hand, +inviting the common people to play through. The entire club marched +through them—too full of amazement to demand explanations. Even Purdue +McCormick, trudging along with a putter in one hand and a mid-iron in +the other, without a bag, without a caddie, without a vestige of right +in the wide world, even Purdue was coerced into passing them. At dusk he +was found wandering aimlessly about on the seventeenth fairway, babbling +to himself. We fear that he will never be the same again.</p> + +<p>I have received word from Barney MacShane that the City Council will be +pleased to grant a permit to lay a spur track on Third Avenue. The voice +of the people, he says, has died away to a faint murmuring. Some day I +think I will tell Barney the truth. He does not play golf, but he has a +sense of humour.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LITTLE_POISON_IVY" id="LITTLE_POISON_IVY"></a>LITTLE POISON IVY</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>The leopard cannot change his spots—possibly he wouldn't if he could; +and, this being the case, the next best thing is to overlook as many of +his freckles as possible.</p> + +<p>Yesterday I sat on the porch at the Country Club and listened while the +Dingbats said kind and complimentary things about young Ambrose Phipps, +alias Little Poison Ivy, alias The Pest, alias Rough and Reddy. One +short week ago the Dingbats would have voted him a nuisance and a menace +to society in general. Yesterday they praised him to the skies. It just +goes to show that good can be found in anybody—if that is what you are +looking for.</p> + +<p>Understand me: there has been no change in Ambrose. He is still as fresh +as a mountain breeze. Unquestionably he will continue to treat his +elders with a shocking lack of respect and an entire absence of +consideration. He was born with a deep depression where his bump of +reverence should have been located, and neither realises nor regrets his +deficiency.</p> + +<p>He will never change. It is the Dingbats who have changed. The whole +club has changed, so far as Ambrose is concerned.</p> + +<p>We are all trying to overlook the dark spots in his character and see +good in him, whether it is there or not.</p> + +<p>Now as to the Dingbats: if you do not know them you have missed +something rich and rare in the golfing line. There are four of them, all +retired capitalists on the shady side of sixty. They freely admit that +they are the worst golfers in the world, and in a pinch they could prove +it. They play together six days a week—a riotous, garrulous, hilarious +foursome, ripping the course wide open from the first tee to the home +green; and they get more real fun out of golf than any men I know. They +never worry about being off their game, because they have never been on +it; they know they can be no worse than they are and they have no hope +of ever being better; they expect to play badly, and it is seldom that +they are disappointed. Whenever a Dingbat forgets to count his shots in +the bunkers, and comes home in the nineties, a public celebration takes +place on the clubhouse porch.</p> + +<p>Yesterday it was Doc Pinkinson who brought in the ninety-eight—and +signed all the tags; and between libations they talked about Ambrose +Phipps, who was practising brassy shots off the grass beside the +eighteenth green.</p> + +<p>Little Poison Ivy was unusually cocky, even for him, and every move was +a picture. At the end of his follow-through he would freeze, nicely +balanced on the tip of his right toe, elbows artistically elevated, +clubhead up round his neck; and not a muscle would he move until the +ball stopped rolling. He might have been posing for a statue of the +Perfect Golfer. When he walked it was with a conscious little swagger +and a flirting of the short tails of his belted sport coat. He was +hitting them clean, he was hitting them far, he had an audience—and +well he knew it. Ambrose was in his glory yesterday afternoon!</p> + +<p>"By golly!" exclaimed Doc Pinkinson. "Ain't that a pretty sight? Ain't +it a treat to see that kid lambaste the ball?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly is," agreed Old Treanor with a sigh. "Perfect form—that's +what he's got."</p> + +<p>"And confidence in himself," put in Old Myles. "That's the big secret. +You can see it in every move he makes. Confidence is a wonderful thing!"</p> + +<p>"And youth," said Daddy Bradshaw. "That's the most wonderful thing of +all. It's his youth that makes him so—so flip. Got a lot to say, for a +kid; but—somehow I always liked him for it."</p> + +<p>"Me too!" chimed in Doc Pinkinson. "Doggone his skin! He used to make me +awful mad, that boy.... Oh, well, I reckon I'm kind of cranky, +anyway.... Yes; I always liked Ambrose."</p> + +<p>Now that was all rot, and I knew it. What's more, the Dingbats knew it +too. They hadn't always liked Ambrose. A week ago they would have marked +his swaggering gait, the tilt of his chin, the conscious manner in which +he posed after every shot; and they would have said Ambrose was showing +off for the benefit of the female tea party at the other end of the +porch—and they wouldn't have made any mistake, at that.</p> + +<p>No; they hadn't always liked young Mr. Phipps. Nobody had liked him. To +be perfectly frank about it, we had disliked him openly and cordially, +and had been at no pains to keep him from finding it out. We had snubbed +him, insulted him and ignored him on every possible occasion. Worst of +all, we had made a singleton of him. We had forced him to play alone, +because there wasn't a man in all the club who wanted him as a partner +or as an opponent. There is no meaner treatment than this; nor is there +anything more pathetically lonely than a singleton on a crowded golf +course. It is nothing more or less than a grown-up trip to Coventry. I +thought of all these things as I listened to the prattling of the +Dingbats.</p> + +<p>"Guess he won't have any trouble getting games now, hey?" chuckled Old +Treanor.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" grunted Doc Pinkinson. "He's dated up a week ahead—with Moreman +and that bunch! <i>A week ahead!</i>"</p> + +<p>"And he'll make 'em step!" chirped Daddy Bradshaw. "Here's to him, +boys—a redhead and a fighter! Drink her down!"</p> + +<p>"A redhead and a fighter!" chorused the Dingbats, lifting their glasses.</p> + +<p>Yes; they drank to Ambrose Phipps, and one short week ago they wouldn't +have tolerated him on the same side of the course with them. Our pet +leopard still has his spots, but we are now viewing him in the friendly +shade cast by a battered old silver cup: namely and to wit, the Edward +B. Wimpus Team Trophy, permanently at home on the mantelpiece in the +lounging room.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Going back to the beginning, we never had a chance to blame Ambrose on +the Membership Committee; he slipped in on us via the junior-member +clause. Old Man Phipps does not play golf; but he is a charter member of +the club and, according to the by-laws, the sons of members between the +ages of sixteen and twenty-one enjoy all the privileges of the +institution.</p> + +<p>Ambrose was nineteen when he returned rather hurriedly from college. He +did this at the earnest and unanimous request of the Faculty and, it was +whispered, the police department of the university town. He hadn't done +much of anything, but he had tried very hard to drive a touring car and +seven chorus girls through a plate-glass window into a restaurant. The +press agent of the show saw his chance to get some publicity for the +broilers, and after an interview with the Faculty Ambrose caught the +first train for home.</p> + +<p>Having nothing to do and plenty of time in which to do it, Ambrose +decided to become a golfer. Old Dunn'l MacQuarrie, our professional, +sold him a large leather bag full of tools and gave him two lessons. +Thus equipped and fortified, young Mr. Phipps essayed to brighten our +drab lives by allowing us to play golf with him. Now this sort of thing +may be done in some clubs, but not in ours. We do not permit our sacred +institutions to be "rushed" by the golfing novice. We are not snobbish, +but we plead guilty to being the least bit set in our ways. They are +good ways, and they suit us. The club is an old one, as golf clubs go in +this country, and most of the playing members are men past forty years +of age. Nearly all of the foursomes are permanent affairs, the same men +playing together week after week, season in and season out. The other +matches are made in advance, by telephone or word of mouth, and the +member who turns up minus a game on Saturday afternoon is out of luck.</p> + +<p>We do not leap at the stranger with open arms. We do not leap at him at +all. We stand off and look him over. We put him on probation; and if he +shapes up well, and walks lightly, and talks softly, and does not try +to dynamite his way into matches where he is not wanted, some day he +will be invited to fill up a foursome. Invited—make a note of that. Now +see what Ambrose did.</p> + +<p>With his customary lack of tact, he selected the very worst day in the +week to thrust himself upon our notice. It was a Saturday, and the +lounging room was crowded with members, most of whom were shaking dice +for the luncheons. With a single exception, all the foursomes were made +up for the afternoon.</p> + +<p>A short, sturdily built youngster came through the doorway from the +locker room and paused close to the table where I was sitting. His hair +was red—the sort of red that will not be ignored—and he wore it combed +straight back over the top of his head. His slightly irregular features +were covered with large brown freckles, and on his upper lip was a +volunteer crop of lightish fuzz, which might, in time, become a +moustache. His green sport coat was new, his flannel trousers were new, +his shoes were new—from neck to sole he fairly shrieked with newness. +Considering that he was a stranger in a strange club, a certain amount +of reticence would not have hurt the young man's entrance; but he burst +through the swinging door with a skip and a swagger, and there was a +broad grin on his homely countenance. It was quite evident that he +expected to find himself among friends.</p> + +<p>"Who wants a game?" he cried. "Don't all speak at once, men!"</p> + +<p>A few of the members nearest the door glanced up, eyed the youth +curiously, and returned to their dice boxes. The others had not heard +him at all. Harson and Billford looked at me.</p> + +<p>"Who's the fresh kid?" asked Billford.</p> + +<p>"That," said I, "is Ambrose Phipps, only son of Old Man Phipps."</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is a +failure. What's he want?"</p> + +<p>Ambrose himself answered the question. He had advanced to our table.</p> + +<p>"You gentlemen got a game?" he asked, laying his hand on Billford's +shoulder.</p> + +<p>Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it is +familiarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth; +so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared at +Ambrose. The boy did not remove his hand.</p> + +<p>"'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean—just washed +it. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar. +"No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?"</p> + +<p>"We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn't +seem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding.</p> + +<p>"Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." And +Ambrose passed on to the next table.</p> + +<p>"Insufferable young rotter!" snarled Billford.</p> + +<p>"Quite so," said Harson; "but he'll never miss anything by being too +bashful to ask for it. Look! He's asking everybody!"</p> + +<p>Ambrose made the entire circuit of the room. We could not hear what he +said, but we felt the chill he left in his wake. Men glanced up when he +addressed them, stared for an instant, and went back to their dice. Some +of them were polite in their refusals, some were curt, some were merely +disgusted. When he reached the table where Bishop, Gilmore, Moreman and +Elder were sitting, they laughed at him. They are our star golfers and +members of the team. The Dingbats were too much astonished to show +resentment; but when Ambrose left them he patted Doc Pinkinson on the +head, and the old gentleman sputtered for the best part of an hour.</p> + +<p>It was a discouraging tour, and any one else would have hunted a quiet +corner and crawled into it; but not Ambrose. He returned to our end of +the room, and the pleased and expectant light in his eyes had given way +to a steely glare. He beckoned to one of the servants.</p> + +<p>"Hey, George! Who's the boss here? Who's the Big Finger?"</p> + +<p>"Misteh Harson, he's one of 'em, suh. He's a membeh of the Greens +Committee."</p> + +<p>"Show him to me!"</p> + +<p>"Right there, suh, settin' by the window."</p> + +<p>Ambrose strode across to us and addressed himself to Harson.</p> + +<p>"My name is Phipps," said he. "I'm a junior member here, registered and +all that, and I want to get a game this afternoon. So far, I haven't had +any luck."</p> + +<p>Harson is really a mild and kindly soul. He hates to hurt any one's +feelings.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps all the games are made up," he suggested. "Saturday is a bad +day, unless your match is arranged beforehand."</p> + +<p>"Zat so? Humph! Nice clubby spirit you have here. You make a fellow feel +so much at home!"</p> + +<p>"So we notice," grunted Billford.</p> + +<p>Ambrose looked at him and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. +Then he turned back to Harson.</p> + +<p>"How about that fourth man of yours?" he demanded. "Has he shown up +yet?"</p> + +<p>Billford caught my eye.</p> + +<p>"Some one must have left the outside door open," said he. "Seems to me I +feel a strong draught."</p> + +<p>"Put on another shirt!" Ambrose shot the retort without an instant's +hesitation. "Now say, if your fourth man isn't here, what's the matter +with me?"</p> + +<p>"Possibly there is nothing the matter with you," said Harson +pleasantly; "but if you are a beginner——"</p> + +<p>"Aw, you don't need to be afraid of my game!" grinned Ambrose. "I'll be +easy picking."</p> + +<p>"That isn't the point," explained Harson. "Our game would be too fast +for you."</p> + +<p>"Well, what of it? How am I ever going to learn if I never play with +anybody better than I am? Don't you take any interest in young blood, or +is this a close corporation, run for the benefit of a lot of old +fossils, playing hooky from the boneyard?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, run away, little boy, and sell your papers!" Billford couldn't +stand it any longer.</p> + +<p>"I will if you lend me that shirt for a make-up!" snapped Ambrose. "Now +don't get mad, Cutie. Remember, you picked on me first. A man with a +neck as thick as yours ought not to let his angry passions rise. First +thing you know, you'll bust something in that bonemeal mill of yours, +and then you won't know anything." Ambrose put his hands on his hips and +surveyed the entire gathering. "A nice, cheerful, clubby bunch!" he +exclaimed. "Gee! What a picnic a hermit crab could have in this place, +meeting so many congenial souls!"</p> + +<p>"If you don't like it," said Billford, "you don't have to stay here a +minute."</p> + +<p>"That's mighty sweet of you," said Ambrose; "but, you see, I've made up +my mind to learn this fool game if it takes all summer. I'd hate to +quit now, even to oblige people who have been so courteous to me.... +Well, good-by, you frozen stiffs! Maybe I can hire that sour old +Scotchman to go round with me. He's not what you might call a cheerful +companion, but, at that, he's got something on you. He's <i>human</i>, +anyway!"</p> + +<p>Ambrose went outside and banged the door behind him. Billford made a few +brief observations; but his remarks, though vivid and striking, were not +quite original. Harson shook his head, and in the silence following +Ambrose's exit we heard Doc Pinkinson's voice:</p> + +<p>"If that pup was mine I'd drown him; doggone me if I wouldn't!"</p> + +<p>Young Mr. Phipps, you will observe, got in wrong at the very start.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Bad news travels fast when a few press agents get behind it, and not all +the personal publicity is handed out by a man's loving friends. Those +who had met Ambrose warned those who had not, and whenever his fiery red +head appeared in the lounging room there was a startling drop in the +temperature.</p> + +<p>For a few weeks he persisted in trying to secure matches with members of +the club, but nobody would have anything to do with him—not even old +Purdue McCormick, who toddles about the course with a niblick in one +hand and a mid-iron in the other, <i>sans</i> bag, <i>sans</i> caddie, <i>sans</i> +protection of the game laws. When such a renegade as Purdue refused to +go turf-tearing with him Ambrose gave up in disgust and devoted himself +to the serious business of learning the royal and ancient game. He +infested the course from dawn till dark, a solitary figure against the +sky line; our golfing Ishmael, a wild ass loose upon the links, his hand +against every man and every man's hand against him.</p> + +<p>He wore a chip on his shoulder for all of us; and it was during this +period that Anderson, our club champion and Number One on the team, +christened Ambrose "Little Poison Ivy," because of the irritating effect +of personal contact with him.</p> + +<p>Ambrose couldn't have had a great deal of fun out of the situation; but +MacQuarrie made money out of it. The redhead hired the professional to +play with him and criticise his shots. The dour old Scotch mercenary did +not like Ambrose any better than we did, but toward the end of the first +month he admitted to me that the boy had the makings of a star golfer, +though not, he was careful to explain, "the pr-roper temperament for the +game."</p> + +<p>"But it's just amazin', the way he picks up the shots," said Dunn'l. +"Ay, he'll have everything but the temperament."</p> + +<p>As the summer drew to a close the annual team matches began, and we +forgot Ambrose and all else in our anxiety over the fate of the Edward +B. Wimpus Trophy.</p> + +<p>Every golf club, you must know, has its pet trophy. Ours is the worn old +silver cup that represents the team championship of the Association. A +pawnbroker wouldn't look at it twice; but to us, who are familiar with +its history and the trips it has made to different clubhouses, the +Edward B. Wimpus Trophy is priceless, and more to be desired than +diamonds or pearls.</p> + +<p>When the late Mr. Wimpus donated the cup he stipulated that it should be +held in trust by the club winning the annual team championship, and that +it should become the property of the club winning it three times in +succession. For twenty years we had been fighting for permanent +possession of the trophy, and engraved on its shining surface was the +record of our bitter disappointment—not to mention the disappointment +of the Bellevue Golf Club. Twice we had been in a position to add the +third and final victory, and twice the Bellevue quintet had dashed our +hopes. Twice we had retaliated by preventing them from retiring the +Wimpus Trophy from competition; and now, with two winning years behind +us and a third opportunity in sight, we talked and thought of nothing +else.</p> + +<p>According to the rules governing team play in our Association, each club +is represented by five men, contesting from scratch and without +handicaps of any sort. In the past, two teams have outclassed the field, +and once more history repeated itself, for the Bellevue bunch fought us +neck and neck through the entire period of competition. With one match +remaining to be played, they were tied with us for first place, and that +match brought the Bellevue team to our course last Friday afternoon.</p> + +<p>I was on hand when the visitors filed into the locker room at +noon—MacNeath, Smathers, Crane, Lounsberry and Jordan—five seasoned +and dependable golfers, veterans of many a hard match; fighters who +never know when they are beaten. They looked extremely fit, and not in +the least worried at the prospect of meeting our men on their own +course.</p> + +<p>They brought their own gallery, too, Bellevue members who talked even +money and flashed yellow-backed bills. The Dingbats formed a syndicate +and covered all bets; but this was due to club pride rather than any +feeling of confidence. We knew our boys were in for a tough battle, in +which neither side would have a marked advantage.</p> + +<p>Four of our team players were on hand to welcome the enemy—Moreman, +Bishop, Elder and Gilmore—and they offered their opponents such +hospitality as is customary on like occasions.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said MacNeath with a grin; "but just now we're drinking water. +After the match you can fill the cup with anything you like, and we'll +allow you one drink out of it before we take it home with us. Once we +get it over there it'll never come back. It's not in the cards for you +to win three times running.... Where's Anderson?"</p> + +<p>"He hasn't shown up yet," said Bishop.</p> + +<p>"He's on the way out in his car," added Moreman. "I rang up his house +five minutes ago. He'd just left."</p> + +<p>"Oh, very well," said MacNeath, who is Number One man for Bellevue, as +well as captain of the team. "Suppose we have lunch now, Bishop; and +while we're eating you can give me the list of your players and I'll +match them up."</p> + +<p>In team play it is customary for the home captain to submit the names of +his players, ranked from one to five, in the order of their ability. The +visiting captain then has the privilege of making the individual +matches; and this is supposed to offset whatever advantage the home team +has by reason of playing on its own course.</p> + +<p>Bishop, our captain, handed over a list reading as follows: 1—Anderson; +2—Moreman; 3—Bishop; 4—Elder; 5—Gilmore. MacNeath bracketed his own +name with Anderson's, and paired Crane with Moreman, Lounsberry with +Bishop, Smathers with Elder, and Jordan with Gilmore.</p> + +<p>After luncheon the men changed to their golfing togs; but still there +was no sign of Anderson. Another telephone call confirmed the first +message; his wife reported that he had left his home nearly an hour +before, bound for the club.</p> + +<p>"Queer!" said MacNeath. "Engine trouble or a puncture—possibly both. +It's not like the Swede to be late. Might as well get started, eh? +Anderson and I will go last, anyhow."</p> + +<p>A big gallery watched the first pair drive off, Gilmore getting a better +ball than Jordan, and cheering those who believe in omens. Then at +five-minute intervals, came Lounsberry and Bishop, Smathers and Elder, +and Crane and Moreman. Each match attracted a small individual gallery, +but most of the spectators waited to follow the Number One men. +MacNeath, refusing to allow himself to be made nervous by the delay, +went into the clubhouse; and many and wild were the speculations as to +the cause of Anderson's tardiness. The wildest one of them fell short of +the bitter truth, which came to us at the end of a telephone wire +located in the professional's shop. It had been relayed on from the +switchboard in the club office:</p> + +<p>"Anderson blew a front tire at the city limits. Car turned over with him +and broke his leg."</p> + +<p>A bombshell exploding under our noses could not have created more +consternation. There we were, with four of the matches under way, our +best man crippled, and up against the proposition of providing an +opponent for MacNeath, admittedly the most dangerous player on the +Bellevue team. Harson, as a member of the Greens Committee and an +officer of the club, assumed charge of the situation as soon as he heard +the news.</p> + +<p>"No good sending word to poor old Bishop," said he. "He's the team +captain, of course; but he can't do anything about it. Besides, he's +already playing his match, and this would upset him terribly. Is there +any one here who can give MacNeath a run for his money?"</p> + +<p>"Not unless you want to try it," said I.</p> + +<p>"He'd eat me alive!" groaned Harson. "We might as well forfeit one +match, and put it up to the boys to win three out of four. Oh, if we +only had one more good man!"</p> + +<p>"Ye have," said MacQuarrie, who had been listening. "Ye've overlooked +young Mister Phipps."</p> + +<p>"That kid?" demanded Harson. "Nonsense!"</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Dunn'l; "that kid! Call it nonsense if ye like, sir, but he +was under eighty twice yesterday. This mor-rnin' he shot a +seventy-seven, with two missed putts the length o' your ar-rm. He's on +top of his game now, an' goin' strong. If he'll shoot back to his +mor-rnin' round he'll give Mister MacNeath a battle; but the lad has +never been in a competition, so ye'll have to chance his ner-rves."</p> + +<p>"Ambrose!" I exclaimed. "I never should have thought of him!"</p> + +<p>"Of course ye wouldn't," said MacQuarrie. "Ye've never played with +him—never even seen him play."</p> + +<p>"But he's such a little rotter!" mumbled Harson.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said Dunn'l; "an', grantin' ye that, he's still the best ye have. +He's in the clubhouse now, dressed an' ready to start, once the crowd is +out of the way."</p> + +<p>"And he really did a seventy-seven this morning?" asked Harson.</p> + +<p>"With two missed putts—wee ones."</p> + +<p>I looked at Harson and Harson looked at me.</p> + +<p>"You go in and put it up to him," said he at last. "I can't talk to him +without losing my temper."</p> + +<p>I found our little red hope banging the balls about on the billiard +table, carefree as a scarlet tanager.</p> + +<p>"Young man," said I, "your country calls you."</p> + +<p>"I'm under age," said Ambrose, calmly squinting along his cue. "Don't +bother me. This is a tough shot."</p> + +<p>"Well, then," said I, "your club calls you."</p> + +<p>"My club, eh?" remarked the redhead with nasty emphasis. "Any time this +club calls me I'm stone-deaf."</p> + +<p>"Listen to me a minute, Phipps. This is the day of the big team match +and we're up against it hard. Anderson turned his car over on the way +out and broke his leg. We want you to take his place."</p> + +<p>"Anderson," repeated Ambrose. "Ain't that the squarehead who calls me +Little Poison Ivy? Only his leg, eh? Tough luck!"</p> + +<p>"You bet it is!" I exclaimed, ignoring his meaning. "Tough luck for all +of us, because if we can't dig up a man to take Anderson's place we'll +have to forfeit that particular match to MacNeath. We'd set our hearts +on winning this time, because it would give us the permanent possession +of the team trophy that we've been shooting at for twenty years——"</p> + +<p>"Let your voice fall right there!" commanded Ambrose. "Trophies are +nothing in my young life. This club is nothing in my life. Everybody +here has treated me worse than a yellow dog. Go ahead and take your +medicine; and I hope they lick you and make you like it!"</p> + +<p>I saw it was time to try another tack. Ambrose had used one word that +had put an idea into my head.</p> + +<p>"All right," said I. "Have it your own way. Perhaps it was a mistake to +mention MacNeath's name."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean—a mistake?" He fired up instantly.</p> + +<p>"Well," said I, "you must know Mac by reputation. He's one of the best +golfers in the state and a tough proposition to beat. He's their Number +One man—their star player. He shoots pretty close to par all the time."</p> + +<p>"What's that got to do with it?" asked Ambrose.</p> + +<p>"Why, nothing; only——"</p> + +<p>"Only what?"</p> + +<p>"Well, they all said you wouldn't want to go up against such a strong +player."</p> + +<p>"Who said that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I'm frank +enough to say that I wouldn't tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath is +hard game."</p> + +<p>"Look here!" snapped the redhead. "You're off on the wrong foot +entirely. You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not because I'm afraid +of this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman this +morning, and I guess you'll agree he's not soft picking. It's just that +I don't feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me."</p> + +<p>"A favour! Why, man alive, it's a compliment to stick you in at Number +One—the biggest compliment we can pay you!"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Ambrose slowly, "if you look at it in that light——"</p> + +<p>"I most certainly do.... But if you'd rather not meet MacNeath——"</p> + +<p>Ambrose dropped his cue with a crash.</p> + +<p>"You don't really think I'm <i>yellow</i>, do you?" he cried.</p> + +<p>"If you are," said I, "you're the first redhead that ever got his colour +scheme mixed."</p> + +<p>The little rascal grinned like a gargoyle.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" said he confidentially. "You've used me pretty well—to my +face, anyhow—and I'll tell yon this much: I don't care the snap of my +fingers for your ratty old cup. I care even less for the members of this +club—present company excepted, you understand; but I can't stand it to +have anybody think I'm not <i>game</i>. Ever since I was a runt of a kid I've +had to fight, and they can say anything about me except that I'm a +quitter.... Why, I've stuck round here for nearly five months just +because I wouldn't let a lot of old fossils drive me out and make me +quit—five months without a friend in the place, and only MacQuarrie to +talk to.</p> + +<p>"If I'd been yellow it would have shown that first Saturday when +everybody turned me down so cold. I wanted to walk out and never come +back. I wanted to; but I stuck. Honest, if I'm anything at all I'm +game—game enough to stand the gaff and take the worst of it; and I'll +prove it to you by playing this bird, no matter how good he is. I'll +fight him every jump of the way, and if he licks me he'll have to step +out some to do it. What's a licking, anyway? I've had a thousand of 'em! +Plenty of people can lick me; but you bet your life nobody ever scared +me!"</p> + +<p>"Good kid!" said I, and held out my hand.</p> + +<p>After an instant's hesitation Ambrose seized it. "Now lead me to this +MacNeath person," said he. "I suppose we ought to be introduced, eh? Or +has he been told that I'm the Country Club leper?"</p> + +<p>It was a sorely disappointed gallery that welcomed the +substitute—disappointed and amazed; but the few Bellevue members were +openly jubilant. They had reason to be, for word had been brought back +to them that Lounsberry and Crane were running away with their matches. +Between them and the cup they saw only a golfing novice, a junior member +without a war record. They immediately began offering odds of two to one +on the MacNeath-Phipps match; but there were no takers. The Dingbats +held a lodge of sorrow in the shade of the caddie house and mournfully +estimated their losses, while our feminine contingent showed signs of +retreating to the porch and spending the afternoon at bridge.</p> + +<p>MacNeath was first on the tee—a tall, flat-muscled, athletic man of +forty; and, as the veteran was preparing to drive, Ambrose and +MacQuarrie held a whispered conversation.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to grab some of that two to one," said the boy.</p> + +<p>"Don't be foolish," counselled the canny Scot. "Ye'll have enough on +your mind wi'out makin' bets; an' for pity's sake, remember what I've +told ye—slow back, don't press, keep your head down, an' count three +before ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-rnin' an' ye've a grand +chance to win."</p> + +<p>MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long, +well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silence +that was almost painful.</p> + +<p>"Mighty pretty," said he with a careless nod at his opponent. "Hope I do +as well."</p> + +<p>"Ye can," muttered old Dunn'l, "if ye'll keep your fool mouth shut an' +your eye on the ball!"</p> + +<p>As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of the +gallery—a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his next +move—expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitude +of the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused for +an instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant ease +was gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. He +looked again at MacNeath's ball, a white speck far down the fairway. +MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Never mind that one!" he whispered to himself savagely. "Play the one +on the tee!"</p> + +<p>Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot +to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He +seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to +the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly +stiffened in every muscle and joint—gone tense with the nervous strain. +He did manage to remember about the back swing—it was slow enough to +suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long +enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised +this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the +ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned +it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was +a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it +reached the bunker.</p> + +<p>"Well, by the sweet and suffering——"</p> + +<p>This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a +gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath +followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just +the thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face.</p> + +<p>Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began +to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite +enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment:</p> + +<p>"No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks. +Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was +a fizzer—a false alarm."</p> + +<p>"Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw. +"Might just as well put <i>me</i> in there against MacNeath! Fools!"</p> + +<p>MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil.</p> + +<p>"He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an' +he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Come +along, sir!"</p> + +<p>I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried +in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie, +an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly +what his lunacy deserved—a much worse lie than before, close against +the bank—and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his +audience.</p> + +<p>"What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four and +picked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to be <i>good</i>."</p> + +<p>I said I wanted to see how the other matches were coming on.</p> + +<p>"Everybody seems to feel the same way," said the redhead, looking at the +retreating gallery. "All because I slopped that drive! I'll have that +audience back again—see if I don't! And I'll bet you I won't look up on +another shot all day!"</p> + +<p>"If ye do," grumbled MacQuarrie, "I'll never play wi'ye again as long as +ye live!"</p> + +<p>"That's a promise!" cried Ambrose. "One down, eh? Where do we go from +here?"</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Our team veterans did not lack sympathetic encouragement on the last +nine holes, and all four matches tightened up to such an extent that we +wavered between hope and fear until Crane's final putt on the +seventeenth green dropped us into the depths of despair.</p> + +<p>Gilmore, setting the pace with Jordan, gave us early encouragement by +maintaining a safe lead throughout and winning his match, 3 to 2. First +blood was ours, but the period of rejoicing was a short one; for the +deliberate Lounsberry, approaching and putting with heartbreaking +accuracy, disposed of Bishop on the seventeenth green.</p> + +<p>"One apiece," said Doc Pinkinson. "Now what's Elder doing?"</p> + +<p>The Elder-Smathers match came to Number Seventeen all square; but our +man ended the suspense by dropping a beautiful mashie pitch dead to the +pin from a distance of one hundred yards. Smathers' third shot also +reached the green; but his long putt went wide and Elder tapped the ball +into the cup, adding a second victory to our credit.</p> + +<p>"It's looking better every minute!" chirped the irrepressible Doc +Pinkinson. "Now if Moreman can lick his man we're all hunky-dory. If he +loses—good-a-by, cup! No use figuring on that red-headed snipe of a +kid. MacNeath has sent him to the cleaner's by now, sure!"</p> + +<p>The gallery waited at the seventeenth green, watching in anxious silence +as Crane and Moreman played their pitch shots over the guarding bunker. +Both were well on in threes; but the Bellevue caddie impudently held his +forefinger in the air as a sign that his man was one up. Moreman made a +good try, but his fourth shot stopped a few inches from the cup; and +Crane, after studying the roll of the green for a full minute, dropped a +forty-foot putt for a four—and dropped our spirits with it.</p> + +<p>"That settles it!" wheezed Daddy Bradshaw. "No need to bother about that +other match.... Oh, if Anderson was so set on breaking his leg, why +didn't he wait till to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"Then he could have busted 'em both," remarked the unfeeling Pinkinson, +"and nobody would have said a word. Might's well pay those bets, I +reckon. We got as much chance as that snowball they're always talking +about. If it didn't melt, somebody would eat it."</p> + +<p>He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on the +skyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first one +was tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, and +even at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" ejaculated Pinkinson. "Ain't that MacNeath and the kid, going +to Sixteen? It is, by golly! D'you reckon they're playing out the bye +holes just for fun—or what?"</p> + +<p>"It can't be anything else," said Bradshaw. "The boy couldn't have +carried him that far."</p> + +<p>Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, very +much out of breath.</p> + +<p>"Mister Phipps says—if you want to see—some reg'lar golf—you'd +better catch the finish—of his match. He says—bring all the gang with +you."</p> + +<p>"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean that +they're still playing?"</p> + +<p>"Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when I +left 'em."</p> + +<p>All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various +groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the +clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All +square? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holding +MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the +doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement +backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an +objective point.</p> + +<p>It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the +contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised +and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There +was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some +mysterious wireless of their own devising.</p> + +<p>"MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddy +has got to sink this one."</p> + +<p>Ambrose's ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took one +look at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without an +instant's hesitation—a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance to +waver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarrie +himself could not have shown more confidence. MacNeath's caddie replaced +the flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved them +back and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answered +the question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter of +applause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at us +with a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me.</p> + +<p>He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign of +nervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he stepped +forward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, and +got off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he did +not raise his head until the ball was well down the course.</p> + +<p>"He's countin' three before he looks up!" whispered a voice in my ear; +and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth, +and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can never +express in words.</p> + +<p>"Then he's really been playing good golf?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It's a dingdong match, an' just a +question which one will crack fir-rst."</p> + +<p>MacNeath's drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under the +strain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the machinelike +precision of the veteran golfer—stance, swing and follow-through +standardised by years of experience.</p> + +<p>Our seventeenth hole is a long one, par 5, and the approach to the +putting green is guarded by an embankment, paralleled on the far side by +a wide and treacherous sand trap, put there to encourage clean mashie +pitches. The average player cannot reach the bunker on his second, much +less carry the sand trap on the other side of it; but the long drivers +sometimes string two tremendous wooden-club shots together and reach the +edge of the green. More frequently they get into trouble and pay the +penalty for attempting too much.</p> + +<p>The two balls were close together; but Ambrose's shot was the longer one +by a matter of feet, and it was up to MacNeath to play first. Would he +gamble and go for the green, or would he play short and make sure of a +five? The veteran estimated the distance, looked carefully at his lie, +and then pulled an iron from his bag. Instantly I knew what was passing +in his mind—sensed his golfing strategy: MacNeath intended to place his +second shot short of the bunker, in the hope that Ambrose would be +tempted into risking the long, dangerous wooden-club shot across to the +green.</p> + +<p>"Aha!" whispered MacQuarrie. "The old fox! He'll not take a chance +himself, but he wants the lad to take one. '"Will ye walk into my +parlour!" says the spider to the fly.' Ay; that's just it—will he, +now?"</p> + +<p>Ambrose gave us no time for suspense. MacNeath's ball had hardly stopped +rolling before his decision was made—and a sound one at that! He +whipped his mid-iron from the bag.</p> + +<p>"'Fraid I'll have to fool you, old chap," said he airily. "You wanted me +to go for the green—eh, what? Well, I hate to disappoint you; but I +can't gamble in an even game—not when the kitty is a sand trap.... +Ride, you little round rascal; ride!"</p> + +<p>The last remark was addressed to the ball just before the blade of the +mid-iron flicked it from the grass. Again there were two white specks in +the distance, lying side by side. If MacNeath was disappointed he did +not show it, but tramped on down the course, silent as usual and +absorbed in the game. Both took fives on the hole, missing long putts; +and the battle was still all square.</p> + +<p>Our home hole is a par 4—a blind drive and an iron pitch to the green; +and the vital shot is the one from the tee. It must go absolutely +straight and high enough to carry the top of the hill, one hundred and +forty yards away. To the right is an abrupt downward slope, ending in a +deep ravine. To the left, and out of sight from the tee, is a wide sand +trap, with the father of all bunkers at its far edge. The only safe ball +is the one that sails over the direction post.</p> + +<p>Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ball +had the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, I +thought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead of +that, it seemed to duck in flight, caught the hard face of the incline, +and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which broke +all our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in the +sand trap.</p> + +<p>"Hard luck!" said MacNeath; and I think he really meant to be +sympathetic.</p> + +<p>Ambrose looked at him as a bulldog might look at a mastiff.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I wouldn't say that!" he answered, rather stiffly. "I like to play +my second shot from over there."</p> + +<p>"You're welcome!" said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture by +poling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction post +and went sailing on up the plateau toward the clubhouse.</p> + +<p>No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled up +the hill I tried to say something hopeful.</p> + +<p>"He may have stopped short of the trap."</p> + +<p>"Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in—up to +his neck."</p> + +<p>Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful +statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper +distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I +swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in +and what sort of a lie it had found.</p> + +<p>"Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away from +the wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft to +it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's just +possible."</p> + +<p>"But not probable," said I. "What on earth is he waiting for?"</p> + +<p>Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from +the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"You don't mind if I study this situation a bit?" said he to MacNeath.</p> + +<p>"Take your time," said the veteran.</p> + +<p>"Because I wouldn't want to use the wrong club here," continued Ambrose.</p> + +<p>The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red +head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a +glimpse of me and beckoned.</p> + +<p>"How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"All even—two matches to two."</p> + +<p>"That," said Ambrose after a thoughtful pause, "seems to put it up to +me."</p> + +<p>At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for his +bag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; but +Ambrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but a +hundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club—out of a trap? +Suicide! Sheer suicide! An iron might give him a fighting chance to +halve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club in +the boy's hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said something +of the sort to MacQuarrie.</p> + +<p>"Sh-h!" he whispered. "Yon's a baffy. I made it for him."</p> + +<p>"What's a baffy?"</p> + +<p>"Well, it's just a kind of an exaggerated bulldog spoon—ye might almost +call it a wooden mashie, wi' a curvin' sole on it. It's great for +distance. The lie is good, the wind's behind him, an' if he can only hit +it clean—clean!—--Oh, ye little red devil, keep your head down—keep +your head down an' hit it clean!"</p> + +<p>I shall never forget the picture spread out along the edge of that green +plateau—the red-headed stocky youngster in the sand trap taking his +stance and whipping the clubhead back and forth; MacNeath coolly leaning +on his driver and smiling over a match already won; the two caddies in +the background, one sneeringly triumphant, the other furiously angry; +the rim of spectators, motionless, hopeless.</p> + +<p>Everybody was watching Ambrose, and I think Old MacQuarrie was the only +onlooker who was not absolutely certain that the choice of a wrong club +was throwing away our last slender chance.</p> + +<p>When the tension was almost unbearable the redhead turned and grinned at +MacNeath.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you'd shoot this with an iron," said he; "but the baffy is a +great club—if you've got the nerve to use it."</p> + +<p>Ambrose settled his feet firmly in the sand, craned his neck for a final +look at the flag, two hundred yards away, dropped his chin on his chest, +waggled the clubhead over the ball, and then swung with every ounce of +strength in his sturdy body. I heard a sharp click, saw a tiny feather +of sand spurt into the air, and against the blue sky I caught a glimpse +of a soaring white speck, which went higher and higher until I lost it +altogether. The next thing I knew, the spectators were cheering, +yelling, screaming; and some one was hammering me violently between the +shoulder blades. It was the unemotional Dunn'l MacQuarrie, gone +completely daft with excitement.</p> + +<p>"Oh, man!" he cried. "He picked it up as clean as a whistle, an' he's on +the green—on the green!"</p> + +<p>"Told you that was a sweet little club!" said Ambrose as he climbed out +of the trap. "Takes nerve to use one though. On the green, eh? Well, I +guess that'll hold you for a while."</p> + +<p>His prediction soon had a solid backing of fact. MacNeath, the iron man, +the dependable Number One, the match player without nerves, was not +proof against a miracle. Ambrose's phenomenal recovery had shaken the +veteran to the soles of his shoes.</p> + +<p>MacNeath's second shot was an easy pitch to the green, but he lingered +too long over it; the blade of his mashie caught the turf at least three +inches behind the ball and shot it off at an angle into the thick, long +grass that guards the eighteenth green. He was forced to use a heavy +niblick on his third; but the ball rolled thirty feet beyond the pin. He +tried hard for the long putt, but missed, and picked up when Ambrose +laid his third shot on the lip of the cup.</p> + +<p>By the most fortunate fluke ever seen on a golf course our little red +Ishmael had won for us the permanent possession of the Edward B. Wimpus +Trophy.</p> + +<p>MacNeath was game. He picked up his ball with the left hand and offered +his right to Ambrose. "Well done!" said he.</p> + +<p>"Thanks!" responded Ambrose. "Guess I kind of jarred you with that baffy +shot. It's certainly a dandy club in a pinch. Better let MacQuarrie make +you one."</p> + +<p>MacNeath swallowed hard and nearly managed a smile.</p> + +<p>"It wasn't the club," said he. "It was just burglar's luck. You couldn't +do it again in a thousand years!"</p> + +<p>"Maybe not," replied the victor; "but when you get back to Bellevue you +tell all the dear chappies there that I got away with it once—got away +with it the one time when it counted!"</p> + +<p>At this point the gallery closed in and overwhelmed young Mr. Phipps. +Inside of a minute he heard more pleasant things about himself than had +come to his ears in a lifetime. He did not dispute a single statement +that was made; nor did he discount one by so much as the deprecating +lift of an eyebrow. For once in his life he agreed with everybody. In +the stag celebration that followed—with the Edward B. Wimpus Cup in the +middle of the big round table—he was easily induced to favour us with a +few brief remarks. He informed us that tin cups were nothing in his +young life, club spirit was nothing, but that gameness was +everything—and the cheering was led by the Dingbats!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Now you know why we feel that we owe Ambrose something; and, if I am any +judge, that debt will be paid with heavy interest. Dunn'l MacQuarrie is +also a winner. He has booked so many orders for baffles that he is now +endeavouring to secure the services of a first-class club maker.</p> + +<p>As Ambrose often tells us, the baffy is a sweet little club to have in +the bag—provided, of course, you have the nerve to use it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_MAJOR_DOS" id="THE_MAJOR_DOS"></a>THE MAJOR, D.O.S.</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>I despise the sort of man who gloats and pokes his finger at you and +reminds you that he told you so. I hope I am not in that class, and I +would be the last to rub salt into an open wound; still I see no harm in +calling attention to the fact that I once expressed an opinion which had +to do with Englishmen in general and Major Cuthbert Eustace +Lawes—D.S.O., and a lot of other initials—in particular. What is more, +that opinion was expressed in the presence of Waddles Wilmot and one +other director of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club.</p> + +<p>"You can't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him."</p> + +<p>Those were my very words, and I stand by them. I point to them with +pride. If Waddles had listened to me—but Waddles never listens to +anybody. Sometimes he looks as if he might be listening, when as a +matter of fact he is only resting his voice and thinking up something +cutting and clever to say next.</p> + +<p>Speaking of Waddles, the fault is not all his. We have indulged him with +too much authority. We have allowed him to become a sort of autocrat, a +golfing Pooh-Bah, a self-appointed committee of one with arbitrary +powers. He began looking after the club when it was in its infancy, and +now that the organisation has grown to quite respectable proportions he +does not seem to know how to let go gracefully. He still looks after us, +whether we want him to or not, and if it is only the getting out of a +new score card Waddles must attend to it, having the first word, the +last word and all the words between.</p> + +<p>If any one presumes to disagree with him Waddles merely snorts in that +disdainful way of his and goes on talking louder and louder until +finally the opposition succumbs, blown down by sheer lung power, as it +were, gassed before reaching the trenches. Wind is all right in its +place, and in moderation, but a steady gale gets on the nerves in time. +Waddles is a human simoom, carrying dust, sand and cactus.</p> + +<p>I say this in all kindness, for I am really fond of the old boy. He has +many admirable qualities, and frequently tells us what they are, but +consideration for others is not one of them; and when he plays golf the +things he does to an opponent are sinful. He is just as ruthless and +overbearing on the links as he is in committee meeting—but of this, +more anon—much more. I made my remark about Englishmen a month or so +after the Major became a member of the club. We understood that Lawes +was a retired infantry officer in poor health, and when he arrived in +our part of the world he brought with him a Hindu servant with his head +wrapped up in about forty yards of cheesecloth, an unquenchable thirst, +some gilt-edged letters of introduction from big people, and a hobnail +liver. He was proposed by two of our financial moguls and passed the +membership committee without a whisper of dissent.</p> + +<p>"This old bird," said Waddles, "is probably a cracking good golfer. +Nearly all Englishmen are. We can use him to plug up that weak spot on +the team." And of course he looked straight at me when he said it. +Goodness knows, I never asked to be put on the club team, and I play my +worst golf in competition.</p> + +<p>Some of the other men thought that the Major would lend a bit of tone to +the organisation. I presume they got the idea from the string of +initials after his name.</p> + +<p>As to his golfing, the Major proved a disappointment. He did not seem in +any haste to avail himself of the privileges of active membership, and +when at the club he spent all his time sitting on the porch and staring +at the mountains in the distance. I don't remember ever seeing him +without a tall brandy highball at his elbow.</p> + +<p>Personally, the Major wasn't much to look at. You could just as easily +have guessed the age of a mummy. He was long-legged and cadaverous, +with thin, sandy hair and a yellowish moustache that never seemed to be +trimmed. His mouth was always slightly ajar, his front teeth were unduly +prominent, and his chin was short and receded at an acute angle. A side +view of the Major suggested a tired, half-starved old rabbit that had +lost all interest in life. His eyes were a faded light blue in colour +and blinked constantly without a vestige of human expression. He was +freckled like a turkey egg—freckled all over, but mostly on the neck +and the forearms. When he spoke, which was seldom, it was in a thin, +hesitating treble, reminiscent of a strayed sheep, and he had an +exasperating habit of leaving a sentence half finished and beginning on +another one. He could sit for hours, staring straight in front of him +and apparently seeing nothing at all. When addressed he usually jumped +half out of his chair and said something like this:</p> + +<p>"Eh? Oh! God-bless-me! God-bless-me! What say?"</p> + +<p>Socially he was a very mangy-looking lion, but we understood that he was +very well connected in the old country and not so stupid as he seemed. +He couldn't have been, and lived. He was a bachelor of independent +means; he bought a bungalow on Medway Hill and a six-cylinder runabout, +which the servant learned to drive, after a fearsome fashion. This put +the Major out of the winter-visitor class—which was reassuring—but as +the weeks passed and he was never seen with a golf club in his hands +Waddles began to worry about that weak spot on the team.</p> + +<p>Three of us were watching Lawes one afternoon through a window of the +lounging room, which commands a view of the porch. The Major was spread +out in a big wicker chair, and, save for certain mechanical movements of +the right hand and arm, was as motionless as a turtle on a log. As +usual, Waddles was doing most of the talking.</p> + +<p>"Ain't he the study in still life, eh?... With the accent on the +still—get me? Still! Ho, ho! Not bad a bit.... Gaze upon him, +gentlemen; the world's most consistent rum hound! He hasn't moved a +muscle in the last hour except to lift that glass. Wonderful type of the +athletic Englishman, what-oh? Devoted to sports and pastimes, my word, +yes! He wouldn't qualify for putting the shot, but for putting the +highball I'll back him against all comers."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," said Jay Gilman, who is a conservative sort of chap +and knows Waddles well enough not to believe everything he says. "I +don't know. The old boy makes a drink last a long time. He doesn't order +many in the course of an afternoon. I've never seen him the least bit +edged."</p> + +<p>"Fellow like that never gets edged," argued Waddles. "The skin stays +just so full all the time. Can't get any fuller. Did you ever try to +talk with his royal jaglets? Sociable as an oyster! I tried to get him +opened up the other day. He's been in India and Africa and everywhere +else, they tell me, and I thought he might want to gas about his +experiences. War stuff. Nothing stirring. A frost. Kidded him about the +Boers, and the way the embattled farmers hung it on perfidious Albion. +Couldn't even get a rise out of him. All he did was stare at me with +those fishy eyes of his and make motions with his Adam's apple! Ever +notice the way he watches you when you're talking to him? It's enough to +make a man nervous! A major, eh? If he was a major, I wonder what the +shave-tail lieutenants were like! D.S.O.! They got the initials balled +up when they hitched that title to him. It should have been D.O.S.!"</p> + +<p>"All right," said Gilman; "I'll bite. I'll be the Patsy. Why D.O.S.?"</p> + +<p>"Dismal Old Souse, of course!" cackled Waddles. "Fits him like a glove, +eh?"</p> + +<p>It was then that I expressed my opinion, as previously quoted: "You +can't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him."</p> + +<p>But Waddles only laughed. He usually laughs at his own witticisms.</p> + +<p>"D.O.S.," said he. "Impromptu, but good. I'll have to tell it to the +boys!"</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>But for Cyril, I suppose the Major would have remained a chair warmer +indefinitely.</p> + +<p>Cyril was the Major's nephew, doing a bit of globe trotting after +getting out of college, and he dropped in out of a clear sky, taking the +Major entirely by surprise. We heard later that all the Major said was, +"Bless me, it's Cyril, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>Looking at the boy, you knew at once what the Major had been like at +twenty-five or thereabouts; so it goes without saying that Cyril was no +motion-picture type for beauty. He was tall and thin and gangling, his +feet were always in his way, his clothes did not fit him and would not +have fitted anything human, his cloth hats were really not hats at all +but speckled poultices, and he was as British as the unicorn itself. He +was almost painfully shy when among strangers, and blushed if any one +spoke to him; but his coming seemed to cheer the Major tremendously. It +hadn't occurred to me before, but I presume the D.O.S. had been lonely +for his kind. Cyril was his kind—no question about that—and the pair +of them held a love feast which lasted all of one afternoon. Waddles +witnessed this touching family reunion and told us about it afterward, +but it is likely he handled the truth in his usual nonchalant manner. +Waddles would never spoil a good story for the sake of mere accuracy.</p> + +<p>"It was great stuff!" said he. "They sat out there on the porch and +gabbled terribly. A dumb man couldn't have got a word in edge-wise. The +Major was never at a loss for a topic of conversation. As fast as one +was exhausted he would look in his glass and say, 'Shan't we have +another, dear boy?' Friend Nephew never missed his cue once. 'Rawther!' +he'd say, or 'Right-oh!' Then the Major would hoist signals of distress +and make signs at the waiter. Oh, it was lovely to see them taking so +much comfort in each other's society—and so much nourishment."</p> + +<p>"What I want to know is this," put in Jay Gilman: "Did it liven 'em up +any?"</p> + +<p>"Not so you could notice it with the naked eye. For all the effect that +anybody could see, the stuff might just as well have been poured into a +pair of gopher holes. They went away at six o'clock, solemn and +dignified, loaded to capacity but not even listing the least bit from +the cargo they'd taken on. A lot of raw material wasted. That sort of +thing is inhuman—uncanny. It must be a gift that runs in +families—what?"</p> + +<p>Before long we had a real sensation—the Major blossomed out into a +playing member. A mummy doing a song and dance wouldn't have created any +more excitement round the clubhouse. Even the caddies were talking about +it.</p> + +<p>Sam broke the news to me while I was practising mid-iron shots on the +other side of the eighteenth green. Sam has carried my bag for years. He +is too old to be a caddie, too young to be a member of the Supreme +Court, and too wise for either job. He shoots the course in the +seventies every time he can dodge the greens keeper—play by employes +being strictly prohibited. He has forgotten more golf than I shall ever +know, and tries hard to conceal the superiority he feels, but never +quite makes the grade. You know the sort of caddie I mean—every club +has a few like Sam.</p> + +<p>"There you go again! What did I tell you about playin' the ball too far +off your right foot? Stiffen up those wrists a bit—don't let 'em flop +so. Put some forearm into the shot, and never mind lookin' up to see +where the ball goes.... Say, that long, thin gentleman, him with the +nose and teeth—the one they call the Major, that sits on the porch so +much liftin' tall ones—I caddied for him this morning."</p> + +<p>"You don't tell me so!"</p> + +<p>"Yeh, I do. Sure! Him and his relative—the young fellah. Serial, ain't +it? Well, they was both out early this morning, the Major beefin' a +little about losin' his sleep, and sayin' he wouldn't make a fool of +himself for anybody else on earth; but after he connected with a few +shots he began to enjoy it and talk about what a lovely day it was goin' +to be. You know how it is: any weather looks good to you when your shots +are comin' off."</p> + +<p>"Can he play at all?"</p> + +<p>"Who, the Major? A shark, I tell you! That old boy has been a great +golfer in his day, and it wasn't so long ago neither. To look at him you +wouldn't think he had a full cleek shot in his system, but that's where +he'd fool you. What's more, he knows where it's goin' when he ties into +it. The young fellah plays a mighty sweet game—mighty sweet. He hits +everything clean and hard and right on the line, but give the Major a +few days' practise and he'll carry my small change every time. Knows +more golf than Serial—got more shots, and he's a whale with his irons. +He's a little wild with his wood off the tee—hooks too much and gets +into trouble—but when he straightens out that drive he'll have Serial +playin' the odd behind him. Say, it'd be great to get 'em both into the +Invitation Tournament, eh?"</p> + +<p>Now our Invitation Tournament is the big show of the year in golfing +circles. Waddles sees to that. All members of the association are +eligible, but visitors have to have a card and an invitation as well.</p> + +<p>Waddles always scans these visitors very closely, and if a man is known +as a cup hunter no amount of pressure can get him in. The Major, being a +member of the club, was automatically invited to participate, but Cyril +must be classed as a visitor.</p> + +<p>I went to Waddles and told him what Sam had told me, suggesting that +here was the chance to coax the Major off the porch for good, and +perhaps get him onto the team later. I said that I thought it would be a +graceful thing to issue an invitation to Cyril without waiting for a +request from the Major.</p> + +<p>"You poor fish!" said Waddles. "I was going to do that anyway. Do you +think I'm asleep all the time?"</p> + +<p>That is the way with Waddles. He can catch an idea on the fly, and +before it settles he has adopted it as his own. He doesn't care a +brass-mounted continental who scared it up in the first place. Before it +lights it is his—all his. He said he didn't believe the Major was half +so good as his advance notices, and, as for the full cleek shot, he +pooh-poohed that part of the story entirely. Waddles has never mastered +the cleek, but he is a demon with a bulldog spoon or with a brassy.</p> + +<p>"I'll do this thing—as a common courtesy to a member," said Waddles; +"but I'm not counting on the Major's golf. A man can't lay off for +months and come back playing any sort of a game."</p> + +<p>So the invitation was issued in Cyril's name, and we went in search of +the Major. He was on the porch and Cyril was practising putts on the +clock green.</p> + +<p>Waddles can be very formal and dignified and diplomatic when he wants to +be, and as a salve spreader he has few equals and no superiors. He pays +a compliment in such a bluff, hearty fashion that it carries with it an +air of absolute sincerity.</p> + +<p>"Major," he began, "I can't tell you how delighted I am to hear that you +have taken up the game again. Aside from the pleasure, it is bound to +benefit your health."</p> + +<p>"Eh?" said the Major, staring at Waddles intently. "Oh, yes! I'm feeling +quite well at present, thanks."</p> + +<p>"And you'll feel better for taking exercise," continued Waddles. "We are +hoping that you will enter our Invitation Tournament next week. You'll +get a number of good matches, meet some charming people and make some +friends. Play begins on Wednesday."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the Major.</p> + +<p>"You can pick your own partner in the qualifying round." And here +Waddles brought out the envelope containing the invitation. "I thought +likely you might want to play with your nephew."</p> + +<p>The Major took the envelope and opened it. After he had read the +inclosure he looked up at Waddles and smiled.</p> + +<p>"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said he. "Most kind. Cyril will appreciate +this.... Shan't we have a drink?"</p> + +<p>"Can you beat him?" said Waddles to me when we were back in the lounging +room. "Just about as chummy as an oyster!"</p> + +<p>"Either that or very inattentive," said I; "but just the same I think +he'll play. Cyril will persuade him."</p> + +<p>"I don't care a whoop whether he plays or not," growled Waddles. "I hate +a man who can't loosen up and <i>talk</i>!"</p> + +<p>"There is only one thing worse," said I, "and that is a man who talks +too much."</p> + +<p>Waddles took my remark as personal and wolfed at me for half an hour. +Why is it that the man who has no consideration for your feelings is +always so confoundedly sensitive about his own?</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Flashing now to a close-up of the scores for the qualifying round, there +were two strange faces in the first sixteen—Cyril's and the +Major's—and Cyril walked off with the cup offered for low man. His +seventy-three created quite a commotion among the Class A men, but the +Major's eighty-one was what knocked them all a twister. Even Waddles was +amazed. Waddles had turned in an eighty-five, which barely got him into +the championship flight, but medal scores are nothing in Waddles' life. +Match play is where he shines—match play against a nervous opponent.</p> + +<p>"The old rum-hound must have been shooting over his head," said Waddles. +"I'll bet he holed a lot of niblick shots."</p> + +<p>I might have been in the fourth flight if I had not picked up my ball +after playing eleven in the ditch at the fifth hole, and by that act +eliminated myself from the tournament. I finished the round, of course, +and signed my partner's card, becoming thereafter a mere spectator and a +bit of the gallery.</p> + +<p>Sam was disgusted with me—so much so that he refused me advice or +sympathy. As a usual thing Sam walks up on a drive and selects the club +which he thinks I should use. I may disagree with him, but I notice that +in the end I always make the shot with the club of his selection. If I +am short he tells me that I spared the shot; if I am over he says I hit +it too hard.</p> + +<p>After the catastrophe at the fifth hole Sam stood the bag on end and +turned his back, a statue of silent contempt. When he allows me to pick +out a club I know that he has washed his hands of me; when he will not +accept a cigarette I am past praying for. I can think of nothing more +keenly humiliating than to feel myself a disappointment to a caddie like +Sam, but I have disappointed him so often that he should be getting +hardened to it by now.</p> + +<p>The first and second rounds of match play took place on Thursday, and +the pairings put Cyril at the top of the drawing and the Major at the +bottom. When the day was over the first flight had assumed a distinctly +international aspect, for the semifinalists appeared as follows:</p> + +<p>Waddles versus Cyril; Jay Gilman versus the Major.</p> + +<p>Cyril had won his matches quite handily and without being pressed, but +the Major had caught a brace of seasoned campaigners, one of whom took +him to the twentieth hole before he passed out on the end of a long +rainbow putt.</p> + +<p>Gilman had played his usual steady game—nothing brilliant about it, but +extremely dependable; and, as for Waddles, he had staggered along on the +ragged edge of defeat both morning and afternoon, annoying his opponents +as much as possible and winning quite as much with his head as with his +clubs.</p> + +<p>The time has come to say a few brief but burning words about the way +friend Waddles plays the royal and ancient game of golf when there is +anything in sight for the victor. I trust that when he reads this he +will have the decency to remember that he had already cut my handicap to +the quick, as it were.</p> + +<p>To begin with, Waddles has no more form than an apple woman or a Cubist +nude. He is so constructed that he cannot take a full swing to save his +immortal soul. Everything has to be wrist and forearm with Waddles, but +somehow or other he manages to snap his foolish little tee shots +straight down the middle of the course, popping them high over the +bunkers and avoiding all the traps and pits. The special providence that +cares for taxicab drivers, sailors and drunken men seems to take charge +of Waddles' ball in flight, imparting to it a tremendous overspin that +gives it distance. I never saw Waddles square away at a drive without +pitying him for his short, choppy swing; but he usually beats me about +ten yards on account of the run that he gets. I never watched him jab at +a putt without feeling certain that the ball was hit too hard to stay in +the hole; but stay it does. Waddles actually putts with an overspin, and +his ball burrows like a mole, dropping into the cup as if made of lead.</p> + +<p>His brassy shots are just pusillanimous—there is no other word which +describes them accurately—but somehow they keep on bouncing toward the +pin. His irons run half-way and creep the rest of the distance. He +always gets better results than his shots deserve, and complains that he +should have had more. This one little trick of his is enough to drive an +opponent crazy. Every golfer knows the moral—no, immoral—effect of +going up against some one who gets more out of every shot than he puts +into it, and still is not satisfied. It is like sitting in a poker game +with a man who draws four to a deuce, makes an ace full, wins the pot, +and then wolfs because it wasn't four aces.</p> + +<p>I never played with Waddles without feeling certain that I could show +him up on the long game, and it was straining to do it that ruined me. +Trying to pick the tail feathers out of that lame duck has ruined many a +golfer, the secret being that the duck isn't as lame as he looks. +Waddles makes 'em all press—a big factor in his match play; but there +are others, and not nearly so legitimate.</p> + +<p>Playing the game strictly on merit, observing all the little niceties of +demeanour and the courtesies due an opponent, Waddles would be a +desperately hard man to beat; but he does not stop at merit. When he is +out to win he does not stop anywhere. He has made a lifelong study of +the various ways in which an opponent may be annoyed and put off his +game, and he is the acknowledged master of all of them.</p> + +<p>For instance, if he plays Doc Jones, who is chatty and conversational +and likes to talk between shots, Waddles never opens his mouth once, but +plods along with a scowl on his face and his lower lip sticking out a +foot. Before long the poor little Doc begins to wonder whether he has +said anything to hurt Waddles' feelings—and that is the end of Jones. +But if Waddles plays Chester Hodge, who believes that the secret of a +winning game is concentration, he is a perfect windmill, talking to +Chester every minute, telling him funny stories, asking him questions, +and literally conversing him off his feet.</p> + +<p>Bill Mulqueen is nervous and impatient and hates to wait on his second +shots; so when Waddles plays him he drives short and takes five minutes +to play the odd, while Bill fumes and frets and accumulates steam for +the final explosion, which never fails to strew the last nine with his +mangled remains. On the other hand, old Barrison is deliberation itself, +and Waddles beats him by playing his own shots quickly and then crowding +Barry—hurrying him up, nagging at him, riding him from shot to shot, +trying to speed up an engine that can't be speeded without racking +itself to pieces. Joe Bowhan hates to have any one moving about the tee +when he is setting himself to drive. Waddles licks him by washing his +ball fresh on every hole. Joe can't see him, but he can hear him +scouring away behind him. "Hand-laundered out of the contest again" is +what Joe tells us when he comes into the clubhouse.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the cruelest thing Waddles ever did was in the finals of the +Spring Handicap against young Archie Gatter. The kid was inclined to +think fairly well of himself and his game, but on the day of the match +Waddles lugged a visiting golf architect round the course with him, +planning improvements in the way of traps and bunkers, discussing +various kinds of grass for the greens, arguing about soil, and paying no +attention whatever to the wretched Archie—not even watching him make +his shots. It broke the boy's heart to be ignored so completely, and he +shot the last nine holes in a fat fifty-seven, finishing a total wreck.</p> + +<p>These are only a few of Waddles' little villainies, and the fact that he +is a consistent winner at match play bears out the theory that the best +study of golf is golfers—splitting it fifty-fifty with the late Mr. +Pope.</p> + +<p>The most exasperating thing about Waddles is the bland, unconscious +manner in which he perpetrates these outrages upon his opponents. He +never seems aware that he is doing anything wrong or taking an unfair +advantage; he pleads thoughtlessness if driven into a corner—and gets +away with it too. You have to know Waddles very well before you are +certain that every little movement has a meaning all its own and is part +of a cold-blooded and deliberate plan of campaign.</p> + +<p>With all these things in mind, I had a hunch that Friday's match with +Cyril would be worth watching, and I was at the clubhouse at nine in the +morning. Cyril and the Major were already there, driving practise balls. +It was generally understood that the matches in the semi-finals would +start at nine-thirty, and promptly on the dot Jay Gilman and the Major +were on their way—both of them off to perfect drives.</p> + +<p>I waited to follow Cyril and Waddles—and a long, weary wait it was. +There is nothing which secures the angora so neatly and completely as to +be all dressed up and keyed up with nowhere to go. Have you ever seen a +boxer fretting and chafing in his corner, waiting for the champion to +put in an appearance; and did you ever stop to think that the champion, +in his dressing room, was counting on the effect of that nervous period +of inactivity? Golf is a game which demands mental poise, and Cyril was +losing his, minute by minute. He prowled all over the place, searching +for Waddles; he walked out and looked down the road toward town; he +practiced putting—and hit every shot too hard. If he had not been an +Englishman, and schooled to keep his feelings to himself, I think he +would have said something of a blistering nature.</p> + +<p>It was eleven-fifteen when Waddles arrived, dripping apologies from +every pore. Had Cyril understood that nine-thirty was the hour? Well, +wasn't that a shame—too bad he hadn't telephoned or something! Waddles +stated—and there was and is no reason to doubt his word—that he +thought the matches were scheduled for the afternoon. He dawdled in the +locker room for a scandalously long time, while Cyril made little +journeys to the first tee and back again, growing warmer and warmer with +each trip.</p> + +<p>When Waddles finally emerged, neatly swathed in flannels, he suggested +lunch. Cyril replied a bit stiffly that he never took food in the middle +of the day.</p> + +<p>"And a hard match in front of you, too," said Waddles. "I couldn't think +of starting without a sandwich. Do you mind waiting while I have one?"</p> + +<p>Cyril lied politely, but it was a terrible strain on him, and Waddles +consumed a sandwich, a glass of milk and forty-five minutes more. Then +he had to have one of his irons wrapped where the shaft had +split—another straw for the camel's back. By this time the Major and +Jay had finished their match, the Major winning on the sixteenth green. +They joined the gallery, after the usual ceremonies at the nineteenth +hole.</p> + +<p>"Are you ready?" asked Waddles, breezing out on the first tee—and that +was rather nervy, too, seeing that Cyril hadn't been anything else for +three mortal hours.</p> + +<p>"After you, sir," said the boy, short and sharp. He knew that he was +getting "the work," and he resented it.</p> + +<p>It always suits Waddles to have the honour. He likes to shoot first +because his tee shot usually makes an opponent sore. He popped one of +his dinky little drives into the air, but instead of dropping into the +bunker it floated beyond it to the middle of the course and ran like a +scared rabbit.</p> + +<p>"No distance!" grumbled Waddles, slapping his club on the tee. "No +distance. I'm all out of luck to-day."</p> + +<p>Well, that was no more than rubbing it in by word of mouth. It produced +the desired effect, because Cyril nearly broke himself in two in an +attempt to beat that choppy half-arm swing. He swung much too hard, +didn't follow through at all, and the ball sliced into a trap far up to +the right.</p> + +<p>"Do you know what you did then?" asked Waddles. "You tried to kill it, +you didn't follow through, and——"</p> + +<p>"And I sliced. I know perfectly, thanks." And Cyril started down the +course, with Waddles tagging at his hip and telling him what was the +matter with his swing. Coming from a man who never took a full-arm +wallop at a ball in his life, criticism must have seemed superfluous. I +couldn't see Cyril's face, but his ears reddened.</p> + +<p>Waddles slapped a brassy to the edge of the putting green, but Cyril, +trying for distance out of a heel print, took too much sand and barely +got back on the course again. His third reached the green, whereupon +Waddles promptly laid his ball dead for a four. Cyril missed a +twenty-footer and lost the first hole.</p> + +<p>Again Waddles spatted out a drive that narrowly escaped a cross bunker, +but it struck on a hard spot and ran fully one hundred yards before it +stopped. Waddles knows every hard spot on the course and governs himself +accordingly.</p> + +<p>Cyril followed through this time—followed through so vigorously that +the ball developed a hook. A cross wind helped it along into the rough +grass, leaving him a nasty second shot over shrubbery and trees. It +hadn't stopped rolling before Waddles was talking again.</p> + +<p>"You know what you did then? Too much right hand; and your club +head——"</p> + +<p>"Precisely," said Cyril, and left the tee almost on a dog-trot; but +Waddles trotted with him, explaining what had happened to the club +head. He was so earnest about it, so eager to be of assistance, so +persistent, that Cyril did not know how to take him. Then, to add to the +boy's discomfiture, Waddles played a perfect spoon shot, taking +advantage of the wind, and the ball stopped six feet from the pin. Only +a miracle could have saved Cyril after that, and there were no miracles +left in his system. His ball carried low from the rough, struck the limb +of a tree and glanced out of bounds. He played another, which dropped +into thick weeds, and then picked up, conceding the hole. All the way to +the third tee Waddles expounded the theory of the niblick shot out of +grass, pausing only to spat another perfect ball down the course.</p> + +<p>It was here that Cyril left the wood in his bag and took out a cleek. He +wanted distance and he needed direction, our third hole calling for a +well-placed tee shot; but he sliced just enough to put him squarely +behind the largest tree on the entire course.</p> + +<p>"I was sure you'd do that," said Waddles, sympathetically. "It's really +a wooden club shot, and when you took your iron I knew you were afraid +of it. Changing clubs is always a sign of weakness, don't you think so?"</p> + +<p>Cyril mumbled something and started down the path, and at this point the +old Major, who had been lingering in the background, swung in behind him +with his first and last bit of advice.</p> + +<p>"Keep your hair on, dear boy," he bleated. "Keep your hair on. Whatever +happens, don't get waxy."</p> + +<p>Cyril grunted but didn't say anything, and the Major dropped to the rear +again, making queer little noises in his throat.</p> + +<p>"Now the ideal—shot on this—hole," panted Waddles, overtaking his +victim, "is a little bit—farther to the left. A hook—doesn't hurt +you—as much—as a slice——"</p> + +<p>"I'm not hurt yet!" snapped Cyril.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course not!" cried Waddles with the heartiest good nature. "Of +course not—but if your ball—had been farther to the left—you wouldn't +have to play—over that tree—and——" There was more, but Cyril did not +wait to hear it.</p> + +<p>Waddles, executing his second with mechanical precision, carried the +deep ravine with his mashie and put the ball on the green for a sure +four. Off to the right Cyril prepared to do likewise, but the tree +loomed ahead of him, his nerves were unstrung, his temper was ruffled, +and instead of going cleanly under the ball he caught the turf four +inches behind it and pitched into the ravine, where he found a lie that +was all but unplayable.</p> + +<p>"Tough luck!" said Waddles.</p> + +<p>Cyril turned and looked at him. I expected an outburst of some sort, but +the boy was evidently trying to keep his hair on.</p> + +<p>"I didn't hit it," said he at length, swallowing hard. I heard an odd +choking noise behind me. It was the Major, attempting to remain calm.</p> + +<p>"Of course you didn't hit it!" agreed Waddles. "You took a hatful of +turf; and you know why, don't you?"</p> + +<p>Cyril groaned and plunged into the ravine.</p> + +<p>Why follow the harrying details too closely? With the Major as chief +mourner, and Waddles holding sympathetic postmortems on all his bad +shots, Cyril suffered a complete collapse. I could have beaten him—any +one could have beaten him—and as a matter of fact he beat himself. +Having found his weak spot, Waddles never let up for an instant. Talk, +talk, talk; his flow of conversation was as irritating as a neighbour's +phonograph, and as incessant. I wondered that Cyril contained himself as +well as he did, until I remembered that it is tradition with the English +to lose as silently as they win.</p> + +<p>The Major, who saw it all, addressed but one remark to me. It was on the +tenth hole, and Waddles was showing Cyril why he had topped an iron +shot.</p> + +<p>"Look here," said the Major, jerking his thumb at Waddles, "does he +always do this sort of thing? Talk so much, I mean?"</p> + +<p>I replied, and quite truthfully, that it depended on the way he felt. +The Major grunted, and that ended the conversation.</p> + +<p>The match was wound up on the thirteenth; Cyril shook hands, +complimented Waddles on his game, and made a bee line for the +clubhouse. Nobody could blame him for not wanting to finish the round. +Waddles tagged along at his elbow, gesticulating, explaining the theory +of golf, even offering to illustrate certain shots with which Cyril had +had trouble.</p> + +<p>The Major spent the rest of the afternoon on the porch, nursing a tall +glass and looking at the hills. After a shower Cyril joined him.</p> + +<p>"The blooming Britons are holding a lodge of sorrow," said Waddles, who +was in high spirits. "What's the betting on the finals to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"I'll back the Major," spoke up Jay Gilman, "if you'll promise not to +talk the shirt off his back."</p> + +<p>"Another dumb player, eh?" asked Waddles, grinning.</p> + +<p>"Never opened his mouth to me but once the entire way round," answered +Jay.</p> + +<p>"And what did he say then?"</p> + +<p>"As near as I recall," replied Jay, "he said 'Dormie!'"</p> + +<p>"I hate a man who can't talk!" exclaimed Waddles.</p> + +<p>"How you must hate yourself," I suggested, and was forced to dodge a +match safe.</p> + +<p>"Just the same," persisted Jay, "I'll take the Major's end if you'll +promise to keep your mouth shut."</p> + +<p>"I'll accept no bets on that basis," Waddles announced. "I like a +friendly, chatty game."</p> + +<p>"I've got you for fifty, then, and talk your head off!" And Jay laughed +until I thought he would choke. As a matter of fact, he laughed all the +rest of the afternoon.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was no +delay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There was +considerable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major to +the limit.</p> + +<p>"You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injured +tone of voice.</p> + +<p>"Make it a hundred if you want to," was Jay's come-back.</p> + +<p>"Fifty is plenty, thanks."</p> + +<p>"What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit on +the conversation!"</p> + +<p>"Got you!" snapped Waddles.</p> + +<p>He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him to +it. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch of +sand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamer +dead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then he +stepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled—actually +cackled like a hen.</p> + +<p>"Do you know," said he, addressing Waddles—"I believe I've burst my +belt! Yes, I'm quite certain I have; but don't fear, old chap. I +sha'n't be indecent. I have braces on. Ho, ho, ho!"</p> + +<p>Waddles paused with his mouth open. At first I thought he was going to +say something, but evidently nothing occurred to him, so he teed his +ball and took his stance.</p> + +<p>"It was an old one," said the Major. "I've worn it for ages. Given me by +Freddy Fitzpatrick. Queer chap, Fitz.... You don't mind my babbling a +little, do you? Dare say I'm a bit nervous."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not in the least," grunted Waddles, addressing his ball. He hit his +usual drive, with the usual result, but his ball was at least forty +yards short of the Major's.</p> + +<p>"Very fortunate, sir!" bleated the Major, following Waddles from the +tee. "Blest if I see how you do it! Your form—you don't mind criticism, +old chap?—your form is wretchedly bad. Atrocious! Your swing is +cramped, your stance is awkward, yet somehow you manage to get over the +bunkers. Extraordinary, I call it. Some day you shall teach me the +stroke if you will, eh?"</p> + +<p>Waddles didn't say a word. He tucked his chin down into his collar and +made tracks for his ball, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes. He +didn't seem to know what to make of this sudden flood of conversation. +The Major was with him every step of the way, blatting about his friend +Fitzpatrick.</p> + +<p>"He had a stroke like yours, old Fitz. Frightfully crippled up with +rheumatism, poor chap! Abominable golfer! No form, no swing, but the +devil's own luck.... I say, what club shall you use next? I should take +a cleek, but you don't carry one, I've noticed. Too bad. Very useful +club, but it calls for a full, clean swing. You'd boggle a cleek +horribly.... You're taking a brassy? Quite right, old chap, quite right. +I should, too, if I couldn't depend on my irons."</p> + +<p>Waddles waved the Major aside, and pulled off his shot; but it seemed to +me that he hurried the least little bit. Perhaps he was expecting +another outburst of language. His ball stopped ten yards short of the +putting green.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the Major. "You stabbed at that one, dear boy. Old Fitz +stabbed his second shots too. Nervousness, I dare say; but you haven't +the look of a man with nerves. Rather beefy for that, I should think. +Tight match, and all. Too much food, perhaps. Never can tell, eh? Old +Fitz was a gross feeder too.... Now I'm going to take an iron, and if +you don't mind I wish you'd stand behind me and tell me how to shorten +my swing a bit. I'm inclined to play an iron too strong.... A little +farther over, if you please. I don't want you where I can see you, old +chap, but I sha'n't mind your talking."</p> + +<p>The Major pulled his mid-iron out of the bag and Waddles obliged with a +steady stream of advice, not one item of which was heeded:</p> + +<p>"Advance that left foot a little, and don't drop your shoulder so much! +Come back a bit slower, keep your eye on the ball, start your swing +higher up——"</p> + +<p>At this point the blade of the mid-iron connected with the ball and sent +it sailing straight for the pin—a beautiful shot, and clean as a +whistle. A white speck bounded on the green and rolled past the hole.</p> + +<p>"You see?" cried the Major. "Too strong—oh, much too strong!"</p> + +<p>"You're up there for a putt!" snorted Waddles. "What did you expect—at +this distance?"</p> + +<p>"With your assistance," continued the Major, ignoring Waddles' sarcasm, +"I shall shorten my swing. You've the shortest swing I've ever seen. +Shorter than poor old Fitz's. I'm sorry about that belt, but I sha'n't +be indecent. I have braces on—suspenders, I believe you call them." He +squinted at his ball as he advanced. "Too strong. Never mind. I dare say +I shall hole the putt.... You're taking a mashie next? Tricky +shot—very, especially on a fast green."</p> + +<p>Waddles composed himself with a visible effort and really achieved a +very fine approach shot. The ball had the perfect line to the hole, but +was three feet short of the cup.</p> + +<p>"Never up, never in!" cackled the Major, and proceeded to sink a +three—a nasty, twisting twelve-footer, and downhill at that. There was +a patter of applause from the gallery, started by Gilman and Cyril. The +Major marched to the second tee, babbling continually:</p> + +<p>"I owe you an apology. Never had a three there before. Never shall +again. Stroke under par, isn't it? Not at all bad for a beginning. +Better luck next time. Wish I hadn't broken this belt. Puts me off my +shots."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean—better luck next time?" demanded Waddles, but got no +response. The Major had switched to his friend Fitzpatrick, and was +chirping about rheumatism and gout and heaven knows what all. He stopped +talking just long enough to peel off another tremendous drive, and if he +had taken the ball in his hand and carried it out on the course he +couldn't have selected a better spot from which to play his second.</p> + +<p>It was on this tee that Waddles tried to hand the Major's stuff back to +him, probably figuring that he could stand as much conversation as his +opponent, and last longer at the repartee. He began to tell the story of +the Scotch golfer and his collie dog, which is one of the best things he +does, but I noticed that when it came time for him to drive he grunted +as he hit the ball, and when Waddles grunts it is a sign that he is +calling up the reserves. He got the same old shot and the same old run, +and would have finished the same old story, but the Major horned in with +a long-winded reminiscence of his own, and the collie was lost in the +shuffle. Another animal was lost too—a goat belonging to Waddles. He +spoke sharply to his opponent before playing his second, and then sliced +a spoon shot deep into the rough.</p> + +<p>"Ah, too bad!" chirruped the Major. "And the grass is quite deep over +there, isn't it? Now I shall use the mid-iron again, and you shall watch +and tell me about my swing—that is, if you don't mind, old chap."</p> + +<p>Waddles didn't mind. He told the Major enough things to rattle a wooden +Indian, and just as the club had started to descend he raised his voice +sharply. It would have made me miss the ball entirely, but it seemed to +have no effect on the Major, who did not even flinch but lined one out +to the green.</p> + +<p>Waddles wandered off into the rough, mumbling to his caddie. The third +shot was a remarkable one. He tore the ball out of the thick grass, +raised it high in the air and put it on the green, six feet from the +cup. The Major then laid his third shot stone-dead for a four. Waddles +still had a difficult putt to halve the hole, but while he was studying +the roll of the green the Major spoke up.</p> + +<p>"I shan't ask you to putt that," said he. "I concede you a four."</p> + +<p>Waddles stared at him with eyes that fairly bulged.</p> + +<p>"You—what?" said he. "You give me this putt?"</p> + +<p>The Major nodded and walked off the green. Waddles looked first at his +ball, then at the cup, and then at the crowd of spectators. At last he +picked up and followed, and a whisper ran through the gallery. The +general impression prevailed that conceding a six-foot putt at the +outset of an important match was nothing short of emotional insanity.</p> + +<p>Of course since he had been offered a four on the hole Waddles could do +nothing but accept it gracefully—and begin wondering why on earth his +opponent had been so generous. I dare any golfer to put himself in +Waddles' place and arrive at a conclusion soothing to the nerves and the +temper. The most natural inference was that the Major held him cheaply, +pitied him, did not fear his game.</p> + +<p>I thought this was what the old fellow was getting at, but it was not +until they reached the third putting green that I began to appreciate +the depth of the Major's cunning and the diabolical cleverness of his +golfing strategy.</p> + +<p>Waddles had a two-foot putt to halve the third hole—a straight, simple +tap over a perfectly flat surface—the sort of putt that he can make +with his eyes shut, ninety-nine times out of the hundred. The Major had +already holed his four, and I knew by the careless manner in which +Waddles stepped up to his ball that he expected the Major to concede the +putt. It was natural for him to expect it, since he had already been +given a difficult six-footer.</p> + +<p>Waddles stood there, waggling his putter behind the ball and waiting for +the Major to say the word, but the word did not come. This seemed to +irritate Waddles. He looked at the Major, and his expression said, plain +as print, "You don't really insist on my making this dinky little putt?" +It was all wasted, for the Major was regarding him with a fishy +stare—looking clear through him in fact. The expectant light faded out +of Waddles' eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and gave his attention to +the shot, examining every inch of the line to the cup. It seemed to be a +straight putt, but was it? Waddles took his lower lip in his teeth and +tapped the ball very gently. It ran off to the left, missing the cup by +at least three inches.</p> + +<p>"Aha!" chuckled the Major. "You thought I would give you that one too, +eh? Old Fitz used to say, 'Give a man a hard putt and he'll miss an easy +one. After that he'll never be sure of anything.' Extraordinary how +often it happens just that way. Seems to have an unsettling effect on +the nerves. Tricky beggar, Fitz. Won the Duffers' Cup at Bombay by +conceding a twenty-foot putt on the sixteenth green. Opponent went all +to little pieces. Finished one down, with a fifteen on the last hole. +Queer game, golf!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Waddles, breathing hard, "and a lot of queer people play it. +Your honour, sir."</p> + +<p>The Major smacked out another long one, but Waddles, boiling inside and +scarcely able to see the ball, topped his tee shot and bounded into the +bunker.</p> + +<p>"You see what it does," said the Major. "You were still thinking about +that putt. The effect on the nerves——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, cut it out!" growled Waddles. "Play the game right if you're going +to play it at all! Your mouth is the best club in your bag!"</p> + +<p>The Major did not resent this in the least; paid no attention in fact. +He toddled away, blatting intermittently about his friend Fitz, and +Waddles knocked half the sand out of the bunker before he finally +emerged, spitting gravel and adjectives. Sore was no name for it! He +lost the hole, of course, making him three down.</p> + +<p>The rest of the contest was interesting, but only from a psychological +point of view. Evidently considering that he had a safe lead the Major +cut out the conversation and the horseplay and settled down to par golf. +There was no lack of talk, however, for Waddles erupted constantly. +Braced by the thought that he was annoying his opponent by these verbal +outbursts, he managed to halve four holes in a row, but on the ninth +green he missed another short putt. In the explosion that followed he +blew off his safety valve completely, and the rest of the match +degenerated into a riotous procession, so far as noise was concerned.</p> + +<p>The thing I could not understand was that the Major held on the even +tenour of his way, unruffled and serene as a June morning. The louder +Waddles talked the better the old fellow seemed to like it. Never once +did he seem disturbed; never once did he hesitate on a shot. With calm, +mechanical precision he proceeded to go through Waddles like a cold +breeze, and the latter was so busy thinking up things to say that he +flubbed disgracefully, and was beaten on the thirteenth green, seven and +five.</p> + +<p>Well, Waddles may have his faults, but losing ungracefully is not one of +them. He will fight you to the very last ditch, but once the battle is +over he declares peace immediately. He walked up to the Major and held +out his hand. He grinned, too, though I imagine it hurt his face to do +it.</p> + +<p>"You're all right, Major!" said he. "You're immense! You licked me and +you made me like it. If I had your nerves—if I could concentrate on my +shots and not let anything bother me——"</p> + +<p>Some one behind me laughed. It was Jay Gilman.</p> + +<p>"It has been a pleasure, dear chap," said the Major. "A pleasure, I +assure you!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Several of us had dinner at the club that night, Jay offering to give +the party because of the money he had won from Waddles. When the coffee +came on, America's representative in the finals attempted to explain his +defeat.</p> + +<p>"The Major began the gab-fest," said Waddles. "He started off chattering +like a magpie and trying to rattle me, and naturally I went back at him +with the same stuff. Fair for one as for the other, eh? I'll admit that +he out-generalled me by giving me that putt on the second hole, but the +thing that finally grabbed my angora was his infernal concentration. +Never saw anything like it! Why, he actually asked me to stand behind +him and criticise his swing—while he was shooting, mind you? Asked me +to do it! And when I saw that he went along steady as the rock of +Gibraltar—well, I blew, that's all. I went to pieces. The thing reacted +on me. I'll bet that old rascal could listen to you all day long-and +never top a ball!"</p> + +<p>"You'd lose that bet," said Jay quietly.</p> + +<p>"How do you mean—lose it?" demanded Waddles, bristling. "I talked my +head off, and he didn't top any, did he?"</p> + +<p>"No; and he didn't listen any, either. As a matter of fact, you could +have fired a cannon off right at his hip without making him miss a +shot."</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to tell me——" said Waddles, gaping.</p> + +<p>Jay laughed unfeelingly.</p> + +<p>"You had a fat chance of talking the old Major out of anything!" said +he. "He hasn't advertised it much, because he's rather sensitive about +his affliction; but he's——"</p> + +<p>"Deaf!" gulped Waddles.</p> + +<p>"As a post," finished Jay.</p> + +<p>Waddles' jaw dropped.</p> + +<p>There was a long, painful silence.</p> + +<p>Then Waddles crooked his finger at the waiter.</p> + +<p>"Boy!" he called. "Bring me this dinner check!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_MIXED_FOURSOME" id="A_MIXED_FOURSOME"></a>A MIXED FOURSOME</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>When the returns were all in, a lot of people congratulated the winners +of the mixed-foursome cups, after which the weak-minded ones sympathised +with Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson.</p> + +<p>Sympathy is a wonderful thing, and so rare that it should not be wasted. +Any intelligent person might have seen at a glance that Mary didn't need +sympathy; and as for Russell Davidson, there never was a time when he +deserved it.</p> + +<p>And in all this outpouring of sentiment, this hand-shaking and +back-patting, nobody thought to offer a kind word to old Waddles. Nobody +shook him by the hand and told him that he was six of the seven wonders +of the world. It seems a pity, now that I look back on it.</p> + +<p>Possibly you remember Waddles. He was, is, and probably always will be, +an extremely important member of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club. +Important, did I say? That doesn't begin to express it. +Omnipotent—that's better.</p> + +<p>To begin with, he is chairman of the Greens Committee, holding dominion +over every blade of grass which grows on the course. He is intimately +acquainted with every gopher hole, hoofprint and drain cover on the club +property. Policing two hundred broad acres is a strong man's job, but +Waddles attends to it in his spare moments. He waves his pudgy hand and +says: "Let there be a bunker here," and lo! the bunker springs up as if +by magic. He abolishes sand traps which displease him, and creates new +ones. The heathen may rage, and sometimes they do, but Waddles holds on +the even tenor of his way, hearing only one vote, and that vote his own.</p> + +<p>Then again, he is the official handicapper—another strong man's +job—with powers which cannot be overestimated. Some handicappers are +mild and apologetic creatures who believe in tempering justice with +mercy and pleasing as many people as possible, but not our Waddles.</p> + +<p>Heaven pity the wily cup hunter who keeps an improved game under cover +in order that he may ease himself into a competition and clean up the +silverware!</p> + +<p>Waddles hates a cup hunter with a deep and abiding hatred and deals with +him accordingly. There was once an 18-handicap man who waltzed blithely +through our Spring Handicap, and his worst medal round was something +like 85. His fat allowance made all his opponents look silly and he +took home a silver water pitcher worth seventy-five dollars.</p> + +<p>This was bad enough, but he crowned his infamy by boasting openly that +he had outwitted Waddles. The next time the cup hunter had occasion to +glance at the handicap list he received a terrible shock.</p> + +<p>"Waddy," said this person—and there were tears in his eyes and a sob in +his voice—"you know that I'll never be able to play to a four handicap, +don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly," was the calm response.</p> + +<p>"Then what was the idea of putting me at such a low mark?"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Waddles with a sweet smile, "I don't mind telling you, in +strict confidence: I cut you down to four to keep you honest."</p> + +<p>The wretched cup hunter howled like a wolf, but it got him nothing. He +is still a four man, and if he lives to be as old as the Dingbats he +will never take home another trophy.</p> + +<p>Not only is Waddles supreme on the golf course but he dominates the +clubhouse as well. He writes us tart letters about shaking dice for +money and signs them "House Committee, per W." Really serious matters +are dealt with in letters signed "Board of Directors, per W." The old +boy is the law and the prophets, the fine Italian hand, the mailed fist, +the lord high executioner and the chief justice, and if he misses you +with one barrel he is sure to get you with the other.</p> + +<p>You might think that this would be power enough for one weak mortal. You +might think that there are some things which Waddles would regard as +beyond his jurisdiction. You might think that the little god of love +would come under another dispensation—you might think all these things, +but you don't know our Waddles. He is afflicted with that strange malady +described by the immortal Cap'n Prowse as "the natural gift of +authority," and such a man recognises no limits, knows no boundaries, +and wouldn't care two whoops if he did. Come to think of it, the Kaiser +is now under treatment for the same ailment.</p> + +<p>Since I have given you some faint conception of Waddles and his +character I will proceed with the plain and simple tale of Mary Brooke, +Bill Hawley and Russell Davidson. Beth Rogers was in the foursome too, +but she doesn't really count, not being in love with any one but +herself.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Ladies first is a safe rule, so we will start with Mary. +My earliest recollection of this young woman dates back +twenty-and-I-won't-say-how-many-more years, at which time she +entertained our neighbourhood by reciting nursery rimes—"Twinka, +twinka, yitty tar," and all the rest of that stuff.</p> + +<p>I knew then that she was an extremely bright child for her age. Her +mother told me so. I used to hold her on my lap and let her listen to my +watch, and the cordial relations which existed then have lasted ever +since. She doesn't sit on my lap any more, of course, but you understand +what I mean.</p> + +<p>I watched Mary lose her baby prettiness and her front teeth. I watched +her pass through that distressing period when she seemed all legs and +freckles, to emerge from it a different being—only a little girl still, +but with a trace of shyness which was new to me, and a look in her eyes +which made me feel that I must be growing a bit old.</p> + +<p>About this time I was astounded to learn that Mary had a beau. It was +the Hawley kid, who lived on the next block. His parents had named him +William, after an uncle with money, but from the time he had been able +to walk he had been called Bill. He will always be called Bill, because +that's the sort of fellow he is.</p> + +<p>As I remember him at the beginning of his love affair Bill was somewhat +of a mess, with oversized hands and feet, a shock of hair that never +would stay put, and an unfortunate habit of falling all over himself at +critical moments. He attached himself to Mary Brooke with all the +unselfish devotion of a half-grown Newfoundland pup, minus the pup's +rough demonstrations of affection.</p> + +<p>He carried Mary's books home from school, he took her to the little +neighbourhood parties, he sent her frilly pink valentines, and +once—only once—he stripped his mother's rose garden because it was +Mary's birthday. It also happened to be Mrs. Hawley's afternoon to +entertain the whist club, and she had been counting on those roses for +decorations. If my memory serves me, she allowed Mary to keep the +flowers, but she stopped the amount of a florist's bill out of her son's +allowance of fifty cents a Week. The Hawley's are all practical people.</p> + +<p>Mary's father used to fuss and fume and say that he hoped Bill would get +over it and park his big clumsy feet on somebody else's front porch, but +I don't think he really minded it as much as he pretended he did. Mrs. +Brooke often remarked that since it had to be somebody she would rather +it would be Bill than any other boy in the neighbourhood. Even in those +days there was something solid and dependable about Bill Hawley; he was +the sort of kid that could be trusted, and more of a man at sixteen than +some fellows will ever be.</p> + +<p>During Mary's high-school days several boys carried her books, but not +for long, and Bill was always there or thereabouts, waiting patiently in +the background. When another youngster had the front porch privilege +Bill did not sulk or rock the boat, and if the green-eyed monster was +gnawing at his vitals there were no outward signs of anguish. We always +knew when one of Mary's little affairs was over because Bill would be +back on the job, nursing his shin on Brooke's front steps and filling +the whole block with an air of silent devotion. I suppose he grew to be +a habit with Mary; such things do happen once in a while.</p> + +<p>Then Bill went away to college, and while he was struggling for a +sheepskin Mary entered the débutante period. Some of the women said that +she wasn't pretty, but they would have had a hard time proving it to a +jury of men. Her features may not have been quite regular, but the +general effect was wonderfully pleasing; so the tabbies compromised by +calling her attractive. They didn't have a chance to say anything else, +because Mary was always the centre of a group of masculine admirers, and +if that doesn't prove attraction, what does?</p> + +<p>In addition to her good looks she was bright as a new dollar—so bright +that she didn't depend entirely on her own cleverness but gave you a +chance to be clever yourself once in a while. Mary Brooke knew when to +listen. She listened to Waddles once, from one end of a country-club +dinner to the other, and he gave her the dead low down on the reformer +in politics—a subject on which the old boy is fairly well informed. I +think his fatherly interest in her dated from that evening—and +incidentally let me say it was the best night's listening that Mary ever +did, because if Waddles hadn't been interested—but that's getting ahead +of the story.</p> + +<p>"There's something to that little Brooke girl!" he told me afterward. "A +society bud with brains! Who'd have thought it?"</p> + +<p>Bill came ambling home from time to time and picked up the thread of +friendship again. It grieves me to state that an Eastern college did not +improve his outward appearance to any marked extent. He looked nothing +at all like the young men we see in the take-'em-off-the-shelf clothing +ads. He was just the same old Bill, with big hands and big feet and more +hair than he could manage. He danced the one-step, of course—the only +dance ever invented for men with two left feet—but his conception of +the fox trot would have made angels weep, and I never realised how much +hesitation could be crowded into a hesitation waltz until I saw Bill +gyrate slowly and painfully down the floor. Mary always seemed glad to +see him, though, and we heard whispers of an engagement, to be announced +after Bill had made his escape from the halls of learning. Like most of +the whispering done, this particular whisper lacked the vital element of +truth, but the women had a lovely time passing it along.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it just too perfectly ideal—sweethearts since childhood! Think +of it!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, we so seldom see anything of the sort nowadays."</p> + +<p>"There's one advantage in that kind of match—they won't have to get +acquainted with each other after marriage."</p> + +<p>"Well, now, I don't know about that. Doesn't one always find that one +has married a total stranger? Poor, dear Augustus! I thought I knew him +so well, but——"</p> + +<p>And so forth, and so on, by the hour. Give a woman a suspicion, and +she'll manage to juggle it into a certainty. Shortly before Bill's +graduation, the dear ladies at the country club had the whole affair +settled, even to the probable date of the wedding, and of course Mary +heard the glad news. Naturally, she was annoyed. It annoys any young +woman to find the most important event of her life arranged in advance +by people who have never taken the trouble to consult her about any of +the details.</p> + +<p>At this point I am forced to dip into theory, because I can't say what +took place inside Mary's pretty little head. I don't know. Perhaps she +wanted to teach the gossips a lesson. Perhaps she resented having a +husband pitchforked at her by public vote; but however she figured it +she needn't have made poor old Bill the goat, and she needn't have +fallen in love with Russell Davidson. Waddles says it wasn't love at +all—merely an infatuation; but what I'd like to know is this: How are +you going to tell one from the other when the symptoms are identical?</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Personally, I haven't a thing in the world against Russell Davidson. He +never did me an injury and I hope he will never do me a favour. Russell +is the sort of chap who is perfectly all right if you happen to like the +sort of chap he is. I don't, and that's the end of the matter so far as +I am concerned.</p> + +<p>He hasn't been with us very long, and still it seems long enough. He +came West to grow up with the country, arriving shortly before Bill's +graduation, and he brought with him credentials which could not be +overlooked, together with an Eastern golf rating which caused Waddles to +sit up and take notice.</p> + +<p>Ostensibly Russell is in the brokerage business, but he doesn't seem to +work much at it. Those who know tell me that it isn't necessary for him +to work much at anything, his father having attended to that little +matter. Some of the dear ladies were mean enough to hint that Mary had +this in mind, but they'll never get me to believe it.</p> + +<p>At any rate the gossips soon had a nice juicy topic for conversation, +and when Bill came home, wagging his sheepskin behind him, he found the +front-porch privilege usurped by a handsome stranger who seemed quite at +home in the Brooke household, and, unless I'm very much mistaken, +inclined to resent Bill's presence on the premises.</p> + +<p>It just happened that I was walking up and down the block smoking an +after-dinner cigar on the evening when Bill discovered that he was +slated for second-fiddle parts again. Russell's runabout was standing +in front of the Brooke place, there was a dim light in the living room, +and an occasional tenor wail from the phonograph. I heard quick, +thumping footsteps, a big, lumbering figure came hurrying along the +sidewalk—and there was Bill Hawley, grinning at me in the moonlight.</p> + +<p>"Attaboy!" he cried, shaking hands vigorously. "How're you? How're all +the folks? Gee, it's great to be home again! How's Mary?"</p> + +<p>"She's fine," said I. "Haven't you seen her yet?"</p> + +<p>"Just got in on the Limited at five o'clock. Thought I'd surprise her. +Got a thousand things to tell you. Well, see you later!"</p> + +<p>He went swinging up the front steps and rang the bell.</p> + +<p>I was finishing my cigar when Bill came out again and started slowly +down the walk. His wonderful surprise party had not lasted more than +twenty minutes. I had to hail him twice before he heard me. We took a +short walk together, and reached the end of the block before Bill opened +his mouth. On the corner Bill swung round and faced me: "Who is that +fellow?" It wasn't a question; it was a demand for information.</p> + +<p>"What fellow?"</p> + +<p>"Davis, or Davidson, something like that. Who is he?"</p> + +<p>There wasn't a great deal I could tell him. Bill listened till I got to +the end of my string, with a perfectly wooden expression on his homely +countenance. Then for the first, last and only time he expressed his +opinion of Russell Davidson.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" said he. And after a long pause: "Humph!"</p> + +<p>You may think that a grunt doesn't express an opinion, but as a matter +of fact it's one of the most expressive monosyllables in any language. +It can be made to mean almost anything. A ten-minute speech with a lot +of firecracker adjectives wouldn't have made Bill's meaning any clearer.</p> + +<p>The two grunts which came out of Bill's system were fairly dripping with +disapproval.</p> + +<p>"It's a wonderful night." I felt the need of saying something. "Must be +quite a relief after all that humidity in the East."</p> + +<p>"Uh huh."</p> + +<p>"I understand you played pretty good golf on the college team, Bill."</p> + +<p>"Uh huh."</p> + +<p>"We've made a lot of improvements out at the club. You won't know the +last nine now."</p> + +<p>"Uh huh."</p> + +<p>I couldn't resist the temptation of slipping a torpedo under his bows. I +thought it might wake him up a trifle.</p> + +<p>"Mary is playing a better game now. Davidson has been teaching her some +shots."</p> + +<p>Bill wanted to open up and say something, but he didn't know how to go +about it. He looked at me almost piteously and I felt ashamed of myself.</p> + +<p>"I'll be going now," he mumbled. "Haven't had much sleep the last few +nights. Never sleep on a train anyway. See you later."</p> + +<p>That was all I got out of him, but it was enough. It wasn't any of my +affair, of course, but from the bottom of my heart I pitied the big, +clumsy fellow. I felt certain that Mary was giving him the worst of it, +and taking the worst of it herself, but what could I do? Absolutely +nothing. In life's most important game the spectators are not encouraged +to sit on the side lines and shout advice to the players.</p> + +<p>As for Bill, I think he fought it out with himself that night and +decided to return to his boyhood policy of watchful waiting. It wasn't +the first time that he had lost the front-porch privilege, and in the +past he had won it back again by keeping under cover and giving the +incumbent a chance to become tiresome. Bill declined to play the +second-fiddle parts; he took himself out of Mary's orchestra entirely. +He did not call on her any more; but I am willing to bet any sum of +money, up to ten dollars, that Bill knew how many times a week Russell's +runabout stood in front of the Brooke place. Five would have been a fair +average.</p> + +<p>Russell had things all his own way, and before long we began to hear the +same vague whisperings of a wedding, coupled with expressions of +sympathy for Bill. Bill heard those whisperings too—trust the dear +ladies for that—but he listened to everything with a good-natured grin, +and even succeeded in fooling a portion of the female population; but he +didn't fool Waddles and he didn't fool me. Bill met Mary at dinner +parties and dances now and then, and whenever this happened the women +watched every move that he made, and were terribly disappointed because +he failed to register deep grief; but Bill never was the sort to wear +his heart outside his vest. Russell was very much in evidence at all +these meetings, for he took Mary everywhere, and Bill was scrupulously +polite to him—the particular brand of politeness which makes a real man +want to fight. And thus the summer waned, and the winter season came +on—for in our country we have only two seasons—and it was in November +that old Waddles finally unbuttoned his lip and informed me that young +Mr. Davidson would never do.</p> + +<p>It was in the lounging room at the country club. We had finished our +round, and I had paid Waddles three balls as usual. It never costs less +than three balls to play with him. We were sitting by the window, +acquiring nourishment and looking out upon the course. In the near +foreground Russell Davidson was teaching Mary Brooke the true inwardness +of the chip shot. He wasn't having a great deal of luck. Waddles broke +the silence by grunting. It was a grunt of infinite disgust. I searched +my pockets and put a penny on the table.</p> + +<p>"For your thoughts," said I.</p> + +<p>"They're worth more than that," said Waddles.</p> + +<p>"Not to me."</p> + +<p>There was a period of silence and then Waddles grunted again.</p> + +<p>"Get it off your chest," I advised him.</p> + +<p>"That fellow," said Waddles, indicating Russell with a jerk of his +thumb, "gives me a pain."</p> + +<p>"And me," said I.</p> + +<p>"I thought Mary Brooke had some sense," complained Waddles; "but I see +now that she's like all the rest—anything with a high shine to it is +gold. Now the pure metal often has a dull finish."</p> + +<p>"Meaning Bill?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Meaning Bill. He isn't much to look at, but he's on the level, and he +worships the very ground she walks on. Why can't she see it?"</p> + +<p>"Why can't any woman see it?" I asked him.</p> + +<p>"But somebody ought to tell her! Somebody ought to put her wise! +Somebody——"</p> + +<p>"Well," I interrupted, "why don't you volunteer for the job?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Lord!" groaned Waddles. "It's one of the things that can't be done. +Tell her and you'd only make matters that much worse. And I thought Mary +Brooke had brains!"</p> + +<p>There was a long break in the conversation, during which Waddles munched +great quantities of pretzels and cheese. Then:</p> + +<p>"I wasn't much stuck on that Davidson person the first time I saw him!" +His tone was the tone of a man who seeks an argument. "He's a good +golfer, I admit that, but he's a cup hunter at heart, he's a rotten hard +loser, and—well, he's not on the level!"</p> + +<p>"You've been opening his mail?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Not at all. Listen! You know the Santa Ynez Gun Club? Well, he's joined +that, among other things. He's a cracking good duck shot. I was down +there the other night, and we had a little poker game."</p> + +<p>"A little poker game?" said I.</p> + +<p>"Table stakes," corrected Waddles. "Davidson was the big winner."</p> + +<p>"You're not hinting——"</p> + +<p>"Nothing so raw as that. Listen! Joe Herriman was in the game, and +playing in the rottenest luck you ever saw. Good hands all the time, +understand, but not quite good enough. If he picked up threes he was +sure to run into a straight, and if he made a flush there was a full +house out against him. Enough to take the heart out of any man. Finally +he picked up a small full before the draw—three treys and a pair of +sevens. Joe opened it light enough, because he wanted everybody in, but +the only man who stayed was Davidson, who drew one card. After the draw +Joe bet ten dollars for a feeler, and Davidson came back at him with +the biggest raise of the night—a cool hundred."</p> + +<p>"Well," said I, "what was wrong with that?"</p> + +<p>"Wait. The hundred-dollar bet started Joe to thinking. He had been +bumping into topping hands all the evening, and Davidson knew it.</p> + +<p>"'If I were you,' says Davidson in a nice kind tone of voice, 'I +wouldn't call that bet. Luck is against you to-night, and I'd advise +you, as a friend, to lay that pat hand down and forget it.'</p> + +<p>"Joe looked at him for a long time and then he looked at his cards; you +see he'd been beaten so often that he'd lost his sense of values.</p> + +<p>"'You think I hadn't better play these?' asks Joe.</p> + +<p>"'I've given you a tip,' says Davidson. 'I hate to see a man go up +against a sure thing.'</p> + +<p>"'Well,' says Joe at last, 'I guess you've done me a favour. It wasn't +much of a full anyway,' and he spread his hand on the table. Davidson +didn't show his cards—he pitched 'em into the discard and raked in the +pot—not more than fifteen dollars outside of his hundred."</p> + +<p>"And what of that?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing," said Waddles; "nothing, only I was dealing the next hand, +and I arranged to get a flash at the five cards that Davidson tried to +bury in the middle of the deck."</p> + +<p>"What did he have?"</p> + +<p>Waddles snorted angrily.</p> + +<p>"Four diamonds and a spade! A four flush, that's what he had! The two +sevens alone would have beaten him! And all that sympathetic talk, that +bum steer, just to cheat the big loser out of one measly pot! What do +you think of a fellow who'd do a trick like that?"</p> + +<p>I told him what I thought, and again there was silence and cheese.</p> + +<p>"Do you think Mary is going to marry that—that crook?" demanded +Waddles.</p> + +<p>"That's what they say."</p> + +<p>More cheese.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to tell her," said Waddles thoughtfully, "but it's just one of +the things that isn't being done this season. I'd like to give her a +line on that handsome scalawag—before it's too late. I can't waltz up +to her and tell her that he's bogus. There must be some other way. But +how? How?"</p> + +<p>Waddles sighed and attacked the cheese again. You'd hardly think that a +man could get an inspiration out of the kind of cheese that our House +Committee buys to give away, but before Waddles left the club that +evening he informed me that a mixed-foursome tournament wouldn't be half +bad—for a change.</p> + +<p>"You won't get many entries," said I. "You know how the men fight shy of +any golf with women in it."</p> + +<p>"Don't want many."</p> + +<p>"Then why a tournament?" I asked. "The entry fees won't pay for the +cups."</p> + +<p>"I'm giving the cups," said Waddles, and investigated the cheese bowl +once more. "Two of 'em. One male cup and one female cup. About sixteen +dollars they'll set me back, but I've an idea—just a sneaking, +lingering scrap of a notion—that I'll get my money's worth."</p> + +<p>And he went away mumbling to himself and blowing cracker crumbs out of +his mouth.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Of course you know the theory of the mixed foursome. There are four +players, two men and two women, and each couple plays one ball. It +sounds very simple. Miss Jones and Mr. Brown are partners. Miss Jones +drives, and it is up to Mr. Brown to play the next shot from where the +ball lies, after which Miss Jones takes another pop at the pill, and so +on until the putt sinks. Yes, it sounds like an innocent pastime, but of +all forms of golf the mixed foursome carries the highest percentage of +danger and explosive material. It is the supreme test of nerves and +temper, and the trial-by-acid of the disposition.</p> + +<p>In our club there is an unwritten law that no wife shall be partnered +with her husband in a mixed-foursome match, because husbands and wives +have a habit of saying exactly what they think about each other—a +practise which should be confined to the breakfast table. There was a +case once—but let us avoid scandal. She has a new husband and he has a +new wife.</p> + +<p>Waddles' mixed-foursome tournament was scheduled for a Thursday, and it +was amazing how many of the male members discovered that imperative +business engagements would keep them from participating in the contest. +The women were willing enough to play—they always are, bless 'em!—but +it was only after a vast amount of effort and Mexican diplomacy that +Waddles was able to lead six goats to the slaughter. Six, did I say? +Five. Russell Davidson needed no urging.</p> + +<p>The man who gave Waddles the most trouble was Bill Hawley. Bill was +polite about it, but firm—oh, very firm. He didn't want any mixed +foursomes in his young life, thank you just the same. More than that, he +was busy. Waddles had to put it on the ground of a personal favour +before Bill showed the first sign of wavering.</p> + +<p>When I arrived at the club on Thursday noon I found Waddles sweating +over the handicaps for his six couples. Now it is a cinch to handicap +two women or two men if they are to play as partners, but to handicap a +woman and a man is quite another matter, and all recognised rules go by +the board. I watched the old boy for some time, but I couldn't make head +or tail of his system. Finally I asked him how he handicapped a mixed +foursome.</p> + +<p>"With prayer," said Waddles. "With prayer, and in fear and trembling. +And sometimes that ain't any good."</p> + +<p>I noted that he had given Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson the lowest +mark—10. Beth Rogers and Bill Hawley were next with 16, and the other +couples ranged on upward to the blue sky.</p> + +<p>"Of course," I suggested, "the low handicap is something of a +compliment, but haven't you slipped Davidson a bit the worst of it?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," growled Waddles. "He was just crazy to get into this +thing, and he wouldn't have been unless he figured to have a cinch; +consequently, hence and by reason of which I've given him a mark that'll +make him draw right down to his hand. He won't play any four-flush +here." Waddles then arranged the personnel of the foursomes, and jotted +down the order in which they would leave the first tee. When I saw which +quartette would start last I offered another suggestion.</p> + +<p>"You're not helping Bill's game any," said I. "You know that he doesn't +like Davidson, and——"</p> + +<p>Waddles stopped me with his frozen-faced, stuffed-owl stare. In deep +humiliation I confess that at the time I attributed it to his distaste +for criticism. I realise now that it must have been amazement at my +stupidity.</p> + +<p>"Excuse me for living," said I with mock humility.</p> + +<p>"There is no excuse," said Waddles heavily.</p> + +<p>Bill turned up on the tee at the last moment, and if he didn't like the +company in which he found himself he masked his feelings very well.</p> + +<p>"How do, Mary? Beth, this is a pleasure. How are you, Davidson? Ladies +first, I presume?"</p> + +<p>"Drive, Miss Rogers," said Davidson.</p> + +<p>Now a fluffy blonde is all right, I suppose, if she wears a hair net. +Beth doesn't, and her golden aureole would make a Circassian woman +jealous. Still, there are people who think Beth is a beauty. I more than +half suspect that Beth is one of them. Beth drove, and the ball plumped +into the cross bunker.</p> + +<p>"Oh, partner!" she squealed. "Can you ever forgive me?"</p> + +<p>"That's all right," Bill assured her. "I've often been in there myself. +Takes a good long shot to carry that bunker."</p> + +<p>"It's perfectly dear of you to say so!"</p> + +<p>"Fore!" said Mary, who was on the tee, and the conversation ceased.</p> + +<p>"Better shoot to the left," advised Russell, "and go round the end of +the bunker."</p> + +<p>Mary stopped waggling her club to look at him. If there is anything in +which the female of the golfing species takes sinful pride it is the +length of her drive. She likes to stand up on a tee used by the men and +smack the ball over the cross bunker. She wouldn't trade a +two-hundred-yard drive for twenty perfect approach shots. She may be a +wonder on the putting green, but she offers herself no credit for that. +It is the long tee shot that takes her eye—the drive that skims the +bunker and goes on up the course. Waddles says the proposition of sex +equality has a bearing on the matter, but I claim that it is just +ordinary, everyday pride in being able to play a man's game, man +fashion.</p> + +<p>Coming from a total stranger, that suggestion about driving to the left +would have been regarded as a deadly insult; coming from Russell——</p> + +<p>"But I think I can carry it," said Mary with a tiny pout.</p> + +<p>"Change your stance and drive to the left." The suggestion had become a +command.</p> + +<p>"Fore!" said Mary again—and whacked the ball straight into the +bunker—straight into the middle of it.</p> + +<p>"Now, you see?" Russell was aggravated, and showed it. "If you had +changed your stance and put that ball somewhere to the left you might +have given me a chance to reach the green. As it is——"</p> + +<p>He was still enlarging upon her offence as they moved away from the tee. +Mary did not answer him, but she gave Beth a bright smile, as much as to +say, "What care I?" Bill trailed along in the rear, juggling a niblick, +his homely face wiped clean of all expression.</p> + +<p>There wasn't much to choose between the second shots—both lies were +about as bad as could be—but Russell got out safely and Bill +duplicated the effort.</p> + +<p>Beth then elected to use her brassy, and sliced the ball into the long +grass. Of course she had to wail about it.</p> + +<p>"Isn't that just too maddening? Partner, I'm so sorry!"</p> + +<p>"Don't you care," grinned Bill. "That's just my distance with a mashie. +And as for long grass, I dote on it."</p> + +<p>Mary was taking her brassy out of the bag when Russell butted in +again—with excellent advice, I must confess.</p> + +<p>"You can't reach the green anyway," said he, "so take an iron and keep +on the course."</p> + +<p>There was a warning flash in Mary's eye which a wiser man would not have +ignored.</p> + +<p>"Remember you've got a partner," urged Russell. "Take an iron, there's a +good girl."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Russell! Do be still; you fuss me so!"</p> + +<p>"But, my dear! I'm only trying to help——"</p> + +<p>The swish of the brassy cut his explanation neatly in two, and the ball +went sailing straight for the distant flag—a very pretty shot for any +one to make.</p> + +<p>"Oh, a peach!" cried Bill. "A peach!"</p> + +<p>"And you," said Mary, turning accusingly to Russell, "you wanted me to +take an iron!"</p> + +<p>"Because you can keep straighter with an iron," argued Davidson.</p> + +<p>"Wasn't that ball straight enough to please you?" asked Mary with just a +touch of malice.</p> + +<p>"You had luck," was the ungracious response, "but it doesn't follow that +all your wooden-club shots will turn out as well. The theory of the +mixed foursome is to leave your partner with a chance to hit the ball."</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear!" sighed Beth. "Now you're making me feel like a criminal!"</p> + +<p>"Lady," said Bill, "if I don't mind, why should you?"</p> + +<p>"I think you're an angel!" gushed Beth.</p> + +<p>"Yep," replied Bill, "I am; but don't tell anybody."</p> + +<p>While Mary and Russell were discussing the theory of the mixed foursome +old Bill made a terrific mashie shot out of the grass, and the ball +reached the edge of the green. Beth applauded wildly, Mary chimed in, +but Davidson did not open his mouth. He was irritated, and made no +secret of it, but his irritation did not keep him from dropping the next +shot on the putting green.</p> + +<p>Bill didn't even blink when Beth took her putter and overran the hole by +ten feet. Beth said she knew he'd never, never speak to her again in +this world, and she couldn't blame him if he didn't.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Bill cheerfully, "you gave the ball a chance, anyhow. +That's the main thing. It's better to be over than short."</p> + +<p>"You're a perfect dear!" said Beth. "I'll do better—see if I don't."</p> + +<p>Mary then prepared to putt, Russell's approach having left her twelve +feet short of the hole. "And be sure to get it there," cautioned her +partner. "It's uphill, you know. Allow for it."</p> + +<p>Mary bit her lip and hit the grass an inch behind the ball. It rolled +something less than four feet.</p> + +<p>"Hit the ball! Hit the ball!" snapped Russell angrily. "What's the +matter with you to-day?"</p> + +<p>Mary apologised profusely—probably to keep Russell quiet; and she +laughed too—a dry, hard little laugh that didn't have any fun in it. +Bill glared at Davidson for an instant, and his mouth opened, but he +swallowed whatever impulse was troubling him, and carefully laid his +ball on the lip of the cup for a two-inch putt that not even Beth could +have missed. Russell then holed his long one, which seemed to put him in +a better humour, and the men started for the second tee. In mixed +foursomes the drive alternates.</p> + +<p>Mary and Beth took the short cut used by the caddies, and I followed +them at a discreet distance. Mary babbled incessantly about everything +in the world but golf, which was her way of conveying the impression +that nothing unusual had happened; and Beth, womanlike, helped her out +by pretending to be deeply interested in what Mary was saying. And yet +they tell you that if women could learn to bluff they would make good +poker players!</p> + +<p>As I waited for the men to drive I thought of the Mary Brooke I used to +know—the leggy little girl with her hair in pigtails—and I remembered +that in those days she would stand just so much teasing from the boys, +and then somebody would be slapped—hard. Had she changed so much, I +wondered?</p> + +<p>On the third hole Russell began nagging again, and Bill's face was a +study. For two cents I think he would have choked him. Mary tried to +carry it off with a smile, but it was a weak effort. Nothing but +absolute obedience and recognition of his right to give orders would +satisfy Russell.</p> + +<p>"It's no use your telling me now that you're sorry," he scolded after +Mary had butchered a spoon shot on Number Three. "You won't take advice +when it's offered. I told you not to try that confounded spoon. A spoon +is no club for a beginner."</p> + +<p>Mary gasped.</p> + +<p>"But—I'm not a beginner! I've been playing ever and ever so long! And I +like that spoon."</p> + +<p>"I don't care what you like. If we win this thing you must do as I say."</p> + +<p>"Oh! So that's it—because you want to win?"</p> + +<p>"What do you think I entered for—exercise? Nothing to beat but a lot of +dubs—and you're not even trying!"</p> + +<p>"Bill is no dub." Mary flared up a bit in defence of her old friend.</p> + +<p>"Ho!" sneered Russell. "So you call him Bill, do you?"</p> + +<p>I lost the thread of the conversation there because Mary lowered her +voice, but she must have told the young man something for the good of +his soul. Anyway he was in a savage frame of mind when he stepped on the +fourth tee. He wanted to quarrel with some one, but it wouldn't have +been healthy to pick on old Bill, and Russell probably realised it. Bill +hadn't spoken to him since the first hole, and to be thus calmly ignored +was fresh fuel on a smouldering fire.</p> + +<p>There was another explosion on Number Four—such a loud one that +everybody heard it.</p> + +<p>"There you go again!" snarled Russell. "I give you a perfect drive—I +leave you in a position where all you have to do is pop a little mashie +over a bunker to the green—and see what a mess you've made of it! I'm +sorry I ever entered this fool tournament!"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry too," said Mary quietly, and walked away from him leaving him +fuming.</p> + +<p>It must have been an uncomfortable situation for Beth and Bill. They +kept just as far away from the other pair as they could—an exhibition +of delicacy which I am sure Mary appreciated—and pretended not to hear +the nasty things Russell said, though there were times when Bill had to +hide his clenched fists in his coat pockets. He wanted to hit +something, and hit it hard, so he took it out on the ball, with +excellent results. And no matter what Beth did or did not do Bill never +had anything for her but a cheery grin and words of encouragement. They +got quite chummy, those two, and once or twice I thought I surprised +resentment in Mary's eye. I may have been mistaken.</p> + +<p>Russell grew more rabid as the round proceeded, possibly because Mary's +manner was changing. After the seventh hole, where Russell said it was a +waste of time to try to teach a woman anything about the use of a wooden +club, Mary made not the slightest attempt to placate him. She +deliberately ignored his advice, and did it smilingly. She became very +gay, and laughed a great deal—too much, in fact—and of course her +attitude did not help matters to any appreciable extent. A bully likes +to have a victim who cringes under the lash.</p> + +<p>The last nine was painful, even to a spectator, and if Russell Davidson +had been blessed with the intelligence which God gives a goose he would +have kept his mouth shut; but no, he seemed determined to force Mary to +take some notice of his remarks. The strangest thing about it was that +some fairly good golf was played by all hands. Even fuzzy-headed little +Beth pulled off some pretty shots, whereupon Bill cheered uproariously. +I think he found relief in making a noise.</p> + +<p>While they were on the seventeenth green I spied old Waddles against +the skyline, cutting off the entire sunset, and I climbed the hill to +tell him the news. You may believe it or not, but up to that moment I +had overlooked Waddles entirely. I had been stupid enough to think that +the show I had been witnessing was an impromptu affair—a thing of pure +chance, lacking a stage manager. Just as I reached the top of the hill, +enlightenment came to me—came in company with Mary's laugh, rippling up +from below. At a distance it sounded genuine. A shade of disappointment +crossed Waddles' wide and genial countenance.</p> + +<p>"So it didn't work," said he. "It didn't work—and I'm sixteen dollars +to the bad. Hey! Quit pounding me on the back! Anybody but a born ass +would have known the whole thing was cooked up for Mary's benefit—and +you've just tumbled, eh? Now then, what has he done?"</p> + +<p>Briefly, and in words of one syllable, I sketched Russell's activities. +Waddles wagged his head soberly.</p> + +<p>"Treated her just the same as if he was already married to her, eh? A +mixed foursome is no-o-o place for a mean man; give him rope enough and +he'll hang himself. How do they stand?"</p> + +<p>I had not been keeping the score, so we walked down the hill to the +eighteenth tee.</p> + +<p>"Pretty soft for you folks," said Waddles with a disarming grin. +"Pretty soft. You've only got to beat a net 98."</p> + +<p>"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell snatched a score card from +his pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left his +face; his eyes sparkled; he smiled.</p> + +<p>"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that—84. Why—it's a +cinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!"</p> + +<p>"And you?" asked Waddles, turning to Bill.</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's their +handicap?"</p> + +<p>"Sixteen," answered Waddles.</p> + +<p>"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to be +interesting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here. +Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Go +straight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three."</p> + +<p>Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles—Waddles, with his +lip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cup +hunters and winter members who try to hog the course.</p> + +<p>Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summit +of the hill.</p> + +<p>"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we've +got 'em licked!"</p> + +<p>Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots—two hundred +pounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind the +pill—and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, and +at every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ball +straight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as he +offered it. I never saw a man change so in a short space of time.</p> + +<p>"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tiny +bit better——"</p> + +<p>"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between +friends?"</p> + +<p>"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling +silver, you poor cow!"</p> + +<p>Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our +last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is +paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom +of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and +heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is +almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair +green there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball may +easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution.</p> + +<p>"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we +need is a six."</p> + +<p>"Boy," said Mary, addressing the caddie, "my brassy, please."</p> + +<p>"Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me. +We've got this thing won now——"</p> + +<p>"Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but most +men do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back, +stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings—four of +them. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing career +depended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club head +descended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followed +through beautifully—but at the click of contact a strangled howl of +anguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the rounded +toe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result was +a flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green—a +wretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. By +running at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as it +bounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled—the first +real smile of the afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Isn't that provoking?" said she.</p> + +<p>Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must have +been all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows and +half buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothing +short of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill. +Even Waddles applauded the shot.</p> + +<p>Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked the +burs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means a +possible five—a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake, +Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to lay +the ball dead!"</p> + +<p>Waddles sniffed.</p> + +<p>"He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was Mary +Brooke——Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot at +it with that brassy!"</p> + +<p>But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, he +entreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath.</p> + +<p>"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice this +one. You watch me." She kept her promise—kept it with a savage hook, +which sailed clear across the course and into the thick grass. The ball +carried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, and +disappeared without even a bounce.</p> + +<p>"That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a foot +deep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away."</p> + +<p>Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar, +lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the putting +green, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough and +relieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit, +however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore through +that tangle of thick grass, cut under the ball and sent it spinning high +in the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green.</p> + +<p>We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our reward +was a black scowl, which we shared with Mary.</p> + +<p>"Lay it up!" said he curtly. "A seven may tie 'em. Lay it up!"</p> + +<p>By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of the +match. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studied +the shot. It was an absurdly simple one—a 30-foot approach over a level +green, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then if +Beth missed her ten-footer——</p> + +<p>"It's fast," warned Russell. "It's fast, so don't hit it too hard!"</p> + +<p>Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly a +gasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watching +Russell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicate +shade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skate +merrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterward +expressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before it +stopped.</p> + +<p>Mary ignored the polite murmur of sympathy from the gallery.</p> + +<p>"Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'm +afraid you're away."</p> + +<p>Waddles pinched my arm.</p> + +<p>"Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? She +threw him down—threw him down cold!"</p> + +<p>Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a noble effort to hole the +putt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ball +within three inches of the cup.</p> + +<p>"Put it down!" grunted Russell. "Sink it—and let's get it done with!"</p> + +<p>Bill tapped the ball into the hole, and the match was over.</p> + +<p>"Why—why," stuttered Beth, "then—we've <i>won</i>!"</p> + +<p>At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one more +exchange of remarks between the losers as they started for the +clubhouse.</p> + +<p>"We had it won—if you'd only listened to me——" Russell began.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you all +the afternoon—listening and learning!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>That very same evening I was sitting on my front porch studying the +stars and meditating upon the mutability of human relationships.</p> + +<p>A familiar runabout drew up at the Brooke house, and a young man passed +up the walk, moving with a stiff and stately stride. In exactly twelve +minutes and thirty-two seconds by my watch the young man came out again, +bounced down the steps, jumped into his car, slammed the door with a +bang like a pistol shot, and departed from the neighbourhood with a +grinding and a clashing of gears which might have been heard for half a +mile.</p> + +<p>The red tail light had scarcely disappeared down the street when big +Bill Hawley lumbered across the Brooke lawn, took the front steps at a +bound and rang the doorbell.</p> + +<p>Not being of an inquisitive and a prying nature, I cannot be certain how +long he remained, but at 11:37 I thought I heard a door close, and +immediately afterward some one passed under my window whistling loudly +and unmelodiously. The selection of the unknown serenader was that +pretty little thing which describes the end of a perfect day.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SIMILIA_SIMILIBUS_CURANTUR" id="SIMILIA_SIMILIBUS_CURANTUR"></a>"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR"</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>The front porch of our clubhouse is a sort of reserved-seat section from +which we witness the finish of all important matches. The big wicker +rocking-chairs command the eighteenth putting green, as well as the +approach to it, and when nothing better offers we watch the dub +foursomes come straggling home, herding the little white pills in front +of them.</p> + +<p>We were doing this only yesterday—Waddles, the Bish and yours +truly—and Waddles was picking the winners and losers at a distance of +three hundred yards. The old rascal is positively uncanny at that sort +of thing; in fact, he rather prides himself on his powers of +observation. The Bish was arguing with him, as usual. Of course he isn't +really a bishop, but he has a long, solemn ecclesiastical upper lip and +a heavy manner of trundling out the most commonplace remarks, so we call +him the Bish, and there is nothing he can do about it. In justice to all +parties concerned I feel it my duty to state that in every other way he +is quite unlike any bishop I have ever met.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" said Waddles, sitting up straight. "Here's the Old +Guard—what's left of it, at least."</p> + +<p>Away down to the right of the sycamore trees a single figure topped the +brow of the hill and stalked along the sky line. There was no mistaking +the long, thin legs or the stiff swing with which they moved.</p> + +<p>"Walks like a pair of spavined sugar tongs," was Waddles' comment. "You +can tell Pete Miller as far as you can see him."</p> + +<p>A second figure shot suddenly into view—the figure of a small, nervous +man who brandished a golf club and danced from sheer excess of emotion, +but even at three hundred yards it was evident that there was no joy in +that dance. Waddles chuckled.</p> + +<p>"Bet you anything you like," said he, "that Sam Totten sliced his tee +shot into the apricot orchard. He's played about four by now—and +they're cutthroating it on the drink hole, same as they always do.... +About time for Jumbo to be putting in an appearance."</p> + +<p>While he was speaking a tremendous form loomed large on the sky line, +dwarfing Miller and Totten. Once on level ground this giant struck a +rolling gait and rapidly overhauled his companions—overhauled them in +spite of two hundred and sixty pounds and an immense paunch which +swayed from side to side as he walked.</p> + +<p>"Little Jumbo," said Waddles, sinking back in his chair. "Little Jumbo, +with his bag of clubs tucked under his left arm—one driver and all of +three irons. He carries that awful load because his doctor tells him he +ought to reduce. And he eats four pieces of apple pie à la mode with his +lunch. But a fine old fellow at that.... Well, I notice it's still a +threesome."</p> + +<p>"Notice again," said the Bish, pointing to the left of the sycamores.</p> + +<p>Waddles looked, and rose from his chair with a grunt of amazement. A +fourth figure came dragging itself up the slope of the hill—the +particular portion of the slope of the hill where the deepest trouble is +visited upon a sliced second shot. Judging by his appearance and manner +this fourth golfer had been neck-deep in grief, to say nothing of cactus +and manzanita. His head was hanging low on his breast, his shoulders +were sagging, his feet were shuffling along the ground, and he trailed a +golf club behind him. When a man trails a club to the eighteenth putting +green it is a sure sign that all is over but the shouting; and the wise +observer will do his shouting in a whisper. Waddles sat down suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Well, as I live and breathe and run the Yavapai Golf and Country Club!" +he ejaculated, "there's my old friend, Mr. Peacock, with all his tail +feathers pulled out! The deserter has joined the colours again, and the +Old Guard is recruited to full war strength once more! They've actually +taken him back, after the way he's acted, too! Now what do you think of +that, eh?"</p> + +<p>"If you ask me," said the Bish in his booming chest notes, "I'd say it +was just a case of <i>similia similibus curantur</i>."</p> + +<p>"Nothing of the sort!" said Waddles, bristling instantly; "and besides, +I don't know what you mean. Bish, when you cut loose that belly barytone +of yours you always remind me of an empty barrel rolling down the cellar +stairs—a lot of noise, but you never spill anything worth mopping up. +Come again with that foreign stuff."</p> + +<p>"<i>Similia similibus curantur</i>," repeated the Bish. "That's Latin."</p> + +<p>Waddles shook his head.</p> + +<p>"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. While +you were hog-wrastling Cæsar's Commentaries I was down in the Indian +Territory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. I +learned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as I +got. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plain +unvarnished United States."</p> + +<p>"Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction, +"that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite."</p> + +<p>"The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "The +hair—of—the—dog.... H'm-m."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's deep stuff," said the Bish. "Take a good long breath and dive +for it."</p> + +<p>"The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," said +Waddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn't +drink."</p> + +<p>The Bish made use of a very unorthodox expletive.</p> + +<p>"Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something cured +him. Think it over."</p> + +<p>Slowly the light of intelligence dawned in Waddles' eyes. He began to +laugh inwardly, quivering like a mould of jelly, but the joke was too +big to remain inside him. It burst forth, first in chuckles, then in +subdued guffaws, and finally in whoops and yells, and as he whooped he +slapped his fat knees and wallowed in his chair.</p> + +<p>"Why," he panted, "I saw it all the time—of course I did! It was just +your fool way of putting it! The hair of the dog—oh, say, that's rich! +Make a note of that Latin thing, Bish. I want to spring it on the +Reverend Father Murphy!"</p> + +<p>"Certainly—but where are you off to in such a hurry?"</p> + +<p>"Me?" said Waddles. "I'm going to do something I've never done before. +I'm going to raise a man's handicap from twelve to eighteen!"</p> + +<p>He went away, still laughing, and I looked over toward the eighteenth +green. Pete Miller was preparing to putt, Sam Totten and Jumbo were +standing side by side, and in the background was Henry Peacock, his +hands in his pockets, his cap tilted down over his eyes and his lower +lip entirely out of control. His caddie was already on the way to the +shed with the bag of clubs.</p> + +<p>"From twelve handicap to eighteen," said I. "That's more or less of an +insult. Think he'll stand for it?"</p> + +<p>"He'll stand for anything right now," said the Bish. "Look at him! He's +picked up his ball—on the drink hole too. Give him the once +over—'mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream!'"</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>As far back as my earliest acquaintance with the royal and ancient game, +the Old Guard was an institution of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club—a +foursome cemented by years and usage, an association recognised as +permanent, a club within the club—four eighteen-handicap men, bound by +the ties of habit and hopeless mediocrity. The young golfer improves his +game and changes his company, graduating from Class B into Class A; the +middle-aged golfer is past improvement, so he learns his limitations, +hunts his level and stays there. Peter Miller, Frank Woodson, Henry +Peacock and Sam Totten were fixtures in the Grand Amalgamated Order of +Dubs, and year in and year out their cards would have averaged something +like ninety-seven. They were oftener over the century mark than below +it.</p> + +<p>Every golf club has a few permanent foursomes, but most of them are held +together by common interests outside the course. For instance, we have a +bankers' foursome, an insurance foursome and a wholesale-grocery +foursome, and the players talk shop between holes. We even have a +foursome founded on the ownership of an automobile, a jitney alliance, +as Sam Totten calls it; but the Old Guard cannot be explained on any +such basis, nor was it a case of like seeking like.</p> + +<p>Peter Miller, senior member, is grey and silent and as stiff as his own +putter shaft. He is the sort of man who always lets the other fellow do +all the talking and all the laughing, while he sits back with the air of +one making mental notes and reservations. Peter is a corporation lawyer +who seldom appears in court, but he loads the gun for the young and +eloquent pleader and tells him what to aim at and when to pull the +trigger. A solid citizen, Peter, and a useful one.</p> + +<p>Frank Woodson, alias Jumbo, big and genial and hearty, has played as +Miller's partner for years and years, and possesses every human quality +that Peter lacks. They say of Frank—and I believe it—that in all his +life he never hurt a friend or lost one. Frank is in the stock-raising +business at present, and carries a side line of blue-blooded dogs. He +once made me a present of one, but I am still his friend.</p> + +<p>A year ago I would have set against Henry Peacock's name the words +"colourless" and "neutral." A year ago I thought I knew all about him; +now I am quite certain that there is something in Henry Peacock's nature +that will always baffle me. Waddles swears that Peacock was born with +his fingers crossed and one hand on his pocketbook, but that is just his +extravagant way of putting things. Henry has shown me that it is +possible to maintain a soft, yielding exterior, and yet be hard as +adamant inside. He has also demonstrated that a meek man's pride is a +thing not lightly dismissed. I have revised all my estimates of H. +Peacock, retired capitalist.</p> + +<p>Last of all we have Samuel Totten, youngest of the Old Guard by at least +a dozen years. How he ever laughed his way into that close corporation +is a mystery, but somewhere in his twenties he managed it. Sam is a +human firebrand, a dash of tabasco, a rough comedian and +catch-as-catch-can joker. Years have not tamed him, but they have +brought him into prominence as a consulting specialist in real estate +and investments. Those who should know tell that Sam Totten can park his +itching feet under an office desk and keep them there long enough to +swing a big deal, but I prefer to think of him as the rather florid +young man who insists on joining the hired orchestra and playing +snare-drum solos during the country-club dances, much to the +discomfiture of the gentleman who owns the drum. You will never realise +how poor Poor Butterfly is until you hear Sam Totten execute that melody +upon his favourite instrument.</p> + +<p>These four men met twice a week, rain or shine, without the formality of +telephoning in advance. Each one knew that, barring flood, fire or act +of God, the others would be on hand, fed, clothed and ready to leave the +first tee at one-fifteen <span class="smcap">p.m.</span> If one of the quartette happened to be +sick or out of town the others would pick up a fourth man and take him +round the course with them, but that fourth man recognised the fact that +he was not of the Old Guard, but merely with it temporarily. He was +never encouraged to believe that he had found a home.</p> + +<p>Imagine then, this permanent foursome, this coalition of fifteen years' +standing, this sacred institution, smitten and smashed by a bolt from +the blue. And like most bolts from the blue it picked out the most +unlikely target. Henry Peacock won the Brutus B. Hemmingway Cup!</p> + +<p>Now as golf cups go the Hemmingway Cup is quite an affair—eighteen +inches from pedestal to brim, solid silver of course, engraved and +scrolled and chased within an inch of its life. Mr. Hemmingway puts up a +new cup each year, the conditions of play being that the trophy shall +go to the man making the best net score. A Class-B man usually wins it +with a handicap of eighteen or twenty-four and the Class-A men +slightingly refer to Mr. Hemmingway's trophy as "the dub cup." Sour +grapes, of course.</p> + +<p>I remember Mr. Peacock's victory very well; in fact, I shall never +forget it. On that particular afternoon my net score was seventy-one, +five strokes under our par, and for half an hour or so I thought the +Hemmingway Cup was going home with me. I recall trying to decide whether +it would show to best advantage on the mantel in the living room or on +the sideboard in the dining room. Numbers of disappointed contestants +offered me their congratulations—they said it was about time I won +something, even with the assistance of a fat handicap—and for half an +hour I endeavoured to bear my honours with becoming modesty. Waddles +brought the Hemmingway Cup over and put it in the middle of the table.</p> + +<p>"'S all yours, I guess," said he. "Nobody out now but the Old Guard. Not +one of them could make an 88 with a lead pencil, and that's what they've +got to do to beat you. Might as well begin to buy."</p> + +<p>I began to buy, and while I was signing the first batch of tags the Old +Guard came marching in from the eighteenth green. Sam Totten was in the +lead, walking backward and twirling his putter as a drum major twirls a +baton. Frank Woodson and Peter Miller were acting as an escort of +honour for Henry Peacock, and I began to have misgivings. I also ceased +signing tags.</p> + +<p>The door of the lounging room crashed open and Sam Totten entered, +dragging Henry Peacock behind him. Miller and Woodson brought up the +rear.</p> + +<p>"Hey, Waddles!" shouted Sam. "What do you think of this old stiff? He +shot an eighty-two; he did, on the level!"</p> + +<p>"An eighty-two?" said I. "Then his net was——"</p> + +<p>"Sixty-four," murmured Mr. Peacock with an apologetic smile. +"Yes—ah—sixty-four."</p> + +<p>"The suffering Moses!" gulped Waddles. "How did he do it?"</p> + +<p>"He played golf," said Peter Miller. "Kept his tee shots straight, and +holed some long putts."</p> + +<p>"Best round he ever shot in his life!" Woodson chimed in. "Won three +balls from me, but it's a pleasure to pay 'em, Henry, on account of your +winning the cup! Who'd have thought it?"</p> + +<p>"And we're proud of him!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm proud of him! He's my +partner! An eighty-two—think of an old stiff like him shooting an +eighty-two! One foot in the grave, and he wins a cup sixteen hands high +and big as a horse! Cheers, gentlemen, cheers for the Old Guard! It +dies, but it never surrenders!"</p> + +<p>"Here," said I, thrusting the rest of the tags into Henry's limp and +unresisting hand. "You sign these."</p> + +<p>"But," said he, "I—I didn't order anything, and I won the drink hole."</p> + +<p>"You won the cup too, didn't you?" demanded Waddles. "Winner always +buys—buys for everybody. Boy, bring the rest of those tags back here +and let Mr. Peacock sign them too. Winner always buys, Henry. That's a +club rule."</p> + +<p>Mr. Peacock sat down at the table, put on his glasses and audited those +tags to the last nickel. After he had signed them all he picked up the +Hemmingway Cup and examined it from top to bottom.</p> + +<p>"Can you beat that?" whispered Waddles in my ear. "The old piker is +trying to figure, with silver as low as it is, whether he's ahead or +behind on the deal!"</p> + +<p>"Well, boys," said Sam Totten, standing on his chair and waving his +arms, "here's to the Old Guard! We won a cup at last! Old Henry won it; +but it's all in the family, ain't it, Henry? Betcher life it is! The Old +Guard—drink her up, and drink her down!"</p> + +<p>Frank Woodson dropped his big ham of a hand on Henry Peacock's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't have been half so tickled if I'd won it myself!" said he. +"You see, you never won a cup before. I won one once—runner-up in the +fifth flight over at San Gabriel. Nice cup, silver and all that, but +you've got to have a magnifying glass to <i>see</i> it. Now this Hemmingway +Cup, Henry, is a regular old he cup. You can't put it where your +visitors won't find it. You can be proud of it, old son, and we're proud +of you."</p> + +<p>"Same here," said Peter Miller, and his face twisted into something +remotely resembling a smile. "Did my heart good to see the old boy +laying those tee shots out in the middle every time. We're all proud of +you, Henry."</p> + +<p>"Proud!" exclaimed Sam Totten. "I'm so proud I'm all out of shape!"</p> + +<p>Peacock didn't have much to say. He sat there smiling his tight little +smile and looking at the silver cup. I believe that even then the idea +of desertion had entered into his little two-by-four soul. There was a +thoughtful look in his eyes, and he didn't respond to Totten's hilarity +with any great degree of enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>"What was it the admiral said at Santiago?" asked Sam. "'There's glory +enough for us all!' Wasn't that it?"</p> + +<p>"Mph!" grunted Waddles. "Since you're getting into famous remarks of +history, what was it the governor of North Carolina——"</p> + +<p>"I think I'll take my bath now," interrupted Henry Peacock, rising.</p> + +<p>"You will not!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm going to buy. Jumbo here is going +to buy. Pete is going to buy. Where do you get that bath stuff? We don't +win a cup every day, Henry. Sit down!"</p> + +<p>An hour later Waddles emerged from the shower room, looking very much +like an overgrown cupid in his abbreviated underwear. Henry Peacock had +been waiting for him. The Hemmingway Cup, in its green felt bag, dangled +from his wrist. My locker is directly across the alley from Waddles', +and I overheard the entire conversation.</p> + +<p>"I—I just wanted to say," began Henry, "that any cut you might want to +make in my handicap will be all right with me."</p> + +<p>Waddles growled. He has never yet found it necessary to consult a victim +before operating on his handicap. There was a silence and then Henry +tried again.</p> + +<p>"I really think my handicap ought to be cut," said he.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it'll be <i>cut</i> all right!" said Waddles cheerfully. "Don't you +worry about that. Any old stiff who brings in a net of sixty-four has a +cut coming to him. Leave it to me!"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Henry, "I just wanted you to know how I felt about it. I—I +want to be quite frank with you. Of course, I probably won't shoot an +eighty-two every time out"—here Waddles gasped and plumped down on the +bench outside his locker—"but when a man brings in a net score that is +twelve strokes under the par of the course I think some notice should be +taken of it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you do, do you? Listen, Henry! Since we're going to be frank with +each other, what do you think your new handicap ought to be?" Waddles +was stringing him of course, but Henry didn't realise it.</p> + +<p>"I think ten would be about right," said he calmly.</p> + +<p>"Ten!" barked Waddles. "The suffering Moses! Ten! Henry, are you sure +you're quite well—not overexcited or anything?"</p> + +<p>"All I had was four lemonades."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Waddles. "Four lemonades—and Sam Totten winked at the bar +boy every time. Why, if I cut you from eighteen to ten that'll put you +in Class A!"</p> + +<p>"I think that's where I belong."</p> + +<p>"I'll have to talk with the head bar boy," said Waddles. "He shouldn't +be so reckless with that gin. It costs money these days. Listen to me, +Henry. Take hold of your head with both hands and try to get what I say. +You went out to-day and shot your fool head off. You played the best +round of golf in your long and sinful career. You made an eighty-two. +You'll never make an eighty-two again as long as you live. It would be a +crime to handicap you on to-day's game, Henry. It would be manslaughter +to put you in Class A. You don't belong there. If you want me to cut you +I'll put you down to sixteen, and even then you won't play to that mark +unless you're lucky."</p> + +<p>"I think I belong at ten," said Peacock. I began to appreciate that +line about the terrible insistence of the meek.</p> + +<p>"Get out of here!" ordered Waddles, suddenly losing his patience. "Go +home and pray for humility, Henry. Lay off the lemonade when Sam Totten +is in the crowd. Lemonade is bad for you. It curdles the intelligence +and warps the reasoning faculties. Shoo! Scat! Mush on! Vamose! Beat it! +Hurry up! <i>Wiki-wiki!</i> Chop-chop! <i>Schnell!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Then you won't cut me to ten?"</p> + +<p>"I—will—not!"</p> + +<p>Henry sighed and started for the door. He turned with his hand on the +knob.</p> + +<p>"I still think I belong there," was his parting shot.</p> + +<p>"Might as well settle this thing right now," said Waddles to himself. +Then he lifted up his voice in a howl that made the electric lights +quiver. "Send Tom in here!"</p> + +<p>The head bar boy appeared, grinning from ear to ear.</p> + +<p>"Tom," said Waddles, "don't you know you oughtn't to slip a shot of gin +into an old man's lemonade?"</p> + +<p>"Ain't nobody gits gin in his lemonade, suh, 'less he awdeh it +thataway."</p> + +<p>"What did Mr. Peacock have?"</p> + +<p>"Plain lemonade, suh."</p> + +<p>"No kick in it at all?"</p> + +<p>"Not even a wiggle, suh."</p> + +<p>"That'll do," said Waddles; and Tom went back to his work. There was a +long silence. By his laboured breathing I judged that Waddles was lacing +his shoes. Once more he thought aloud.</p> + +<p>"Tom wouldn't lie to me, so it wasn't gin. Now, I wonder.... I wonder if +that old coot has got what they call 'delusions of grandeur'?"</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>On the Monday following the contest for the Hemmingway Cup I met the +Bish at the country club. We arrived there between nine and ten in the +morning, and the first man we saw was Mr. Henry Peacock. He was out on +the eighteenth fairway practising approach shots, and the putting green +was speckled with balls.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" said the Bish. "Look who's here! Practising too. You don't +suppose that old chump is going to try to make a golfer of himself, this +late along?"</p> + +<p>I said that it appeared that way.</p> + +<p>"One-club practise is all right for a beginner," said the Bish, "because +he hasn't any bad habits to overcome, but this poor nut didn't take up +the game till he was forty, and when he learned it he learned it all +wrong. He can practise till he's black in the face and it won't do him +any good. Don't you think we'd better page Doc Osler and have him put +out of his misery?"</p> + +<p>It was then that I told the Bish about Henry's desire to break into +Class A, and he whistled.</p> + +<p>"It got him quick, didn't it?" said he. "Well, there's no fool like an +old fool."</p> + +<p>Half an hour later this was made quite plain to us. Henry came into the +clubhouse to get a drink of water. Now I did not know him very well, and +the Bish had only a nodding acquaintance with him, but he greeted us as +long-lost brothers. I did not understand his cordiality at first, but +the reason for it was soon apparent. Henry wanted to know whether we had +a match up for the afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Sorry," lied the Bish; "we're already hooked up with a foursome."</p> + +<p>Henry said he was sorry too; and moreover he looked it.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking I might get in with you," said he. "What I need is +the—er—opportunity to study better players—er—get some real +competition. Somebody that will make me do my best all the time. Don't +you think that will help my game?"</p> + +<p>"Doubtless," said the Bish in his deepest tone; "but at the same time +you shouldn't get too far out of your class. There is a difference +between being spurred on by competition and being discouraged by it."</p> + +<p>"I shot an eighty-two last Saturday," said Henry quickly.</p> + +<p>"So I hear. So I hear. And how many brassy shots did you hole out?"</p> + +<p>"Not one. It—it wasn't luck. It was good steady play."</p> + +<p>"He admits it," murmured the Bish, but Henry didn't even hear him.</p> + +<p>"Good steady play," he repeated. "What a man does once he can do again. +Eighty-two. Six strokes above the par of the course. My net was twelve +strokes below it—due, of course, to a ridiculously high handicap: I—I +intend to have that altered. Eighty-two is Class-A golf."</p> + +<p>"Or an accident," said the Bish rather coldly.</p> + +<p>"Steady golf is never an accident," argued Henry. "I have thought it all +out and come to the conclusion that what I need now is keener +competition—er—better men to play with; and"—this with a trace of +stubbornness in his tone—"I mean to find them."</p> + +<p>The Bish kicked my foot under the table.</p> + +<p>"That's all very well," said he, "but—how about the Old Guard?"</p> + +<p>The wretched renegade squirmed in his chair.</p> + +<p>"That," said he, "will adjust itself later."</p> + +<p>"You mean that you'll break away?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't say so, did I?"</p> + +<p>"No, but you've been talking about keener competition."</p> + +<p>Henry was not pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. He rose +to go.</p> + +<p>"Woodson and Totten and Miller are fine fellows," said he. "Personally I +hold them in the highest esteem, but you must admit that they are poor +golfers. Not one of them ever shot an eighty-five. I—I have my own +game to consider.... You're quite sure you won't have a vacancy this +afternoon?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, quite," said the Bish, and Henry toddled back to his practise. It +was well that he left us, for the Bish was on the point of an explosion.</p> + +<p>"Well!" said he. "The conceited, ungrateful old scoundrel! Got his own +game to consider—did you hear that? Just one fair-to-middling score in +his whole worthless life, and now he's too swelled up to associate with +the fellows who have played with him all these years, stood for his +little meannesses, covered up his faults and overlooked his +shortcomings! Keener competition, eh? Pah! Would you play with him?"</p> + +<p>"Not on a bet!" said I.</p> + +<p>On the following Wednesday the Old Guard counted noses and found itself +short the star member. Lacking the courage or the decency to inform his +friends of his change of programme, Peacock took the line of least +resistance and elected to escape them by a late arrival. Sam Totten made +several flying trips into the locker room in search of his partner, but +he gave up at last, and at one-thirty the Old Guard drove off, a +threesome.</p> + +<p>At one-thirty-two Henry sneaked into the clubhouse and announced that he +was without a match. The news did not create any great furore. All the +Class-A foursomes were made up, and, to make matters worse, the Bish +had been doing a little quiet but effective missionary work. Henry's +advances brought him smack up against a stone wall of polite but +definite refusal. The cup winner was left out in the cold.</p> + +<p>He finally picked up Uncle George Sawyer, it being a matter of Uncle +George or nobody. Uncle George is a twenty-four-handicap man, but only +when he is at the very top of his game, and he is deaf as a post, left +handed and a confirmed slicer. In addition to these misfortunes Uncle +George is blessed with the disposition of a dyspeptic wildcat, and I +imagine that Mr. Peacock did not have a pleasant afternoon. The Old +Guard pounced on him when he came into the lounging room at five +o'clock.</p> + +<p>"Hey! Why didn't you say that you'd be late?" demanded Sam Totten. "We'd +have waited for you."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll tell you," said Henry—and he looked like a sheep-killing +dog surprised with the wool in his teeth—"I'll tell you. The fact of +the matter is I—I didn't know just how late I was going to be, and I +didn't think it would be fair to you——"</p> + +<p>"Apology's accepted," said Jumbo, "but don't let it happen again. And +you went and picked on poor old Sawyer too. You—a cup winner—picking +on a cripple like that! Henry, where do you expect to go when you die? +Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"</p> + +<p>"We've got it all fixed up to play at San Gabriel next Saturday," put in +Peter Miller. "You'll go, of course?"</p> + +<p>"I'll ring up and let you know," said Henry, and slipped away to the +shower room.</p> + +<p>I do not know what lies he told over the telephone or how he managed to +squirm out of the San Gabriel trip, but I do know that he turned up at +the country club at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning and spent two +hours panhandling everybody in sight for a match. The keen competition +fought very shy of Mr. Peacock, thanks to the Bish and his whispering +campaign. Everybody was scrupulously polite to him—some even expressed +regret—but nobody seemed to need a fourth man.</p> + +<p>"They're just as glad to see him as if he had smallpox," grinned the +Bish. "Well, I've got a heart that beats for my fellow man. I'd hate to +see Peacock left without any kind of a match. Old Sawyer is asleep on +the front porch. I'll go and tell him that Peacock is here looking for +him."</p> + +<p>It has been years since any one sought Uncle George's company, and the +old chap was delighted, but if Henry was pleased he managed to conceal +his happiness. I learned later that their twosome wound up in a jawing +match on the sixteenth green, in which Uncle George had all the better +of it because he couldn't hear any of the things that Henry called him. +They came to grief over a question of the rules; and Waddles, when +appealed to, decided that they were both wrong—and a couple of fussy +old hens, to boot.</p> + +<p>"Just what I told him!" mumbled Uncle George, who hadn't heard a word +that Waddles said. "The ball nearest the hole——"</p> + +<p>"No such thing!" interrupted Henry, and they went away still squabbling. +Waddles shook his head.</p> + +<p>"He's a fine twelve-handicap man!" said he with scorn. "Doesn't even +know the rules of the game!"</p> + +<p>"Twelve!" said I. "You don't mean——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I cut him to twelve. Ever since he won that cup he's been hounding +me—by letter, by telephone and by word of mouth. He's like Tom Sawyer's +cat and the pain killer. He kept asking for it, and now he's got it. He +thinks a low handicap will make him play better—stubborn old fool!"</p> + +<p>"And that's not all," said the Bish. "He's left the Old Guard, flat."</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>"He has, I tell you."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it," said Waddles. "He may be all kinds of a chump, but +he wouldn't do that."</p> + +<p>The Old Guard didn't believe it either. It must have been all of three +weeks before Totten and Woodson and Miller realised that Peacock was a +deserter, that he was deliberately avoiding them. At first they accepted +his lame excuses at face value, and when doubt began to creep in they +said the thing couldn't be possible. One day they waited for him and +brought matters to a showdown. Henry wriggled and twisted and squirmed, +and finally blurted out that he had made other arrangements. That +settled it, of course; and then instead of being angry or disgusted with +Henry they seemed to pity him, and from the beginning to the end I am +quite certain that not one of them ever took the renegade to task for +his conduct. Worse than everything else they actually missed him. It was +Frank Woodson, acting as spokesman for the others, who explained the +situation to me.</p> + +<p>"Oh, about Henry? Well, it's this way: We've all got our little +peculiarities—Lord knows I've a few of my own. I never would have +thought this could happen, but it just goes to show how a man gets a +notion crossways in his head and jams up the machinery. Henry is all +right at heart. His head is a little out of line at present, but his +heart is O. K. You see, he won that cup and it gave him a wrong idea. He +really thinks that under certain conditions he can play back to that +eighty-two. I know he can't. We all know he can't; but let him go ahead +and try it. He'll get over this little spell and be a good dog again."</p> + +<p>The Bish, who was present, suggested that the Old Guard should elect a +new member and forget the deserter.</p> + +<p>"No-o," said Frank thoughtfully; "that wouldn't be right. We've talked +it over, the three of us, and we'll keep his place open for him. +Confound it, man! You don't realise that we've been playing together for +more than fifteen years! We understand each other, and we used to have +more fun than anybody, just dubbing round the course. The game doesn't +seem quite the same, with Henry out of it; and I don't think he's having +a very good time, hanging on the fringe of Class A and trying to butt in +where he isn't wanted. No; he'll come back pretty soon, and everything +will be just the same again. We've all got our little peculiarities, +Bish. You've got some. I've got some. The best thing is to be charitable +and overlook as much as you can, hoping that folks will treat you the +same way."</p> + +<p>"And that," said Bish after Jumbo had gone away, "proves the statement +that a friend is 'a fellow who knows all about you and still stands for +you.' How long do you suppose they'll have to wait before that old +imbecile regains his senses?"</p> + +<p>They waited for at least five months, during which time H. Peacock, +Esquire, enrolled himself as the prize pest of the golfing world. The +Class-B men, resenting his treatment of the Old Guard, were determined +not to let him break into one of their foursomes, and the Class-A men +wouldn't have him at any price. The game of pussy-wants-a-corner is all +right for children, but Henry, playing it alone, did not seem to find +it entertaining. He picked up a stranger now and then, but it wasn't the +season for visitors, and even Uncle George Sawyer shied when he saw +Henry coming. The stubbornness which led him to insist that his handicap +be cut would not permit him to hoist the white flag and return to the +fold, and altogether he had a wretched time of it—almost as bad a time +as he deserved. Left to himself he became every known variety of a +golfing nut. He saved his score cards, entering them on some sort of a +comparative chart which he kept in his locker—one of those +see-it-at-a-glance things. He took lessons of the poor professional; he +bought new clubs and discovered that they were not as good as his old +ones; he experimented with every ball on the market; and his game was +neither better nor worse than it was before the Hemmingway Cup poured +its poison into the shrivelled receptacle which passed for Henry +Peacock's soul.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>One week ago last Saturday, Sam Totten staged his annual show. Totten +Day is ringed with red on all calendars belonging to Class-B golfers. It +is the day when men win cups who never won cups before. All Class-A men +are barred; it is strictly a Class-B party. Those with handicaps from +twelve to twenty-four are eligible, and there are cups for all sorts of +things—the best gross, the best first nine, the best second nine, the +best score with one hole out, the best score with two holes out, and so +on. Sam always buys the big cup himself—the one for the best gross +score—and he sandbags his friends into contributing at least a dozen +smaller trophies. The big cup is placed on exhibition before play +begins, but the others, as well as the conditions of award, remain under +cover, thus introducing the element of the unexpected. The conditions +are made known as the cups are awarded and the ceremony of presentation +is worth going a long way to see and a longer way to hear.</p> + +<p>On Totten Day three of us were looking for a fourth man, and we +encountered Henry Peacock, in his chronic state of loneliness. The Bish +is sometimes a very secretive person, but he might have spared my +feelings by giving me a hint of his intentions. Henry advanced on us, +expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, but convinced that there was no +harm in the asking. He used the threadbare formula:</p> + +<p>"Any vacancy this afternoon, gentlemen?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes!" said the Bish. "Yes, we're one man short. Want to go round +with us?"</p> + +<p>Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell all +over himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time would +suit him—just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he would +be at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of the +players, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was a +twelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not. +Yes, anything would suit him—and he scuttled away toward the +dining-room.</p> + +<p>I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listened +without so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip.</p> + +<p>"All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. I +took him in with us because this is Totten Day."</p> + +<p>"What's that got to do with it?"</p> + +<p>"Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. If +he tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. I +want to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts and +has his card turned in."</p> + +<p>"But you don't want that old stiff to win a cup, do you?"</p> + +<p>"I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it. +That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is a +frightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kicking +about? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, and +you can have Dale."</p> + +<p>When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple of +subdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken into +Class-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten, +Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Sam +was acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodson +who came forward and patted Henry on the back.</p> + +<p>"Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get another +eighty-two!"</p> + +<p>"I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"—here he +addressed Henry—"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we go +along. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can."</p> + +<p>"I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I need +pointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated."</p> + +<p>"That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back and +almost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount to +anything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!"</p> + +<p>Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one of +his justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made room +for Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interest +shown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henry +change his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ball +entirely, topping it into the bunker.</p> + +<p>"Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, taking +Henry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot."</p> + +<p>Arriving at the bunker Henry armed himself with his niblick.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can't +you play your jigger at all?"</p> + +<p>"My jigger!" exclaimed Henry. "But—it's a niblick shot, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a good +lie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it up +clean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball."</p> + +<p>Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get away +with it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dub +like Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting under +instructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit the +sand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely.</p> + +<p>"Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-class +excavating. Scoop her out with the niblick."</p> + +<p>Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassy +wall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged.</p> + +<p>"Now your wood," said he.</p> + +<p>"But I play a cleek better."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! Take a good hard poke at it with the brassy!"</p> + +<p>And poke it he did—a nasty slice into rough grass.</p> + +<p>"I could have kept it straight with an iron," said Henry reproachfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, of course," said the Bish, "if you don't want me to advise +you——"</p> + +<p>"But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine +how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!"</p> + +<p>"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels. +By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that +first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he +could do better than that.</p> + +<p>"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you, +Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn +there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny."</p> + +<p>"Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now."</p> + +<p>"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get +something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen +competition—and advice."</p> + +<p>Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and the +advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone +with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself, +nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots. +If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If +he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in +nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all +putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the +extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum.</p> + +<p>"He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?"</p> + +<p>I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing out +of that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the first +time since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of the +scores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head—and when +you find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's score +would have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and double +figures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottom +of the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots he +amassed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleated +plaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised him +to put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on his +shots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone, +but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrate +on anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the last +hole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades.</p> + +<p>"You'll be all right, Peacock, if you just remember what I've told you. +The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendency +to underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of getting +too much distance."</p> + +<p>"I—I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all you +gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you again +soon—er—quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything you +can tell me——"</p> + +<p>Henry continued to babble and the Bish drew me aside.</p> + +<p>"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talk +to him about his game—anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep him +there!"</p> + +<p>Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard him +demanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usual +ceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms, +escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selecting +an obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but when +the jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke of +needing a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my good +fairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup. +Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famous +victory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice of +clubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh hole +when Totten made his last speech.</p> + +<p>"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashie +and not quite far enough for the——"</p> + +<p>There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over the +sea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a large +green felt bag under his arm.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen—if you are gentlemen!—I crave your +indulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an added +trophy—a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!"</p> + +<p>He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by cries +of "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprised +expression on his face told me that this part of the programme was not +of his making.</p> + +<p>"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awarded +for a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me that +this is manifestly one-sided and unfair."</p> + +<p>"Hear! Hear!" cried a voice.</p> + +<p>"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cup +which I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever made +by a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America."</p> + +<p>Henry Peacock jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laid +my hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door.</p> + +<p>"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar had +subsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a double +distinction. He is the holder of two records—one for the lowest net +score on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peacock shot +the course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes.... +Bring the gentleman forward, please!"</p> + +<p>There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of the +confusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surrounded +him, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to the +table, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him and +surged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over and +placed the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lip +was trembling with rage.</p> + +<p>"Open it up! Come on, let's see it!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Peacock cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged his +hand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but it +was a cup, sure enough—a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feeble +imitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents. +And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was the +record of Mr. Peacock's activities for the afternoon, in gross and +detail, as follows:</p> + +<table width="40%"> +<tr><td align="right">HOLES</td><td align="right">PAR</td><td align="right">PEACOCK</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">1 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">2 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">3 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">4 </td><td align="right"> 5</td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">5 </td><td align="right"> 3</td><td align="right">7</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">6 </td><td align="right"> 6</td><td align="right">15</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">7 </td><td align="right"> 5</td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">8 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">9 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">12</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">10 </td><td align="right"> 5</td><td align="right">12</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">11 </td><td align="right"> 3</td><td align="right">7</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">12 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">13 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">14 </td><td align="right"> 3</td><td align="right">7</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">15 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">16 </td><td align="right"> 4</td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">17 </td><td align="right"> 5</td><td align="right">11</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">18 </td><td align="right"> 5</td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right"> </td><td align="right"> —</td><td align="right"> ——</td></tr> +<tr><td>Total </td><td align="right"> 76</td><td align="right">167</td></tr> +</table> + + +<p>As Henry gazed at this work of art a shout came from the back of the +room. Waddles had come to life.</p> + +<p>"Winner buys, Henry! Winner always buys! It's a rule of the club!"</p> + +<p>"The club be damned!" cried Henry Peacock as he fought his way to the +door.</p> + +<p>"Bish," said Frank Woodson, "that was a rotten trick to play on anybody. +You shouldn't have done it."</p> + +<p>"A rotten case," replied the Bish, "requires a rotten remedy. It's kill +or cure; even money and take your pick."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>As it turned out it was a cure.</p> + +<p>Henry Peacock is once more a member of the Old Guard, in good standing +and entitled to all privileges. Totten, Woodson and Miller received him +with open arms, and they actually treat the old reprobate as if nothing +had happened. I believe it will be a long time before he reminds them +that he once shot an eighty-two, and a longer time before he breaks a +ninety.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_CURE_FOR_LUMBAGO" id="A_CURE_FOR_LUMBAGO"></a>A CURE FOR LUMBAGO</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy threatens to resign from the club. He says it was sharp +practice. Archie MacBride says it wasn't half as sharp as the lumbago +trick which the Colonel worked on him as well as several of the other +young members. Colonel Jimmy Norman is one of the charter members of our +golf club. He is about as old as Methuselah and he looks it. That is +what fools people. It doesn't fool the handicap committee, though. +They've got the Colonel down to 8 now and he hasn't entered a club +competition since for fear they'll cut him to 6. Respect for age is a +fine thing, I admit, but anybody who can step out and tear off 79's and +80's on the Meadowmead course—72 par and a tough 72 at that—isn't +entitled to much the best of it because he can remember the Civil War +and cast his first vote for Tilden.</p> + +<p>Mind you, I don't say that Colonel Jimmy shoots 79's every day, but he +shoots 'em when he needs 79's to win, and that's the mark of a real +golfer. And bet? The old pirate will bet anything from a repainted golf +ball to a government bond. He has never been known to take his clubs out +of the locker without a gamble of some sort. The new members pay all the +expenses of Colonel Jimmy's golfing, as well as the upkeep of his +limousine—the old members are shy of him—and the way he can nurse a +victim along for months without letting him win a single bet is nothing +short of miraculous. I ought to know, for I am one of Colonel Jimmy's +graduates, and, while I never beat him in my life, he always left me +with the impression that I would surely rook him the next time—if I had +any luck. Somehow I never had the luck.</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy has the gentle art of coin separation down to an exact +science. Perhaps this is because he made his money in Wall Street and +applies Wall Street methods to his golf. After every match he waits +around until he collects. He always apologises for taking the money and +says that he hopes you'll be on your game the next time.</p> + +<p>The Colonel is a shrewd judge of how far he can go in shearing a lamb, +and when he sees signs that the victim is getting bare in spots and is +about ready to stop betting with him, he cleans up all the spare fleece +with the lumbago trick. I'll never forget how he worked it on me. I had +been betting him five and ten dollars a match and winning nothing but +sympathy and advice and I was about ready to quit the Colonel as a poor +investment.</p> + +<p>The next time I went out to the club I found Colonel Jimmy sitting on +the porch in the sun and I heard him groan even before I saw him. +Naturally I asked what was the matter.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's this cursed lumbago again! I must have caught cold after my +shower the other night and—ouch!—just when I'd been looking forward to +a nice little game this afternoon, too! It's a real pleasure to play +with a young man like you who—ouch! O-o-o!"</p> + +<p>After a while he began to wonder whether light exercise would do him any +good. I thought it might and he let me persuade him. If I would give him +my arm as far as his locker—ouch!</p> + +<p>All the time he was dressing he grunted and groaned and rubbed his back +and cursed the lumbago bitterly. He said it was the one thing the devil +didn't try on Job because it would have fetched him if he had. He +worried some because he would have to drive with an iron, not being able +to take a full swing with a wooden club. Then when he had me all ribbed +up properly, he dropped a hint where I couldn't help but stumble over +it.</p> + +<p>"You have always named the bet," said Colonel Jimmy. "Don't take +advantage of my condition to raise it beyond reason."</p> + +<p>Up to that time the idea of making a bet with a cripple hadn't occurred +to me. It wouldn't have seemed fair. I got to thinking about the fives +and the tens that the old rascal had taken away from me when the +advantage was all on his side and—</p> + +<p>"I suppose I shouldn't expect mercy," said Colonel Jimmy, fitting his +remarks to my thought like a mind reader. "I have been quite fortunate +in winning from you, William, when you were not playing your best. This +seems an excellent opportunity for you to take revenge. This cursed +lumbago——"</p> + +<p>The match was finally made at five dollars a hole, and if I hadn't been +ashamed of taking advantage of a cripple I would have said ten.</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy whined a little and said that in his condition it was +almost a shame for me to raise the bet to five dollars a hole and that +he couldn't possibly allow me any more than five strokes where before he +had been giving me eight and ten. He said he probably wouldn't get any +distance off the tees on account of not being able to take a full swing, +and I agreed on the basis of five strokes, one each on the five longest +holes.</p> + +<p>I went out to the professional's shop to buy some new balls. David +Cameron is a good club maker, but a disappointing conversationalist. He +says just so much, and then he stops and rubs his left ear. I told David +that I had caught Colonel Jimmy out of line at last and would bring him +home at least six or seven down.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said David. "He'll be havin' one of his attacks of the lumba-ago +again, I'm thinkin'. Ye've raised the bet?"</p> + +<p>I admitted that the bet had been pressed a little. "Ye're not gettin' as +many str-rokes as usual?"</p> + +<p>I explained about the Colonel's not being able to take a full swing with +his wooden clubs.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said David, beginning to polish his left ear.</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd tell me what you think," said I.</p> + +<p>"I'm thinkin'," said David, "that ye'll not have noticed that the +climate hereabouts is varra benefeecial to certain for-rms o' disease. +I've known it to cure the worst case o' lumba-ago between the clubhouse +an' the fir-rst tee. The day o' meeracles is not past by ony means," +concluded David, rubbing his ear hard.</p> + +<p>I suspected then that I had a bad bet. I was sure of it when I saw +Colonel Jimmy pulling his driver out of the bag on the first tee.</p> + +<p>"I thought you said you'd have to drive with an iron." I reminded him of +it anyway.</p> + +<p>"I might as well try the wood," said Colonel Jimmy. "I'll have to +shorten up my swing some and I suppose I'll top the ball."</p> + +<p>He groaned and he grunted when he took his practice swing, and said that +he was really afraid he'd have to call the bet off, but when he hit the +ball he followed through like a sixteen-year-old, and it went sailing +down the middle of the course, a good 200 yards—which is as far as +Colonel Jimmy ever drives.</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll declare!" he crowed. "Look at that ball go! I had no idea I +could do it! And with this lumbago too!"</p> + +<p>There's no use in prolonging the agony with a detailed account of the +match. The old shark was out for the fag end of the fleece crop so far +as I was concerned, and he surely gave me a close clip. He made a 79 +that day and I had to hand him my check for forty dollars. It might not +have been so much, only on every tee the Colonel whined about his +lumbago and got me in such a state of mind that I couldn't keep my eye +on the ball to save my life.</p> + +<p>When we got back to the clubhouse, David Cameron was sitting in the door +of his shop, rubbing his left ear thoughtfully. He knew it wouldn't have +been safe for him to ask about the match. Colonel Jimmy, confound him, +blatted right along, apologising to me for playing "better than he knew +how" and all that sort of rot. He said he hoped we could have another +match soon, and perhaps I was a little crusty with him. At any rate he +was satisfied that my forty-dollar check was the last contribution he +would ever get from me, and he took up with Archie MacBride, who had +just joined the club and was learning the game.</p> + +<p>Archie hails from out West somewhere and he has the Eastern agency for a +lot of stuff manufactured in Chicago. In the beginning he didn't know +any of the younger members at Meadowmead and that made it easy for the +Colonel to take him under his wing. The old rascal has rather a pleasant +manner—in the clubhouse at least—and he talked Chicago to Archie—what +a wonderful city it is and all that stuff. He talked the same way to me +about Cincinnati.</p> + +<p>I watched the shearing proceed to the lumbago stage, but I didn't +interfere. In the first place, it wasn't any of my business. In the +second, I hadn't been introduced to MacBride. And, besides, I had a sort +of curiosity to know how he would act when he was stung. He looked more +like a goat than a lamb to me.</p> + +<p>One day I was sitting on the porch and MacBride came out of the locker +room and sat down beside me. Colonel Jimmy was over on the extra green, +practicing sidehill putts. Somehow we drifted into conversation.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever play with that old fellow over there?" said he.</p> + +<p>"A few times."</p> + +<p>"Ever beat him?"</p> + +<p>"No-o. Nor anybody else. His methods are—well, peculiar."</p> + +<p>"Darned peculiar! I don't know but that the grand jury ought to +investigate 'em. If you shoot 110 at him, he's just good enough to win. +If you make a 90, he's still good enough to win. He's always good enough +to win. The other day I came out here and found him all doubled up +with——"</p> + +<p>"Lumbago, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p>MacBride held out his hand immediately.</p> + +<p>"Both members of the same lodge!" said he. "I feel better now. He nicked +me for an even hundred. What did he get you for?"</p> + +<p>Nothing cements a friendship like a common grievance. We had both been +rooked by the lumbago trick and we fell to discussing the Colonel and +his petty larceny system of picking on the new members.</p> + +<p>"Far be it that I should squeal," said Archie. "I hope I'm a good loser +as far as the money goes, but I hate to be bunkoed. I handed over one +hundred big iron dollars to that hoary old pirate—and I smiled when I +did it. It hurt me worse to smile than it did to part with the +frog-skins, but I wanted the Colonel to think that I didn't suspect him. +I want him to regard me as a soft proposition and an easy mark because +some day I am going to leave a chunk of bait lying around where that old +coyote can see it. If he gobbles it—good night. Yes, sir, I'm going to +slip one over on him that he'll remember even when they begin giving him +the oxygen."</p> + +<p>"He'll never be trimmed on a golf course," said I.</p> + +<p>"He'll never be trimmed anywhere else. It's the only game he plays. If +he sticks around this club, I'll introduce him to the Chicago method of +taking the bristles off a hog. I'm not sure, but I think it's done with +a hoe."</p> + +<p>"It can't be done with a set of golf clubs," said I.</p> + +<p>"Don't be too sure of that. By the way, my name's MacBride. What's +yours?... If you don't mind, I'll call you Bill for short. We will now +visit the nineteenth tee and pour a libation on the altar of friendship. +We will drink success to the Chicago method of shearing a hog. Simple, +effective, and oh, so painful!"</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy picked up a new pupil after Archie quit him and Archie +paired off with me. We played two or three times a week and often ran +into the Colonel on the porch or in the locker room. The old reprobate +was always cordial in his cat-and-canary way—infernally cordial. I +couldn't resist the temptation to inquire after his lumbago +occasionally, but it was next to impossible to hurt his feelings. The +old fellow's hide was bullet proof and even the broadest sort of hint +was lost on him. Archie was more tactful. He used to joke the Colonel +about a return match, but he was never able to fix a date. The Colonel +was busy anyway. His latest victim was a chinless youth from +Poughkeepsie with money to burn and no fear of matches.</p> + +<p>One afternoon Archie brought a friend out to the club with him—an +immense big chap with hands and feet like hams. Everything about him +was beyond the limit. He was too beefy to begin with, though I suppose +that wasn't his fault. He wore a red tie and a yellow vest. He talked +too much and too loud. Archie introduced him to me as Mr. Small of +Chicago.</p> + +<p>"Small but not little!" said Small. "Haw!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Small is an old friend of mine," said Archie. "He is taking a short +vacation and I am putting him up at the club for a week or ten days. He +doesn't look it, but his doctor says he needs exercise."</p> + +<p>"Yeh," said Small, "and while I'm resting I think I'll learn this fool +game of golf. Think of a big fellow like me, whaling a poor little pill +all over the country! I suppose all there is to it is to hit the blamed +thing."</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy was sitting over by the reading table and I saw him prick +up his ears at this remark. He always manages to scrape an acquaintance +with all the beginners.</p> + +<p>Small went booming along.</p> + +<p>"I can remember," said he, "when people who played golf were supposed to +be a little queer upstairs. Cow-pasture pool, we used to call it. It's a +good deal like shinny-on-your-own-side, ain't it?"</p> + +<p>Archie took him out to David to get him outfitted with clubs and things, +left Small in the shop, and came back to explain matters to me.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't mind Small's manner," said he. "He's really one of the best +fellows in the world, but he's—well, a trifle crude in spots. He's +never had time to acquire a polish; he's been too busy making money."</p> + +<p>"Excuse me"—Colonel Jimmy had been listening—"but is he in any way +related to the Caspar Smalls of Chicago and Denver?"</p> + +<p>"Not that I know of, Colonel," said Archie.</p> + +<p>"You spoke of money," said I. "Has he so much of it, then?"</p> + +<p>"Barrels, my dear boy, barrels. Crude oil is his line at present. And +only thirty-five years of age too. He's a self-made man, Small is."</p> + +<p>I couldn't think of anything to say except that he must have had a deuce +of a lot of raw material to start with—and if I put the accent on the +raw it was unintentional.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Archie, "his heart is in the right place anyway."</p> + +<p>When you can't think of anything else to say for a man, you can always +say that his heart is in the right place. It sounds well, but it doesn't +mean anything. Archie proposed that we should let Small go around with +us that afternoon. I didn't like the idea, but, of course, I kept mum; +the man was Archie's guest.</p> + +<p>Small got in bad on the first tee. I knew he would when I saw who was +ahead of us—Colonel Jimmy and the chinless boy. Like most elderly +mechanical golfers, the Colonel is a stickler for the etiquette of the +game—absolute silence and all that sort of thing.</p> + +<p>Archie introduced Small to the Colonel and the Colonel introduced us to +the chinless boy, who said he was charmed, stepped up on the tee and +whacked his ball into the rough.</p> + +<p>While the Colonel was teeing up, Small kept moving around and talking in +that megaphone voice of his. Colonel Jimmy looked at him rather +eloquently a couple of times and finally Small hushed up. The Colonel +took his stance, tramped around awhile to get a firm footing, addressed +the ball three times, and drew his club back for the swing. Just as it +started downward, Small sneezed—one of those sneezes with an Indian war +whoop on the end of it—"Aa-chew!" Naturally Colonel Jimmy jumped, took +his eye off the ball and topped it into the long grass in front of the +tee.</p> + +<p>"Take it over," said the chinless boy, who was a sport if nothing else.</p> + +<p>"I certainly intend to!" snapped the Colonel, glaring at Small. +"You—you spoiled my swing, sir!"</p> + +<p>"Quit your kidding, Colonel!" said Small. "How could I spoil your +swing?"</p> + +<p>"You sneezed behind me!"</p> + +<p>Small laughed at the top of his voice. "Haw! Haw! That's rich! Why, I've +seen Heinie Zimmerman hit a baseball a mile with thirty thousand people +yelling their heads off at him!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Archie, "but that was baseball. This is golf. There's a +difference."</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "when you are through with your +discussion, I would really like to drive."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>I played with Small all the afternoon without yielding to an impulse to +slay him with a niblick, which speaks volumes for my good disposition. +It was a harrowing experience. Small proceeded on the usual theory of +the beginner, which is to hit the ball as hard as possible and trust to +luck. The most I can say for his day's play is that I never expect to +see golf balls hit any harder. His wooden club shots hooked and sliced +into the woods on either side of the course—he bought a dozen balls to +begin with and was borrowing from us at the finish—he dug up great +patches of turf on the fair greens, he nearly destroyed three bunkers +and after every shot he yelled like a Comanche.</p> + +<p>We caught up with Colonel Jimmy at the eighteenth tee. The Colonel was +in a better humour and was offering to give the chinless boy a stroke +and play him double or quits on the last hole—sure proof that he had +him badly licked. The chinless boy took the bet.</p> + +<p>"Now, there's some sense to that!" said Small. "I never could play any +game for fun. Make it worth while, that's what I say! Archie, I'll bet +you a hundred that I beat you this hole!"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy was picking up a handful of sand from a tee. He dropped +it and began to clean his ball.</p> + +<p>"I'd be ashamed to take the money," said Archie. "You wouldn't have a +chance."</p> + +<p>"You mean you're afraid to take one. Be a sport!"</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> a sport. That's why I won't bet on a cinch."</p> + +<p>They had quite a jawing match and finally Archie said that he would bet +Small ten dollars.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" said Small. "I wouldn't exert myself for a measly ten spot. Make +it twenty-five!"</p> + +<p>"Well, if you insist," said Archie, "and I'll give you two strokes."</p> + +<p>"You'll give me nothing!" said Small. "What do you think I am? I'll play +you even and lick you." And he was so nasty about it that Archie had to +agree.</p> + +<p>The Colonel turned around after he played his second shot to watch us +drive. Small took a tremendous swing and hooked the ball over the fence +and out of bounds. He borrowed another and sliced that one into the +woods. When he finally sunk his putt—he took 17 for the hole and that +wasn't counting the ones he missed—he dug up a wallet stuffed with +currency and insisted on paying Archie on the spot.</p> + +<p>"I don't feel right about taking this," said Archie.</p> + +<p>"You won it, didn't you?" said Small. "If you had lost, would you have +paid?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es," said Archie, "but——"</p> + +<p>"But nothing! Take it and shut up!"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy, waiting on the porch, was an interested witness. In less +than five minutes by the watch the chinless boy was sitting over in a +corner, alone with a lemonade, and the Colonel had Small by the +buttonhole, talking Chicago to him. I have always claimed that Colonel +Jimmy has all the instincts of a wolf, but perhaps it is only his Wall +Street training that makes him so keen when a lamb is in sight.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Chicago is a live town all right," said Small, "but about this +golf proposition, now: I'm getting the hang of the thing, Colonel. If I +didn't lose so many balls——"</p> + +<p>"You have a fine, natural swing," said the Colonel in a tone soft as +corn silk. "A trifle less power, my friend, and you will get better +direction."</p> + +<p>Well, it was too much for me. I didn't care much for Small, but I hated +to see him walk into ambush with his eyes open. I left him and the +Colonel hobnobbing over their highballs, and went into the locker room, +where I found Archie.</p> + +<p>"Look here!" I said. "That old pirate is after your friend. Colonel +Jimmy heard Small make that fool bet on the eighteenth tee, and you know +what a leech he is when soft money is in sight. He's after him."</p> + +<p>"So soon?" said Archie. "Quick work."</p> + +<p>"Well, don't you think Small ought to be warned?"</p> + +<p>Archie laughed.</p> + +<p>"Warned about what?"</p> + +<p>"Don't be more of an ass than usual, Archie. The Colonel has got him out +there, telling him about Chicago. You know what that means, and a fellow +that bets as recklessly as Small does——"</p> + +<p>"I can't do anything," said Archie. "Small is of age."</p> + +<p>"But you wouldn't let him go up against a cinch?"</p> + +<p>"Small has been up against cinches all his life. That's how he made his +money."</p> + +<p>"That's how he'll lose it, too. I'll put a flea in his ear if you +don't."</p> + +<p>"Bill," said Archie, "I've made it a rule never to open my mouth in any +gambling game unless my money was on the table. Understand? Then, +whatever happens, there's no come-back at me. Think it over."</p> + +<p>"But the man is your guest!"</p> + +<p>"Exactly. He's my guest. If you see fit to warn him——" Archie shrugged +his shoulders.</p> + +<p>Well, what could I say after that? I took my shower bath and dressed. +Then I went into the lounging room. Small was, if anything, a trifle +noisier than ever.</p> + +<p>"Any game that I can bet on is the game for me," said he, "but I hate a +piker. Don't you hate a piker, Colonel?"</p> + +<p>"A man," said Colonel Jimmy, "should never bet more than he can afford +to lose—cheerfully."</p> + +<p>"Cheerfully. That's the ticket! You're a sport, Colonel. I can see it in +your eye. You don't holler when you lose. Now, Colonel, what would you +consider a good stiff bet, eh? How high would you go? This kindergarten +business wouldn't appeal to either one of us, would it? You wait till I +go around this course a few times and I'll make you a <i>real</i> bet—one +that will be worth playing for, eh? What's the most you ever played for, +Colonel?" It was like casting pearls before swine and he wasn't my +guest, but I did what I could for him.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Small," said I, "if you're going in to town there's room in my car +for you."</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I'm stopping here at the club. Archie fixed me up with a room. +The Colonel is going to stay and have dinner with me, ain't you, +Colonel? Surest thing you know! He's met a lot of friends of mine out +West. Small world, ain't it? Going, eh? Well, behave yourself!... Now +then, Colonel, gimme a few more days of this cow-pasture pool and I'll +show you what a real bet looks like!"</p> + +<p>I left the wolf and the lamb together, and I don't mind admitting that I +liked one as well as the other.</p> + +<p>Business took me out of town for ten days, and when I returned home I +was told that Archie had been telephoning me all the morning. I rang him +at his office.</p> + +<p>"Oh, hello, Bill! You're back just in time for the big show.... Eh? Oh, +Colonel Jimmy is due for another attack of lumbago this afternoon.... +Small telephoned me last night that he was complaining a little.... The +goat? Why, Small, of course! The chinless boy is playing alone these +days; better pickings elsewhere.... Yes, you oughtn't to miss it. See +you later. 'Bye."</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Now, very little happens at Meadowmead, in the clubhouse or on the +links, without David Cameron's knowledge. The waiters talk, the steward +gossips, the locker-room boys repeat conversations which they overhear, +and the caddies are worse than magpies. David, listening patiently and +rubbing his ear, comes by a great deal of interesting information. I +felt certain that he would have a true line on the wool market. I found +him sitting in front of his shop. He was wearing a collar and tie, which +is always a sign that he is at liberty for the afternoon. "You're +dressed up to-day, David," said I.</p> + +<p>"Ay," said he, "I'm thinkin' I'll be a gallery."</p> + +<p>"Is there a match?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, a money match. The ter-rms were agreed on at eleven this mornin'. +The Cur-rnel is gruntin' an' groanin' with the lumba-ago again. Muster +Small has taken a cruel advan-take of the auld man. A cruel advantage."</p> + +<p>"What are they playing for?" I asked.</p> + +<p>David rolled his eyes full upon me and regarded me steadily without +blinking.</p> + +<p>"A thousan' dollars a side," said he quietly.</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>"</p> + +<p>"Ay. Posted in the safe. Muster Small wanted to make it for two. It was +a compr-romise."</p> + +<p>"But, man, it's highway robbery! One thousand dollars!"</p> + +<p>David continued to look at me fixedly.</p> + +<p>"Do ye ken, Muster Bell," said he at last, "that's precisely what I'm +thinkin' it is mysel'—juist highway robbery."</p> + +<p>"What handicap is he giving Small?"</p> + +<p>"None. Muster Small wouldna listen to it. He said the Cur-rnel was +a'ready handicapped wi' auld age, lumba-ago, an' cauld feet. His remarks +were quite personal, ye'll understand, an' he counted down the notes on +the table an' blethered an' howled an' reminded the Cur-rnel that he had +lost three hunder to him the last week. The auld gentleman was fair +be-damned an' bullied into makin' the match, an' he was in such a +towerin' rage he could scarce write a check.... Ay, I'm thinkin' it will +be a divertin' match to watch."</p> + +<p>Archie arrived just as Small and Colonel Jimmy started for the first +tee. We formed the gallery, with David Cameron trailing along +unobtrusively in the rear, sucking reflectively on a briar pipe. The +Colonel gave us one look, which said very plainly that he hoped we would +choke, but thought better of it and dropped back to shake hands and +explain his position in the matter.</p> + +<p>"Pretty stiff money match, isn't it, Colonel?" asked Archie.</p> + +<p>"And surely you're not playing him <i>even</i>!" said I. "No handicap?"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy had the grace to blush; I wouldn't have believed he knew +how. I suppose if you should catch a wolf in a sheepfold the wolf would +blush too—not because he felt that he was doing anything wrong by his +own standards, but because of the inferences that might be drawn from +the wool in his teeth. The Colonel didn't in the least mind preying on +lambs, but he hated to have a gallery catch him at it. He hastened to +explain that it was all the lamb's fault.</p> + +<p>He said that he found himself in an unfortunate situation because he had +allowed his temper to get away from him and had "answered a fool +according to his folly." He blamed Small for forcing him into a position +where he might falsely be accused of taking an unfair advantage. He +whined pitifully about his lumbago—the worst attack he remembered—and +earnestly hoped that "the facts would not be misrepresented in any way." +He also said that he regretted the entire incident and had offered to +call off the match, but had been grossly insulted and accused of having +cold feet.</p> + +<p>"It isn't that I want the man's money," said he, "but I feel that he +should have a lesson in politeness!"</p> + +<p>On the whole, it was a very poor face for a wolf to wear. He groaned +some more about his lumbago, which he said was killing him by inches, +and went forward to join Small on the tee.</p> + +<p>"The old pirate!" said Archie. "He wasn't counting on any witnesses, and +our being here is going to complicate matters. Did you get what he said +about hoping the facts would not be misrepresented? He's wondering what +we'll tell the other members, and for the looks of the thing he won't +dare rook Small too badly. Our being here will force him to make the +match as close as he can."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said I, "there ought to be some pretty fair comedy."</p> + +<p>Small came over to us while the Colonel was teeing his ball. He looked +bigger and rawer than ever in white flannel, and he didn't seem in the +least worried about his bet. He was just as offensive as ever, and I +could appreciate the Colonel's point about giving him a lesson in +politeness.</p> + +<p>As early as the first hole it became evident—painfully so—that Colonel +Jimmy was out to make the match a close one at any cost. It would never +do to give Small the impression that his pockets had been picked. In +order to make him think that he had had a run for his money, the Colonel +had to play as bad golf as Small—and he did it, shades of Tom Morris +and other departed golfers, he did it!</p> + +<p>Bad golf is a depressing spectacle to watch, but deliberately bad golf, +cold-blooded, premeditated and studied out in advance, is a crime, and +that is the only word which fits Colonel Jimmy's shameless exhibition. +His only excuse was that it needed criminally bad golf to make the match +seem close. The old fellow's driving was atrocious, he slopped and +flubbed his iron shots in a disgusting manner, and his putting would +have disgraced a blind man. Lumbago was his alibi, and he worked it +overtime for our benefit. After every shot he would drop his club, clap +his hands on his back, and groan like an entire hospital ward.</p> + +<p>The only noticeable improvement in Small's playing was that he managed +somehow or other to keep his ball on the course, though the lopsided, +thumb-handed, clubfooted way he went at his shots was enough to make +angels weep. Then, too, he didn't have so much to say and didn't yell +after he hit the ball.</p> + +<p>Thirteen holes they played, and I venture the statement that nothing +like that match has ever been seen since the time when golf balls were +stuffed with feathers. By playing just as badly as he knew how, getting +into all the bunkers, and putting everywhere but straight at the cup, +Colonel Jimmy arrived on the fourteenth tee all square with Small. They +had each won two holes; the others had been halved in scandalous +figures.</p> + +<p>I could tell by the way the Colonel messed the fourteenth hole that he +wanted to halve that too. He certainly didn't try to win it. Small's +fifth shot was in the long grass just off the edge and to the right of +the putting green. Colonel Jimmy laid his sixth within three feet of the +cup.</p> + +<p>"Boy, give me that shovel!" said Small, and the caddie handed him a +niblick. It wasn't really a bad lie, but the ball had to be chopped out +of three inches of grass.</p> + +<p>"In a case of this kind," said Small, "I guess you trust to luck, what?" +He played a short chop shot and the ball went hopping toward the pin, +hit the back of the cup with a plunk, and dropped for a six. Of course +it was a pure accident.</p> + +<p>"Fluke!" said Colonel Jimmy, rather annoyed.</p> + +<p>"Sure!" said Small. "But it wins the hole just the same!"</p> + +<p>I knew then that the comedy was over for the day. Four holes remained to +be played, and the Colonel was one down. It was never his policy to +leave anything to chance. He would run the string out at top speed. +David Cameron came up from the rear.</p> + +<p>"They'll play golf from here in," he whispered.</p> + +<p>"They!" said I. "One of 'em will!"</p> + +<p>"Do ye really think so?" said David.</p> + +<p>Our Number Fifteen is 278 yards long, over perfectly level ground. There +are bunkers to the right and left of the putting green and a deep sand +trap behind it. It is a short hole, but the sort of one which needs +straight shooting and an accurate pitch. Of all the holes on the course, +I think it is the Colonel's favourite.</p> + +<p>"My honour, eh?" said Small. "That being the case, I guess I'll just rap +it out of the lot!"</p> + +<p>He didn't bother to measure the distance or take a practice swing. He +didn't even address the ball. He walked up to it and swung his driver +exactly as a man would swing a baseball bat—tremendous power but no +form whatever—and the wonder is that he hit it clean. A white speck +went sailing up the course, rising higher and higher in the air. When +the ball stopped rolling it was 260 yards from the tee and on a direct +line with the pin.</p> + +<p>"Beat that!" said Small.</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy didn't say anything, but he grunted whole volumes. It +takes more than a long drive to rattle that old reprobate. He whipped +his ball 200 yards down the course and stepped off the tee so well +satisfied with himself that he forgot to groan and put his hands on his +back. Small laughed.</p> + +<p>"Lumbago not so bad now, eh?" said he.</p> + +<p>"I—I may be limbering up a bit," said the Colonel. "The long drive +isn't everything, you know; it's the second shot that counts!"</p> + +<p>"All right," said Small. "Let's see one!"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy studied his lie for some time and went through all the +motions, but when the shot came it was a beauty—a mashie pitch which +landed his ball five feet from the cup.</p> + +<p>"Beat that one!" said he.</p> + +<p>"I'll just do that thing!" said Small. And he did. Of course he had a +short approach, as approaches go, but even so I was not prepared to see +him play a push shot and rim the cup, leaving his ball stone dead for a +three. Colonel Jimmy was not prepared to see it either, and I have +reason to believe that the push shot jarred the old rascal from his +rubber heels upward. He went about the sinking of that five-foot putt +with as much deliberation as if his thousand dollars depended on it. He +sucked in his breath and got down on all fours—a man with lumbago +couldn't have done it on a bet—and he studied the roll of the turf for +a full minute—studied it to some purpose, for when he tapped the ball +it ran straight and true into the cup, halving the hole.</p> + +<p>"You're getting better every minute!" said Small. "I'm some little +lumbago specialist, believe me!"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy didn't answer, but he looked thoughtful and just the least +mite worried. One down and three to go for a thousand dollars—it's a +situation that will worry the best of 'em.</p> + +<p>Number Sixteen was where the light dawned on me. It is a long, tricky +hole—bogey 6, par 5—and if the Colonel hadn't made another phenomenal +approach, laying his ball dead from fifty yards off the green, Small +would have won that too. They halved in fives, but it was Small's second +shot that opened my eyes. He used a cleek where most players would try a +brassie, and he sent the ball screaming toward the flag—220 yards—and +at no time was it more than ten feet from the ground. I was behind him +when he played, and I can swear that there wasn't an inch of hook or +slice on that ball. The cleek is no club for a novice. I remembered the +niblick shot on the fourteenth. That was surely a fluke, but how about +the push shot on fifteen? English professionals have written whole books +about the push shot, but mighty few men have ever learned to play it. +Putting that and the cleek shot together, the light broke in on me—and +my first impulse was to kick Archie MacBride.</p> + +<p>I don't know who Colonel Jimmy wanted to kick, but he looked as if he +would relish kicking somebody. He had been performing sums in mental +addition, too, and he got the answer about the same time that I did.</p> + +<p>"It's queer about that lumbago," said Small again.</p> + +<p>"Yes," snapped the old man, "but it's a lot queerer the way you've +picked up this game in the last two holes!"</p> + +<p>"Well," and Small laughed, "you remember that I warned you I never could +play for piker money, Colonel—that is, not very <i>well</i>."</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy gave him a look that was all wolf—and cornered wolf at +that. He answered Small with a nasty sneer.</p> + +<p>"So you can't play well unless big money is bet, eh? That is exactly +what I'm beginning to think, sir!"</p> + +<p>"At any rate," said Small, "I've cured your lumbago for you, Colonel. +You can charge that thousand to doctor bills!"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy gulped a few times, his neck swelled and his face turned +purple. There wasn't a single thing he could find to say in answer to +that remark. He started for the seventeenth tee, snarling to himself. I +couldn't stand it any longer. I drew Archie aside.</p> + +<p>"I think you might have told me," I said.</p> + +<p>"Told you what?"</p> + +<p>"Why, about Small—if that's his name. What have you done? Rung in a +professional on the old man?"</p> + +<p>"Professional, your grandmother!" said Archie. "Small is an amateur in +good standing. Darned good standing. If the Colonel knew as much about +the Middle West as he pretends to know, he'd have heard of Small. +Wonder how the old boy likes the Chicago method of shearing a pig?"</p> + +<p>The old boy didn't like it at all, but the seventeenth hole put the +crown on his rage and mortification. Small drove another long straight +ball, and after the Colonel had got through sneering about that he +topped his own drive, slopped his second into a bunker, and reached the +green in five when he should have been there in two. I thought the agony +was over, but I didn't give Small credit for cat-and-mouse tendencies.</p> + +<p>"In order to get all the good out of this lumbago treatment," said he, +"it ought to go the full eighteen holes." Then, with a deliberation that +was actually insulting, he played his second shot straight into a deep +sand trap. I heard a queer clucking, choking noise behind me, but it was +only David Cameron doing his best to keep from laughing out loud.</p> + +<p>"Muster Small is puttin' the shoe on the other foot!" said David. "Ay, +it's his turn to waste a few now."</p> + +<p>"Cheer up, Colonel!" said Small. "You fooled away a lot of shots early +in the match—on account of your lumbago, of course. I'm just as +generous as you are when it comes to halving holes with an easy mark." +To prove it Small missed a niblick shot a foot, but pitched out on his +fourth, and, by putting all over the green, finally halved the hole.</p> + +<p>When Small stood up on the eighteenth tee for his last drive he looked +over at the Colonel and nodded his head. "Colonel?" said he.</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy grunted—rather a profane grunt, I thought.</p> + +<p>"Dormie!" said Small.</p> + +<p>"Confound it, sir! You talk too much!"</p> + +<p>"So I've heard," said Small. "I'll make you a business proposition, +Colonel. Double or quits on the last hole? I understand that's what you +do when you're sure you can win. Two thousand or nothing?... No? Oh, all +right! No harm done, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>Colonel Jimmy had a burglar's chance to halve the match by winning the +last hole, and he fought for it like a cornered wolf. They were both on +the green in threes, Small ten feet from the cup and the Colonel at +least fifteen. If he could sink his putt and Small should miss his, the +match would be square again.</p> + +<p>The old man examined every blade of grass between his ball and the hole. +Three times he set himself to make the putt, and then got down to take +another look at the roll of the green—proof that his nerve was breaking +at last. When he finally hit the ball it was a weak, fluttering stroke, +and though the ball rolled true enough, it stopped four feet short of +the cup.</p> + +<p>"Never up, never in!" said Small. "Well, here goes for the +thousand-dollar doctor bill! Lumbago is a very painful ailment, Colonel. +It's worth something to be cured of it." Colonel Jimmy didn't say a +word. He looked at Small and then he turned and looked at MacBride. All +his smooth and oily politeness had deserted him; his little tricks and +hypocrisies had dropped away and left the wolf exposed—snarling and +showing his teeth. I thought that he was going to throw his putter at +Archie, but he turned and threw it into the lake instead—into the +middle, where the water is deep. Then he marched into the clubhouse, +stiff as a ramrod, and so he missed seeing Small sink his ten-foot putt.</p> + +<p>"An' ye were really surprised?" said David Cameron to me.</p> + +<p>"I was," said I. "When did you find it out, David?"</p> + +<p>"Come out to the shop," said the professional. He showed me a list of +the players rated by the Western Golf Association. A man by the name of +Small was very close to the top—very close indeed.</p> + +<p>We don't know whether the Colonel is going to lay the case before the +committee or not. If he does, we shall have to explain why he has not +had an attack of lumbago since.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_MAN_WHO_QUIT" id="THE_MAN_WHO_QUIT"></a>THE MAN WHO QUIT</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes squinted along the line of his short putt, +breathed hard through his prominent and highly decorative nose, +concentrated his mighty intellect upon the task before him, and tapped +the small white ball ever so lightly. It rolled toward the cup, wavered +from the line, returned to it again, seemed about to stop short of its +destination, hovered for one breathless instant on the very lip, and at +last fell into the hole.</p> + +<p>Mr. Parkes, who had been hopping up and down on one leg, urging the ball +forward with inarticulate commands and violent contortions of his body, +and behaving generally in the manner of a baseball fan or a financially +interested spectator at a horse race, suddenly relaxed with a deep grunt +of relief. He glanced at his opponent—a tall, solemn-looking +gentleman—who was regarding Mr. Parkes with an unblinking stare in +which disgust, chagrin and fathomless melancholy were mingled.</p> + +<p>"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announced +Parkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time. +"Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and I +licked you"—here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "I +licked you on an even game! An even game—d'you get that, Bob? Didn't +have to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on an +even game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I had +it in me, did you?"</p> + +<p>The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr. +Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victor +became aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream of +self-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. There +was a short, painful silence.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically; +"but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn't +think I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicap +man before——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of one +who brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off—I +don't care. Give yourself a <i>loud</i> cheer while you're at it. I'm not +paying any attention to you."</p> + +<p>Mr. Parkes was not exactly pleased with the permission thus handsomely +granted.</p> + +<p>"No need for you to get sore about it," was the sulky comment.</p> + +<p>The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitter +undertone in his mirth.</p> + +<p>"Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like you +handed me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?"</p> + +<p>"Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'd +better haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and you +look as if you'd lost your last friend."</p> + +<p>"I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost my +game. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any game +to lose. It's awful—awful!"</p> + +<p>"Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while."</p> + +<p>"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I +was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was +working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong—my shots left me. +I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the +course—couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game +would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some +improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows any +more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself +do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've +changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my +life—and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a +battle!"</p> + +<p>"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worry +too much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's a +sport—a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but I +never worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten; +to-day——"</p> + +<p>"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I suppose +you call that good—eh?"</p> + +<p>"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind! +Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on, +take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. The +match is over, so you won't have that to worry about."</p> + +<p>"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golfer +yourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not being +beaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and then +falling down on the execution—that's what breaks my heart! If ever you +get so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and your +game leaves you overnight—steps right out from under you and leaves you +flat—then you'll know how I feel."</p> + +<p>"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a bad +player—oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. And +just to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in—no +handicap—not even a bisque. What say?"</p> + +<p>"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time tee +shots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward the +clubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. He +grinned from ear to ear and illustrated an animated discourse with +sweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him, +kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders sagged +listlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on +the ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of his +drooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himself +heavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out of +the window but seeing nothing.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated before +the stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-lustre +eyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand.</p> + +<p>"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with this +double-dash-blanked game."</p> + +<p>Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a full +heart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne's +friends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement was +received with calmness—not to say a certain amount of levity.</p> + +<p>"We've all been there!" chuckled one of the listeners.</p> + +<p>"Many's the time!" supplemented another.</p> + +<p>"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'd +been slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the damned shaft. Did me +a lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual, +and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that has +been annoying you. Try it some time."</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Mr. Coyne. "I'd have to break 'em all!"</p> + +<p>"Maybe you don't drink enough," hazarded another.</p> + +<p>"Cheer up!" said the first speaker. "You'll be all right this +afternoon."</p> + +<p>The afflicted one lifted his head again and gazed mournfully at his +friends.</p> + +<p>"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong. +I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks—not one. I—I don't +know what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you."</p> + +<p>"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like an +April zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-bad +golfer—ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to my +ball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-foot +putt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine trimming +this morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three and +two without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn't +make him like it. What do you think of that, eh?"</p> + +<p>"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?" +Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window.</p> + +<p>"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight. +Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just to +put some life into him and stir up his—er—cupidity. I guess that's the +word. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do? +Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up his +ball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of Hell's +Half Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!"</p> + +<p>"He has cause—if you beat him," said one of the older members.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could win from a <i>well</i> man once in a while," complained +Parkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on an +invalid."</p> + +<p>"Oh, shut up and let Bob alone!"</p> + +<p>"Yes; quit riding him."</p> + +<p>"Don't rub it in!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him, +and the general conversation languished until the devil himself prompted +one of the veteran golfers to offer advice:</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Bob. You're overgolfed. You've +been playing too much lately."</p> + +<p>"You've gone stale," said another.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" argued a third. "You don't go stale at golf; you simply get +off your game. Now what Bob ought to do is to take one club and a dozen +balls and stay with that club until he gets his shots back."</p> + +<p>"That's no good," said a fourth. "If his wood has gone bad on him he +ought to leave his driver in his bag and use an iron off the tee. Chick +Evans does that."</p> + +<p>"An iron off the tee," said the veteran, "is a confession of weakness."</p> + +<p>"Bob, why don't you get the 'pro' to give you a lesson or two? He might +be able to straighten you out."</p> + +<p>"Oh, what does a professional know about the theory of golf? All he can +do is to tell you to watch him and do the way he does. Now what Bob +needs——"</p> + +<p>Every man who plays golf, no matter how badly, feels himself competent +to offer advice. For a long ten minutes the air was heavy with +well-meant suggestions. Coming at the wrong time, nothing is more +galling than sympathetic counsel. Bob Coyne, six-handicap man and +expert in the theory of golf, hunched his shoulders and endured it all +without comment or protest. Somewhere in his head an idea was taking +definite shape. Slowly but surely he was being urged to the point where +decision merges into action.</p> + +<p>"I tell you," said the veteran with the calm insistence of age, "Bob +ought to take a lay-off. He ought to forget golf for a while."</p> + +<p>Coyne rose and moved toward the door. As his hand touched the knob the +irrepressible Parkes hurled the last straw athwart a heavy burden.</p> + +<p>"If ever I get so that I can't enjoy this game any more," said he, "I +hope I'll have strength of character enough to quit playing it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you do, do you?" demanded Coyne with the cold rage of a quiet man, +goaded beyond the limit of his endurance. "Well, don't flatter yourself. +You haven't—and you won't!"</p> + +<p>The door closed behind this rather cryptic remark, and the listeners +looked at each other and shook their heads.</p> + +<p>"Never knew Bob to act like this before," said one.</p> + +<p>"Anything can happen when a man's game is in a slump," said the veteran. +"Take a steady, brainy player—a first-class golfer; let him lose his +shots for a week and there's no telling what he'll do. Nothing to +it—this is the most interesting and the most exasperating outdoor +sport in the world.</p> + +<p>"Just when you think you've learned all there is to learn about +it—bang! And there you are, flat!"</p> + +<p>"He's been wolfing at me all morning," said Parkes. "Kind of silly to +let a game get on your nerves, eh?"</p> + +<p>"You'll never know how a real golfer feels when his shots go bad on +him," was the consoling response. "There he goes with his bag of clubs. +Practice won't help him any. What he needs is a lay-off."</p> + +<p>"He's headed for the caddie shed," said Parkes. "I'd hate to carry his +bag this afternoon. Be afraid he'd bite me, or something.... Say, have +you fellows heard about the two Scotchmen, playing in the finals for a +cup? It seems that MacNabb lost his ball on the last hole, and MacGregor +was helping him look for it——"</p> + +<p>"I always did like that yarn," interrupted the veteran. "It's just as +good now as it was twenty years ago. Shoot!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested they +listened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carrying +profession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the name +of Butch:</p> + +<p>"And you oughta seen him at the finish—all he needed was an undertaker! +You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time. +The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag—darned if it wasn't +pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the +last hole——"</p> + +<p>"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the +clubhouse. "Here he comes now!"</p> + +<p>Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free +discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of +expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first +thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances +turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was +unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in +the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what +brought him into their midst.</p> + +<p>"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced +cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which +one would you take?"</p> + +<p>"If I had a <i>what</i>?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement.</p> + +<p>"Which one of these clubs do you like the best?"</p> + +<p>"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's +hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag.</p> + +<p>"It's yours," said he briefly.</p> + +<p>"Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You—you ain't <i>giving</i> it to me, are you?" +Coyne nodded. "But—but what's the idea? You can't get along without +that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!"</p> + +<p>"Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf."</p> + +<p>"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the +privileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get so +old they can't walk!"</p> + +<p>"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of +these other boys——"</p> + +<p>"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you +meant it at first. I——"</p> + +<p>"Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?"</p> + +<p>"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This +ain't Injun givin'? Because—me, I had my eye on that brassy for some +time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, +mister! Gee! What do think of that—hey? Some club!"</p> + +<p>At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager +youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So +far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing +history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later +for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the +getting was good.</p> + +<p>"Please, can I have that driver?"</p> + +<p>"Aw, mister, you know me!"</p> + +<p>"The mashie would be my pick!"</p> + +<p>"Who ast <i>you</i> to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old brass putter +there, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a brass putter."</p> + +<p>"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's a +mighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!"</p> + +<p>In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entire +collection of golfing instruments, representing the careful and +discriminating accumulation of years, passed into new hands. Everybody +knows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite, +once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possesses +something more than proper weight and balance; it has personality and +is, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver, +the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, the +scarred old niblick, the two putters—everything was swept away in one +wild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these old +friends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all," +said he at length.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Coyne," said Butch, who had been practising imaginary approach +shots with the light mid-iron, "you wouldn't care if I had about an inch +taken off this shaft, would you? It's a little too long for me."</p> + +<p>"Cut a foot off it if you like."</p> + +<p>"I just wanted to know," said Butch apologetically. "Lots of people say +they're going to quit; but——"</p> + +<p>"It isn't a case of going to quit with me," said Coyne. "I <i>have</i> quit! +You can make kindling wood out of that shaft if you like."</p> + +<p>Then, with the empty bag under his arm, and his bridges aflame behind +him, he marched back to the clubhouse, his chin a bit higher in the air +than was absolutely necessary.</p> + +<p>Later his voice was heard in the shower room, loud and clear above the +sound of running water. It suited him to sing and the ditty of his +choice was a cheerful one; but the rollicking words failed to carry +conviction. An expert listener might have detected a tone smacking +strongly of defiance and suspected that Mr. Coyne was singing to keep up +his courage.</p> + +<p>When next seen he was clothed, presumably in his right mind, and +rummaging deep in his locker. On the floor was a pile of miscellaneous +garments—underwear, sweaters, shirts, jackets, knickerbockers and +stockings. To his assistance came Jasper, for twenty years a fixture in +the locker room and as much a part of the club as the sun porch or the +front door.</p> + +<p>"Gettin' yo' laundry out, suh? Lemme give you a hand."</p> + +<p>Now Jasper was what is known as a character; and, moreover, he was a +privileged one. He was on intimate terms with every member of the +Country Club and entitled to speak his mind at all times. He had made a +close study of the male golfing animal in all his varying moods; he knew +when to sympathise with a loser, when to congratulate a winner, and when +to remain silent. Jasper was that rare thing known as the perfect locker +room servant.</p> + +<p>"This isn't laundry," explained Coyne. "I'm just cleaning house—that's +all.... Think you can use these rubber-soled golf shoes?"</p> + +<p>"Misteh Coyne, suh," said Jasper, "them shoes is as good as new. Whut +you want to give 'em away faw?"</p> + +<p>"Because I won't be wearing 'em any more."</p> + +<p>"H-m-m! Too small, maybe?"</p> + +<p>"No; they fit all right. Fact of the matter is, Jasper, I'm sick of this +game and I'm going to quit it."</p> + +<p>Jasper's eyes oscillated rapidly.</p> + +<p>"Aw, no, Misteh Coyne!" said he in the tone one uses when soothing a +peevish child. "You jus' <i>think</i> you goin' to quit—tha's all!"</p> + +<p>"You never heard me say I was going to quit before, did you?" demanded +Coyne.</p> + +<p>"No, suh; no."</p> + +<p>"Well, when I say I'm going to quit, you can bet I mean it!" Jasper +reflected on this statement.</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," said he gently. "Betteh let me put them things back, Misteh +Coyne. They in the way here."</p> + +<p>"What's the use of putting 'em back in the locker? They're no good to +me. Make a bundle of 'em and give 'em to the poor."</p> + +<p>"Mph! Po' folks ain't wearin' them shawt pants much—not this season, +nohow!"</p> + +<p>"I don't care what you do with 'em! Throw 'em away—burn 'em up—pitch +'em out. I don't care!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh. All right, suh. Jus' as you say." Jasper rolled the heap into +a bundle and began tying it with the sleeves of a shirt. "I'll look +afteh 'em, suh."</p> + +<p>"Never mind looking after 'em. Get rid of the stuff. I'm through, I tell +you—done—finished—quit!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh. I heard you the firs' time you said it."</p> + +<p>The negro was on his knees fumbling with the knot. Something in his tone +irritated Coyne—caused him to feel that he was not being taken +seriously.</p> + +<p>"I suppose a lot of members quit—eh?" said he.</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," replied Jasper with a flash of ivory. "Some of 'em quits +oncet a month, reg'leh."</p> + +<p>"But you never heard of a case where a player gave all his clubs away, +did you?" demanded Coyne.</p> + +<p>"Some of 'em <i>breaks</i> clubs," said Jasper; "but they always gits new +shafts put in. Some of 'em th'ow 'em in the lake; but they fish 'em out +ag'in. But—give 'em away? No, suh! They don' neveh do that."</p> + +<p>"Well," said Coyne, "when I make up my mind to do a thing I do it right. +I've given away every club I owned."</p> + +<p>Jasper lifted his head and stared upward, mouth open and eyelids +fluttering rapidly.</p> + +<p>"You—you given yo' clubs away!" he ejaculated. "Who'd you give 'em to, +suh?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, to the caddies," was the airy response. "Made a sort of general +distribution. One club to each kid."</p> + +<p>"Misteh Coyne," said Jasper earnestly, "tha's foolishness—jus' plain +foolishness. S'pose you ain' been playin' yo' reg'leh game +lately—s'pose you had a lot o' bad luck—that ain' no reason faw you to +do a thing like that. Givin' all them expensible clubs to them +pin-headed li'l' boys! Lawd! Lawd! They don't know how to treat 'em! +They'll be splittin' the shafts, an' crackin' the heads, an' nickin' up +the irons, an'——"</p> + +<p>"Well," interrupted Coyne, "what of it? I hope they do break 'em!"</p> + +<p>Jasper shook his head sorrowfully and returned to the bundle. While +studying golfers he had come to know the value placed on golfing tools.</p> + +<p>"O' course," said he slowly, "yo' own business is yo' own business, +Misteh Coyne. Only, suh, it seem like a awful shame to me. Seem like +bustin' up housekeepin' afteh you been married a long time.... Why not +wait a few days an' see how you feel then?"</p> + +<p>"No! I'm through."</p> + +<p>Jasper jerked his head in the direction of the lounging room.</p> + +<p>"You tol' the otheh gen'lemen whut you goin' to do?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"What's the use? They'd only laugh. They wouldn't believe me. Let 'em +find it out for themselves. And, by the way—there's my empty bag in the +corner. Dispose of it somehow. Give it away—sell it. You can have +whatever you get for it."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, suh. You comin' back to see us once in a while?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I suppose so. With the wife and the kids. Well, take care of +yourself."</p> + +<p>Jasper followed him to the door and watched until the little runabout +disappeared down the driveway.</p> + +<p>"All foolishness—tha's whut it is!" soliloquised the negro.</p> + +<p>"This golf game—she's sutny a goat getteh when she ain' goin' right. +Me, I ratheh play this Af'ican golf with two dice. That's some goat +getteh, too, an' lots of people quits it; but I notice they always +comes back. Yes, suh; they always comes back."</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>As the runabout coughed and sputtered along the county road the man at +the wheel had time to think over the whole matter. Everything +considered, he decided that he had acted wisely.</p> + +<p>"Been playing too much golf, anyway," he told himself. "Wednesday and +Saturday afternoons, Sundays and holidays—too much!... And then +worrying about my game in between. It'll be off my mind now.... One +thing sure—Mary'll be glad to hear the news. That old joke of hers +about being a golf widow won't go any more. Yes, she'll have to dig up a +new one.... Maybe I have been a little selfish and neglectful. I'll make +up for it now, though. Sundays we can take the big car and go on +picnics. The kids'll like that."</p> + +<p>He pursued this train of thought until he felt almost virtuous. He could +see himself entering the house; he could picture his wife's amazement +and pleasure; he could hear himself saying something like this:</p> + +<p>"Well, my dear, you've got your wish at last. After thinking it all over +I've decided to cut out the golf and devote myself to the family. Yes; +I'm through!"</p> + +<p>In this highly commendable spirit he arrived at home, only to find the +shades drawn and the front door locked. As Coyne felt for his key ring +he remembered that his wife had said something about taking the children +to spend the day with her mother. It was also the servant's afternoon +off and the house was empty. Coyne was conscious of a slight +disappointment; he was the bearer of glad tidings, but he had no +audience.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," he thought; "it's been a long time since I had a quiet +Sunday afternoon at home. Do me good. Guess I'll read a while and then +run over to mother's for supper. I don't read as much as I used to. Man +ought to keep up to date."</p> + +<p>Then, because he was a creature of habit and the most methodical of men, +he must have his pipe and slippers before sitting down with his book. +Mary Coyne was a good wife and a faithful mother, but she abominated a +pipe in the living room; and she tolerated slippers only when they were +of her own choosing.</p> + +<p>Now there are things which every woman knows; but there is one thing +which no woman has ever known and no woman will ever know—namely, that +she is not competent to select slippers for her lord and master. Bob +Coyne was a patient man, but he loathed slippers his wife picked out for +him. He was pledged to a worn and disreputable pair of the pattern known +as Romeos—relics of his bachelor days. They were run down at the heel +and thin of sole; but they were dear to his heart and he clung to them +obstinately in spite of their shabby appearance. After the honeymoon it +had been necessary to speak sternly with his wife on the subject of the +Romeos, else she would have thrown them on the ash heap. Since that +interview Mrs. Coyne—obedient soul!—had spent a great portion of her +married life in finding safe hiding places for those wretched slippers; +but no matter where she put them, they seemed certain of a triumphant +resurrection.</p> + +<p>Coyne went on a still hunt for the Romeos, and found them at last, +tucked away in the clothes closet of the spare room upstairs. This +closet was a sort of catchall, as the closets of spare rooms are apt to +be; and as Coyne stooped to pick up the slippers he knocked down +something which had been standing in a dark corner. It fell with a heavy +thump, and there on the floor at his feet was a rusty old mid-iron—the +first golf club Coyne had ever owned.</p> + +<p>He had not seen that mid-iron in years, but he remembered it well. He +picked it up, sighted along the shaft, found it still reasonably +straight and unwarped, balanced the club in his hands, waggled it once +as if to make a shot; then he replaced it hastily, seized the slippers, +and hurried downstairs.</p> + +<p>The book of his selection was one highly recommended by press and +pulpit, hence an ideal tale for a Sunday afternoon; so he dragged an +easy-chair to the front window, lighted his pipe, put his worn Romeos +on a taboret, and settled down to solid comfort. In spite of the fact +that the book was said to be gripping, and entertaining from cover to +cover, Coyne encountered some difficulty in getting into the thing. He +skimmed through the first chapter, yawned and looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>"They're just getting away for the afternoon round," said he; and then, +with the air of one who has caught himself in a fault, he attacked +Chapter Two. It proved even worse than the first. He told himself that +the characters were out of drawing, the situations impossible, and the +humour strained or stale.</p> + +<p>At the end of Chapter Three he pitched the book across the room and +closed his eyes. Five minutes later he rose, knocked the ashes from his +pipe, and went slowly upstairs. He assured himself he was not in search +of anything; but his aimless wanderings brought him at last to the spare +room, where he seated himself on the edge of the bed. He remained there +for twenty minutes, motionless, staring into space. Then he rose, +crossed the room and disappeared in the clothes closet. When he came out +the rusty mid-iron came with him. Was this a sign of weakness, of +deterioration in the moral fibre, an indication of regret! Perish the +thought! The explanation Mr. Coyne offered himself was perfectly +satisfactory. He merely wished to examine the ten-year-old shaft and +ascertain whether it was cracked or not. He carried the venerable +souvenir to the window and scrutinised it closely; the shaft was sound.</p> + +<p>"A good club yet," he muttered.</p> + +<p>As he stood there, holding the old mid-iron in his hands, ten years +slipped away from him. He remembered that club very well—almost as well +as a man remembers his first sweetheart. He remembered other things +too—remembered that, as a youth, he had never had the time or the +inclination to play at games of any sort. He had been too busy getting +his start, as the saying goes. Then, at thirty, married and well on his +way to business success, he had felt the need of open air and exercise. +He had mentioned this to a friend and the friend had suggested golf.</p> + +<p>"But that's an old man's game!" Yes; he had said that very thing. His +ears burned at the recollection of his folly.</p> + +<p>"Think so? Tackle it and see."</p> + +<p>He had been persuaded to spend one afternoon at the Country Club. Is +there a golfer in all the world who needs to be told what happened to +Mr. Robert Coyne? He had hit one long, straight tee shot; he had holed +one difficult putt; and the whole course of his serious, methodical +existence had been changed. The man who does not learn to play any game +until he is thirty years of age is quite capable of going daft over +tiddledywinks or dominoes. If he takes up the best and most interesting +of all outdoor sports his family may count itself fortunate if he does +not become violent.</p> + +<p>Never the sort of person who could be content to do anything badly, Bob +Coyne had applied himself to the Royal and Ancient Pastime with all the +simple earnestness and dogged determination of a silent, self-centred +man. He had taken lessons from the professional. He had brought his +driver home and practised with it in the back yard. He had read books on +the subject. He had studied the methods and styles of the best players. +He had formed theories of his own as to stance and swing. He had even +talked golf to his wife—which is the last stage of incurable golfitis.</p> + +<p>As he stood at the window, turning the rusty mid-iron in his hands, he +recalled the first compliment ever paid him by a good player—the more +pleasing because he had not been intended to hear it. It came after he +had fought himself out of the duffer class and had reached the point +where he was too good for the bad ones, but not considered good enough +for the topnotchers.</p> + +<p>One day Corkrane had invited him into a foursome—Coyne had been the +only man in sight—and Corkrane had taken him as a partner against such +redoubtable opponents as Millar and Duffy. Coyne had halved four holes +and won two, defeating Millar and Duffy on the home green. Nothing had +been said at the time; but later on, while polishing himself with a +towel in the shower room, Coyne had heard Corkrane's voice:</p> + +<p>"Hey, Millar!"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"That fellow Coyne—he's not so bad."</p> + +<p>"I believe you, Corky. He won the match for you."</p> + +<p>"Thought I'd have to carry him on my back; but he was right there all +the way round. Yep; Coyne's a comer, sure as you live!"</p> + +<p>And the subject of this kindly comment had blushed pink out of sheer +gratification.</p> + +<p>A pretty good bunch, those fellows out at the club! If it had done +nothing else for him, Coyne reflected, golf had widened his circle of +friends. Suddenly there came to him the realisation that he would have a +great deal of spare time on his hands in the future. Wednesdays and +Saturdays would be long days now; and Sundays——Coyne sighed deeply and +swung the rusty mid-iron back and forth as if in the act of studying a +difficult approach.</p> + +<p>"But what's the use?" he asked himself. "I haven't got a shot left—not +a single shot!"</p> + +<p>He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mid-iron between his knees and +his head in his hands. At the end of twenty minutes he rose and began to +prowl about the house, looking into corners, behind doors, and +underneath beds and bureaus.</p> + +<p>"Seems to me I saw it only the other day," said he. "Of course Bobby +might have been playing with it and lost it."</p> + +<p>It was in the children's playroom that he came upon the thing, which he +told himself he found by accident. It was much the worse for wear; +nearly all the paint had been worn off it and its surface was covered +with tiny dents. Bob Junior had been teaching his dog to fetch and carry +and the dents were the prints of sharp puppy teeth.</p> + +<p>"Well, what do you think of that!" ejaculated Mr. Coyne, pretending to +be surprised. "As I live—a golf ball! Yes; a golf ball!"</p> + +<p>He stood looking at it for some time; but at last he picked it up. With +the rusty mid-iron in one hand and the ball in the other, he went +downstairs, passed through the house, unlocked the back door and went +into the yard. Behind the garage was a smooth stretch of lawn, fifty +feet in diameter, carefully mowed and rolled. In the centre of this +emerald carpet was a hole, and in the hole was a flag. This was Mr. +Coyne's private putting green.</p> + +<p>"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. All +confounded foolishness!"</p> + +<p>So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his works +dropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The lie +did not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted his +disreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron a +few times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attempted +that most difficult of all performances—the chip shot. The ball hopped +across the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolled +straight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from the +hole.</p> + +<p>"Heavens above!" gasped Mr. Coyne, rubbing his eyes. "Look at that, will +you? I hit the pin, by golly—<i>hit the pin</i>!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At dusk Mrs. Coyne returned. The first thing she noticed was that a +large rug was missing from the dining room. Having had experience, she +knew exactly where to look for it. On the back porch she paused, her +hands on her hips. The missing rug was hanging over the clothesline, and +her lord and master, in shirtsleeves and the unspeakable Romeos, was +driving a single golf ball against it.</p> + +<p>Whish-h-h! Click! Thud!</p> + +<p>"And I guess that's getting my weight into the swing!" babbled Mr. +Coyne. "I've found out what I've been doing that was wrong. Watch me hit +this one, Mary."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Coyne was everything that a good wife should be, but she sniffed +audibly.</p> + +<p>"I've told you a dozen times that I didn't want you knocking holes in +that rug!" said she.</p> + +<p>"Why, there isn't a hole in it, my dear."</p> + +<p>"Well, there will be if you keep on. It seems to me, Bob, that you might +get enough golf out at the club. Then you won't scandalise the +neighbours by practising in the back yard on Sunday afternoons. What do +you suppose they'll think of you?"</p> + +<p>"They'll think I'm crazy," was the cheerful response; "but, just between +you and me, my dear, I'm not near so crazy right now as I have been!"</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Jasper was cleaning up the locker room—his regular Monday-morning job. +As he worked he crooned the words of an old negro melody:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"<i>Ole bline hawss, come outen the wilderness,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Outen the wilderness, outen the wilderness;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Ole bline hawss</i>——"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The side door opened and Jasper dropped his mop.</p> + +<p>"Who's that?" he asked. "This early in the mawnin'?" But when he +recognised the caller he did not show the faintest symptoms of surprise. +Jasper was more than a perfect servant; he was also a diplomat. "Good +mawnin', Misteh Coyne."</p> + +<p>The caller seemed embarrassed. He attempted to assume a cheerful +expression, but succeeded in producing a silly grin.</p> + +<p>"Jasper," said he, "I was a little bit sore yesterday——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh; an' nobody could blame you," said the negro, coming +gallantly to the rescue.</p> + +<p>"And you know how it is with a man when he's sore."</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh. Man don' always mean whut he say—that is, he mean it all +right at the <i>time</i>. Yes, suh. At—the—time. 'N'en ag'in, he might +<i>change</i>."</p> + +<p>"That's it exactly!" said Coyne, and floundered to a full stop.</p> + +<p>Jasper's face was grave, but he found it necessary to fix his eyes on +the opposite wall.</p> + +<p>"Yes, suh," said he. "Las' month I swo' off too."</p> + +<p>"Swore off on what?"</p> + +<p>"Craps, Misteh Coyne. Whut Bu't Williams calls Af'ican golf. Yes, suh, I +swo' off; but las' night—well, I kind o' fell f'um grace. I fell, suh; +but I wasn't damaged so much as some o' them boys in the game." Jasper +chuckled to himself. "Yes, suh; I sutny sewed 'em up propeh! Look like I +come back in my ole-time fawm!"</p> + +<p>"That's it!" Coyne agreed eagerly. "I've got my chip shot back, Jasper. +Last night, at home, I was hitting 'em as clean as a whistle. I—I ran +out here this morning to have a little talk with you. You remember about +those clubs?" Jasper nodded. "That was a foolish thing to do——" began +Coyne.</p> + +<p>"No, suh!" interrupted Jasper positively. "No, suh! When a man git good +an' sore he do a lot o' things whut awdinarily he wouldn't think o' +doin'! Las' month I th'owed away the best paih o' crap dice you eveh +saw. You givin' away yo' clubs is exackly the same thing."</p> + +<p>"That was what I wanted to see you about," said Coyne with a shamefaced +grin. "I was wondering if there wouldn't be some way to get those clubs +back—buying 'em from the boys. You could explain——"</p> + +<p>Jasper cackled and slapped his knees.</p> + +<p>"Same thing all oveh ag'in!" said he. "I th'owed them dice away, Misteh +Coyne; but I th'owed 'em kind o' <i>easy</i>, an' I knowed where to look. So, +when you tol' me 'bout them clubs I—well, suh, I ain' been c'nected +with this club twenty yeahs faw nothin'. If I was you, suh, I think I'd +look in my lockeh."</p> + +<p>Coyne drew the bolt and opened the door. His clothes were hanging on the +hooks; his shoes were resting on the steel floor; his golf bag was +leaning in the corner, and it was full of clubs—the clubs he had given +away the day before! Coyne tried to speak, but the words would not come.</p> + +<p>"You see, Misteh Coyne," explained Jasper, "I knowed them fool boys +would bust them clubs or somethin', an' I kind of s'pected you'd be +wantin' 'em back ag'in; so I didn't take no chances. Afteh you left +yestiddy I kind o' took mattehs in my own hands. I tol' them caddies you +was only foolin'. The younges' ones, they was open to conviction; but +them oldeh boys—they had to be showed. Now that light mid-iron—I had +to give Butch a dollah an' twenty cents faw it. That brassy was a dollah +an' a half——"</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later the incomparable Jasper was alone in the locker room, +examining a very fine sample of the work turned out by the Bureau of +Engraving and Printing at Washington, D. C. Across the bottom of this +specimen were two words in large black type: Twenty Dollars.</p> + +<p>"Haw!" chuckled Jasper. "I wisht some mo' of these membehs would quit +playin' golf!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_OOLEY-COW" id="THE_OOLEY-COW"></a>THE OOLEY-COW</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>After the explosion, and before Uncle Billy Poindexter and Old Man +Sprott had been able to decide just what had hit them, Little Doc Ellis +had the nerve to tell me that he had seen the fuse burning for months +and months. Little Doc is my friend and I like him, but he resembles +many other members of his profession in that he is usually wisest after +the post mortem, when it is a wee bit late for the high contracting +party.</p> + +<p>And at all times Little Doc is full of vintage bromides and figures of +speech.</p> + +<p>"You have heard the old saw," said he. "A worm will turn if you keep +picking on him, and so will a straight road if you ride it long enough. +A camel is a wonderful burden bearer, but even a double-humped ship of +the desert will sink on your hands if you pile the load on him a bale of +hay at a time."</p> + +<p>"A worm, a straight road, a camel and a sinking ship," said I. "Whither +are we drifting?"</p> + +<p>Little Doc did not pay any attention to me. It is a way he has.</p> + +<p>"Think," said he, "how much longer a camel will stand up under +punishment if he gets his load straw by straw, as it were. The Ooley-cow +was a good thing, but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott did not use any +judgment. They piled it on him too thick."</p> + +<p>"Meaning," I asked, "to compare the Ooley-cow with a camel?"</p> + +<p>"Merely a figure of speech," said Little Doc; "but yes, such was my +intention."</p> + +<p>"Well," said I, "your figures of speech need careful auditing. A camel +can go eight days without a drink——"</p> + +<p>Little Doc made impatient motions at me with both hands. He has no sense +of humour, and his mind is a one-way track, totally devoid of spurs and +derailing switches. Once started, he must go straight through to his +destination.</p> + +<p>"What I am trying to make plain to your limited mentality," said he, "is +that Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott needed a lesson in conservation, and +they got it. The Ooley-cow was the easiest, softest picking that ever +strayed from the home pasture. With care and decent treatment he would +have lasted a long time and yielded an enormous quantity of nourishment, +but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were too greedy. They tried to corner +the milk market, and now they will have to sign tags for their drinks +and their golf balls the same as the rest of us. They have killed the +goose that laid the golden eggs."</p> + +<p>"A minute ago," said I, "the Ooley-cow was a camel. Now he is a goose—a +dead goose, to be exact. Are you all done figuring with your speech!"</p> + +<p>"Practically so, yes."</p> + +<p>"Then," said I, "I will plaster up the cracks in your argument with the +cement of information. I can use figures of speech myself. You are +barking up the wrong tree. You are away off your base. It wasn't the +loss of a few dollars that made Mr. Perkins run wild in our midst. It +was the manner in which he lost them. Let us now dismiss the worm, the +camel, the goose and all the rest of the menagerie, retaining only the +Ooley-cow. What do you know about cows, if anything?"</p> + +<p>"A little," answered my medical friend.</p> + +<p>"A mighty little. You know that a cow has hoofs, horns and a tail. The +same description would apply to many creatures, including Satan himself. +Your knowledge of cows is largely academic. Now me, I was raised on a +farm, and there were cows in my curriculum. I took a seven-year course +in the gentle art of acquiring the lacteal fluid. Cow is my specialty, +my long suit, my best hold. Believe it or not, when we christened old +Perkins the Ooley-cow we builded better than we knew."</p> + +<p>"I follow you at a great distance," said little Doc. "Proceed with the +rat killing. Why did we build better than we knew when we did not know +anything!"</p> + +<p>"Because," I explained, "Perkins not only looks like a cow and walks +like a cow and plays golf like a cow, but he has the predominant +characteristic of a cow. He has the one distinguishing trait which all +country cows have in common. If you had studied that noble domestic +animal as closely as I have, you would not need to be told what moved +Mr. Perkins to strew the entire golf course with the mangled remains of +the two old pirates before mentioned. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott +were milking him, yes, and it is quite likely that the Ooley-cow knew +that he was being milked, but that knowledge was not the prime cause of +the late unpleasantness."</p> + +<p>"I still follow you," said Little Doc plaintively, "but I am losing +ground every minute."</p> + +<p>"Listen carefully," said I. "Pin back your ears and give me your +undivided attention. There are many ways of milking a cow without +exciting the animal to violence. I speak now of the old-fashioned +cow—the country cow—from Iowa, let us say."</p> + +<p>"The Ooley-cow is from Iowa," murmured Little Doc.</p> + +<p>"Exactly. A city cow may be milked by machinery, and in a dozen +different ways, but the country cow does not know anything about new +fangled methods. There is one thing—and one thing only—which will make +the gentlest old mooley in Iowa kick over the bucket, upset the milker, +jump a four-barred fence and join the wild bunch on the range. Do you +know what that one thing is?"</p> + +<p>"I haven't even a suspicion," confessed Little Doc.</p> + +<p>Then I told him. I told him in words of one syllable, and after a time +he was able to grasp the significance of my remarks. If I could make +Little Doc see the point I can make you see it too. We go from here.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Wesley J. Perkins hailed from Dubuque, but he did not hail from there +until he had gathered up all the loose change in Northeastern Iowa. When +he arrived in sunny Southern California he was fifty-five years of age, +and at least fifty of those years had been spent in putting aside +something for a rainy day. Judging by the diameter of his bankroll, he +must have feared the sort of a deluge which caused the early settlers to +lay the ground plans for the Tower of Babel.</p> + +<p>Now it seldom rains in Southern California—that is to say, it seldom +rains hard enough to produce a flood—and as soon as Mr. Perkins became +acquainted with climatic conditions he began to jettison his ark. He +joined an exclusive downtown club, took up quarters there and spent his +afternoons playing dominoes with some other members of the I've-got-mine +Association. Aside from his habit of swelling up whenever he mentioned +his home town, and insisting on referring to it as "the Heidelberg of +America," there was nothing about Mr. Perkins to provoke comment, +unfavourable or otherwise. He was just one more Iowan in a country where +Iowans are no novelty.</p> + +<p>In person he was the mildest-mannered man that ever foreclosed a +short-term mortgage and put a family out in the street. His eyes were +large and bovine, his mouth drooped perpetually and so did his jowls, +and he moved with the slow, uncertain gait of a venerable milch cow. He +had a habit of lowering his head and staring vacantly into space, and +all these things earned for him the unhandsome nickname by which he is +now known.</p> + +<p>"But why the Ooley-cow?" some one asked one day. "It doesn't mean +anything at all!"</p> + +<p>"Well," was the reply, "neither does Perkins."</p> + +<p>But this was an error, as we shall see later.</p> + +<p>It was an increasing waistline that caused the Ooley-cow to look about +him for some form of gentle exercise. His physician suggested golf, and +that very week the board of directors of the Country Club was asked to +consider his application for membership. There were no ringing cheers, +but he passed the censors.</p> + +<p>I will say for Perkins that when he decided to commit golf he went about +it in a very thorough manner. He had himself surveyed for three +knickerbocker suits, he laid in a stock of soft shirts, imported +stockings and spiked shoes, and he gave our professional <i>carte +blanche</i> in the matter of field equipment. It is not a safe thing to +give a Scotchman permission to dip his hand in your change pocket, and +MacPherson certainly availed himself of the opportunity to finger some +of the Dubuque money. He took one look at the novice and unloaded on him +something less than a hundredweight of dead stock. He also gave him a +lesson or two, and sent him forth armed to the teeth with wood, iron and +aluminum.</p> + +<p>Almost immediately Perkins found himself in the hands of Poindexter and +Sprott, two extremely hard-boiled old gentlemen who have never been +known to take any interest in a financial proposition assaying less than +seven per cent, and that fully guaranteed. Both are retired capitalists, +but when they climbed out of the trenches and retreated into the realm +of sport they took all their business instincts with them.</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy can play to a twelve handicap when it suits him to do so, +and his partner in crime is only a couple of strokes behind him; but +they seldom uncover their true form, preferring to pose as doddering and +infirm invalids, childish old men, who only think they can play the game +of golf, easy marks for the rising generation. New members are their +victims; beginners are just the same as manna from heaven to them. They +instruct the novice humbly and apologetically, but always with a small +side bet, and no matter how fast the novice improves he makes the +astounding discovery that his two feeble old tutors are able to keep +pace with him. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott are experts at nursing a +betting proposition along, and they seldom win any sort of a match by a +margin of more than two up and one to go. Taking into account the +natural limitations of age they play golf very well, but they play a +cinch even better—and harder. It is common scandal that Uncle Billy has +not bought a golf ball in ten years. Old Man Sprott bought one in 1915, +but it was under the mellowing influence of the third toddy and, +therefore, should not count against him.</p> + +<p>The Ooley-cow was a cinch. When he turned up, innocent and guileless and +eager to learn the game, Uncle Billy and his running mate were quick to +realise that Fate had sent them a downy bird for plucking, and in no +time at all the air was full of feathers.</p> + +<p>They played the Ooley-cow for golf balls, they played him for caddy +hire, they played him for drinks and cigars, they played him for +luncheons and they played him for a sucker—played him for everything, +in fact, but the locker rent and the club dues. How they came to +overlook these items is more than I know. The Ooley-cow would have stood +for it; he stood for everything. He signed all the tags with a loose and +vapid grin, and if he suffered from writer's cramp he never mentioned +the fact. His monthly bill must have been a thing to shudder at, but +possibly he regarded this extra outlay as part of his tuition.</p> + +<p>Once in a while he was allowed to win, for Poindexter and Sprott +followed the system practised by other confidence men; but they never +forgot to take his winnings away from him the next day, charging him +interest at the rate of fifty per cent for twenty-four hours. The +Ooley-cow was so very easy that they took liberties with him, so +good-natured about his losses that they presumed upon that good nature +and ridiculed him openly; but the old saw sometimes loses a tooth, the +worm turns, the straight road bends at last, so does the camel's back, +and the prize cow kicks the milker into the middle of next week. And, as +I remarked before, the cow usually has a reason.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>One morning I dropped into the downtown club which Perkins calls his +home. I found him sitting in the reception room, juggling a newspaper +and watching the door. He seemed somewhat disturbed.</p> + +<p>"Good morning," said I.</p> + +<p>"It is not a good morning," said he. "It's a bad morning. Look at this."</p> + +<p>He handed me the paper, with his thumb at the head of the Lost-and-Found +column, and I read as follows:</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Lost</span>—A black leather wallet, containing private papers and a sum of +money. A suitable reward will be paid for the return of same, and no +questions asked. Apply to W. J. P., Argonaut Club, City."</p> + +<p>"Tough luck," said I. "Did you lose much?"</p> + +<p>"Quite a sum," replied the Ooley-cow. "Enough to make it an object. In +large bills mostly."</p> + +<p>"Too bad. The wallet had your cards in it?"</p> + +<p>"And some papers of a private nature."</p> + +<p>"Have you any idea where you might have dropped it? Or do you think it +was stolen?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know what to think. I had it last night at the Country Club +just before I left. I know I had it then, because I took it out in the +lounging room to pay a small bet to Mr. Poindexter—a matter of two +dollars. Then I put the wallet back in my inside pocket and came +straight here—alone in a closed car. I missed it just before going to +bed. I telephoned to the Country Club. No sign of it there. I went to +the garage myself. It was not in the car. Of course it may have been +there earlier in the evening, but I think my driver is honest, and——"</p> + +<p>At this point we were interrupted by a clean-cut looking youngster of +perhaps seventeen years.</p> + +<p>"Your initials are W. J. P., sir?" he asked politely.</p> + +<p>"They are."</p> + +<p>"This is your 'ad' in the paper?"</p> + +<p>"It is."</p> + +<p>The boy reached in his pocket and brought out a black leather wallet. "I +have returned your property," said he, and waited while the Ooley-cow +thumbed a roll of yellow-backed bills.</p> + +<p>"All here," said Perkins with a sigh of relief. Then he looked up at the +boy, and his large bovine eyes turned hard as moss agates. "Where did +you get this?" he demanded abruptly. "How did you come by it?"</p> + +<p>The boy smiled and shook his head, but his eyes never left Perkins' +face. "No questions were to be asked, sir," said he.</p> + +<p>"Right!" grunted the Ooley-cow. "Quite right. A bargain's a bargain. +I—I beg your pardon, young man.... Still, I'd like to know.... Just +curiosity, eh?... No?... Very well then. That being the case"—he +stripped a fifty-dollar note from the roll and passed it over—"would +you consider this a suitable reward?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir."</p> + +<p>"Good day," said Perkins, and put the wallet into his pocket. He stared +at the boy until he disappeared through the street door.</p> + +<p>"Something mighty queer about this," mused the Ooley-cow thoughtfully. +"Mighty queer. That boy—he looked honest. He had good eyes and he +wasn't afraid of me. I couldn't scare him worth a cent. Couldn't bluff +him.... Yet if he found it somewhere, there wasn't any reason why he +shouldn't have told me. He didn't steal it—I'll bet on that. Maybe he +got it from some one who did. Oh, well, the main thing is that he +brought it back.... Going out to the Country Club this afternoon?"</p> + +<p>I said that I expected to play golf that day.</p> + +<p>"Come out with me then," said the Ooley-cow. "Poindexter and Sprott will +be there too. Yesterday afternoon I played Poindexter for the lunches +to-day. Holed a long putt on the seventeenth green, and stuck him. Come +along, and we'll make Poindexter give a party—for once."</p> + +<p>"It can't be done," said I. "Uncle Billy doesn't give parties."</p> + +<p>"We'll make him give one," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "We'll insist on it."</p> + +<p>"Insist if you want to," said I, "but you'll never get away with it."</p> + +<p>"Meet me here at noon," said the Ooley-cow. "If Poindexter doesn't give +the party I will."</p> + +<p>I wasn't exactly keen for the Ooley-cow's society, but I accepted his +invitation to ride out to the club in his car. He regaled me with a +dreary monologue, descriptive of the Heidelberg of America, and solemnly +assured me that the pretty girls one sees in Chicago are all from +Dubuque.</p> + +<p>It was twelve-thirty when we arrived at the Country Club, and Uncle +Billy and Old Man Sprott were there ahead of us.</p> + +<p>"Poindexter," said Perkins, "you are giving a party to-day, and I have +invited our friend here to join us."</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott, and both laughed uproariously. +Right there was where I should have detected the unmistakable odour of a +rodent. It was surprise number one.</p> + +<p>"Dee-lighted!" cackled Uncle Billy. "Glad to have another guest, ain't +we, Sprott?"</p> + +<p>Sprott grinned and rubbed his hands. "You bet! Tell you what let's do, +Billy. Let's invite everybody in the place—make it a regular party +while you're at it!"</p> + +<p>"Great idea!" exclaimed Uncle Billy. "The more the merrier!" This was +surprise number two. The first man invited was Henry Bauer, who has +known Uncle Billy for many years. He sat down quite overcome.</p> + +<p>"You shouldn't do a thing like that, Billy," said he querulously. "I +have a weak heart, and any sudden shock——"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! You'll join us?"</p> + +<p>"Novelty always appealed to me," said Bauer. "I'm forever trying things +that nobody has ever tried before. Yes, I'll break bread with you, +but—why the celebration? What's it all about?"</p> + +<p>That was what everybody wanted to know and what nobody found out, but +the luncheon was a brilliant success in spite of the dazed and mystified +condition of the guests, and the only limit was the limit of individual +capacity. Eighteen of us sat down at the big round table, and +sandwich-and-milk orders were sternly countermanded by Uncle Billy, who +proved an amazing host, recommending this and that and actually ordering +Rhine-wine cup for all hands. I could not have been more surprised if +the bronze statue in the corner of the grill had hopped down from its +pedestal to fill our glasses. Uncle Billy collected a great pile of tags +beside his plate, but the presence of so much bad news waiting at his +elbow did not seem to affect his appetite in the least. When the party +was over he called the head waiter. "Mark these tags paid," said Uncle +Billy, capping the collection with a yellow-backed bill, "and hand the +change to Mr. Perkins."</p> + +<p>"Yes sir," said the head waiter, and disappeared.</p> + +<p>I looked at the Ooley-cow, and was just in time to see the light of +intelligence dawn in his big soft eyes. He was staring at Uncle Billy, +and his lower lip was flopping convulsively. Everybody began asking +questions at once.</p> + +<p>"One moment, gentlemen," mooed the Ooley-cow, pounding on the table. +"One moment!"</p> + +<p>"Now don't get excited, Perkins," said Old Man Sprott. "You got your +wallet back, didn't you? Cost you fifty, but you got it back. Next time +you won't be so careless."</p> + +<p>"Yes," chimed in Uncle Billy, "you oughtn't to go dropping your money +round loose that way. It'll teach you a lesson."</p> + +<p>"It will indeed." The Ooley-cow lowered his head and glared first at one +old pirate and then at the other. His soft eyes hardened and the +moss-agate look came into them. He seemed about to bellow, paw up the +dirt and charge.</p> + +<p>"The laugh is on you," cackled Poindexter, "and I'll leave it to the +boys here. Last night our genial host dropped his wallet on the floor +out in the lounging room. I kicked it across under the table to Sprott +and Sprott put his foot on it. We intended to give it back to him +to-day, but this morning there was an 'ad' in the paper—reward and no +questions asked—so we sent a nice bright boy over to the Argonaut Club +with the wallet. Perkins gave the boy a fifty-dollar note—very liberal, +I call it—and the boy gave it to me. Perfectly legitimate transaction. +Our friend here has had a lesson, we've had a delightful luncheon party, +and the joke is on him."</p> + +<p>"And a pretty good joke, too!" laughed Old Man Sprott.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the Ooley-cow at last, "a pretty good joke. Ha, ha! A mighty +good joke." And place it to his credit that he managed a very fair +imitation of a fat man laughing, even to the shaking of the stomach and +the wrinkles round the eyes. He looked down at the tray in front of him +and fingered the few bills and some loose silver.</p> + +<p>"A mighty good joke," he repeated thoughtfully, "but what I can't +understand is this—why didn't you two jokers keep the change? It would +have been just that much funnier."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>The Ooley-cow's party was generally discussed during the next ten days, +the consensus of club opinion being that some one ought to teach +Poindexter and Sprott the difference between humour and petty larceny. +Most of the playing members were disgusted with the two old skinflints, +and one effect of this sentiment manifested itself in the number of +invitations that Perkins received to play golf with real people. He +declined them all, much to our surprise, and continued to wallop his way +round the course with Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott, apparently on as +cordial terms as ever.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do with such a besotted old fool as that?" asked +Henry Bauer. "Here I've invited him into three foursomes this week—all +white men, too—and he's turned me down cold. It's not that we want to +play with him, for as a golfer he's a terrible thing. It's not that +we're crazy about him personally, for socially he's my notion of zero +minus; but he took his stinging like a dead-game sport and he's entitled +to better treatment than he's getting. But if he hasn't any better sense +than to pass his plate for more, what are you going to do about it?"</p> + +<p>"'Ephraim is joined to idols,'" quoted Little Doc Ellis. "'Let him +alone.'"</p> + +<p>"No, it's the other way round," argued Bauer. "His idols are joined to +him—fastened on like leeches. The question naturally arises, how did +such a man ever accumulate a fortune? Who forced it on him, and when, +and where, and why?"</p> + +<p>That very afternoon the Ooley-cow turned up with his guest, a large, +loud person, also from the Heidelberg of America, who addressed Perkins +as "Wesley," and lost no time in informing us that Southern California +would have starved to death but for Iowa capital. His name was +Cottle—Calvin D. Cottle—and he gave each one of us his card as he was +introduced. There was no need. Nobody could have forgotten him. Some +people make an impression at first sight—Calvin D. Cottle made a deep +dent. His age was perhaps forty-five, but he spoke as one crowned with +Methuselah's years and Solomon's wisdom, and after each windy statement +he turned to the Ooley-cow for confirmation.</p> + +<p>"Ain't that so, Wesley? Old Wes knows, you bet your life! He's from my +home town!"</p> + +<p>It was as good as a circus to watch Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott +sizing up this fresh victim. It reminded me of two wary old dogs +circling for position, manœuvring for a safe hold. They wanted to +know something about his golf game—what was his handicap, for +instance?</p> + +<p>"Handicap?" repeated Cottle. "Is that a California idea? Something new, +ain't it?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy explained the handicapping theory.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Cottle. "You mean what do I go round in—how many strokes. +Well, sometimes I cut under a hundred; sometimes I don't. It just +depends. Some days I can hit 'em, some days I can't. That's all there is +to it."</p> + +<p>"My case exactly," purred Old Man Sprott. "Suppose we dispense with the +handicap?"</p> + +<p>"That's the stuff!" agreed Cottle heartily. "I don't want to have to +give anybody anything; I don't want anybody to give me anything. I like +an even fight, and what I say is, may the best man win! Am I right, +gentlemen?"</p> + +<p>"Absolutely!" chirped Uncle Billy. "May the best man win!"</p> + +<p>"You bet I'm right!" boomed Cottle. "Ask old Wes here about me. Raised +right in the same town with him, from a kid knee-high to a grasshopper! +I never took any the best of it in my life, did I, Wes? No, you bet not! +Remember that time I got skinned out of ten thousand bucks on the land +deal? A lot of fellows would have squealed, wouldn't they? A lot of +fellows would have hollered for the police; but I just laughed and gave +'em credit for being smarter than I was. I'm the same way in sport as I +am in business. I believe in giving everybody credit. I win if I can, +but if I can't—well, there's never any hard feelings. That's me all +over. You may be able to <i>lick</i> me at this golf thing—likely you will; +but you'll never <i>scare</i> me, that's a cinch. Probably you gentlemen play +a better game than I do—been at it longer; but then I'm a lot younger +than you are. Got more strength. Hit a longer ball when I do manage to +land on one right. So it all evens up in the long run."</p> + +<p>Mr. Cottle was still modestly cheering his many admirable qualities when +the Perkins party went in to luncheon, and the only pause he made was on +the first tee. With his usual caution Uncle Billy had arranged it so +that Dubuque was opposed to Southern California, and he had also +carefully neglected to name any sort of a bet until after he had seen +the stranger drive.</p> + +<p>Cottle teed his ball and stood over it, gripping his driver until his +knuckles showed white under the tan. "Get ready to ride!" said he. +"You're about to leave this place!"</p> + +<p>The club head whistled through the air, and I can truthfully say that I +never saw a man of his size swing any harder at a golf ball—or come +nearer cutting one completely in two.</p> + +<p>"Topped it, by gum!" ejaculated Mr. Cottle, watching the maimed ball +until it disappeared in a bunker. "Topped it! Well, better luck next +time! By the way, what are we playing for? Balls, or money, or what?"</p> + +<p>"Whatever you like," said Uncle Billy promptly. "You name it."</p> + +<p>"Good! That's the way I like to hear a man talk. Old Wes here is my +partner, so I can't bet with him, but I'll have a side match with each +of you gentlemen—say, ten great, big, smiling Iowa dollars. Always like +to bet what I've got the most of. Satisfactory?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy glanced at Old Man Sprott, and for an instant the old +rascals hesitated. The situation was made to order for them, but they +would have preferred a smaller wager to start with, being petty +larcenists at heart.</p> + +<p>"Better cut that down to five," said Perkins to Cottle in a low tone. +"They play a strong game."</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted his guest. "Did you ever know me to pike in my life? I +ain't going to begin now. Ten dollars or nothing!"</p> + +<p>"I've got you," said Old Man Sprott.</p> + +<p>"This once," said Uncle Billy. "It's against my principles to play for +money; but yes, this once."</p> + +<p>And then those two old sharks insisted on a foursome bet as well.</p> + +<p>"Ball, ball, ball," said the Ooley-cow briefly, and proceeded to follow +his partner into the bunker. Poindexter and Sprott popped conservatively +down the middle of the course and the battle was on.</p> + +<p>Battle, did I say! It was a massacre of the innocents, a slaughter of +babes and sucklings. Our foursome trailed along behind, and took note of +Mr. Cottle, of Dubuque, in his fruitless efforts to tear the cover off +the ball. He swung hard enough to knock down a lamp-post, but he seldom +made proper connections, and when he did the ball landed so far off the +course that it took him a dozen shots to get back again. He was +hopelessly bad, so bad that there was no chance to make the side matches +close ones. On the tenth tee Cottle demanded another bet—to give him a +chance to get even, he said. Poindexter and Sprott each bet him another +ten dollar note on the last nine, and this time Uncle Billy did not say +anything about his principles.</p> + +<p>After it was all over Cottle poured a few mint toddies into his system +and floated an alibi to the surface.</p> + +<p>"It was those confounded sand greens that did it," said he. "I'm used to +grass, and I can't putt on anything else. Bet I could take you to +Dubuque and flail the everlasting daylights out of you!"</p> + +<p>"Shouldn't be surprised," said Uncle Billy. "You did a lot better on the +last nine—sort of got into your stride. Any time you think you want +revenge——"</p> + +<p>"You can have it," finished Old Man Sprott, as he folded a crisp +twenty-dollar note. "We believe in giving a man a chance—eh, Billy?"</p> + +<p>"That's the spirit!" cried Cottle enthusiastically. "Give a man a +chance; it's what I say, and if he does anything, give him credit. You +beat me to-day, but I never saw this course before. Tell you what we'll +do: Let's make a day of it to-morrow. Morning and afternoon both. +Satisfactory! Good! You've got forty dollars of my dough and I want it +back. Nobody ever made me quit betting yet, if I figure to have a +chance. What's money? Shucks! My country is full of it! Now then, +Wesley, if you'll come out on the practise green and give me some +pointers on this sand thing, I'll be obliged to you. Ball won't run on +sand like it will on grass—have to get used to it. Have to hit 'em a +little harder. Soon as I get the hang of the thing we'll give these +Native Sons a battle yet! Native Sons? Native Grandfathers! Come on!" +Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott and Old Man Sprott looked at Uncle +Billy, but they did not begin to laugh until the Ooley-cow and his guest +were out of earshot. Then they clucked and cackled and choked like a +couple of hysterical old hens.</p> + +<p>"His putting!" gurgled Uncle Billy. "Did he have a putt to win a hole +all the way round?"</p> + +<p>"Not unless he missed count of his shots. Say, Billy!"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"We made a mistake locating so far West. We should have stopped in Iowa. +By now we'd have owned the entire state!"</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>I dropped Mr. Calvin D. Cottle entirely out of my thoughts; but when I +entered the locker room shortly after noon the next day something +reminded me of him. Possibly it was the sound of his voice.</p> + +<p>"Boy! Can't we have 'nother toddy here? What's the matter with some +service? How 'bout you, Wes? Oh, I forgot—you never take anything till +after five o 'clock. Think of all the fun you're missing. When I get to +be an old fossil like you maybe I'll do the same. Good rule.... You +gentlemen having anything? No? Kind of careful, ain't you? Safety first, +hey?... Just one toddy, boy, and if that mint ain't fresh, I'll .... +Yep, you're cagey birds, you are, but I give you credit just the same. +And some cash. Don't forget that. Rather have cash than credit any time, +hey? I bet you would! But I don't mind a little thing like that. I'm a +good sport. You ask Wes here if I ain't. If I ain't a good sport I ain't +anything.... Still, I'll be darned if I see how you fellows do it! +You're both old enough to have sons in the Soldiers' Home over yonder, +but you take me out and lick me again—lick me and make me like it! A +couple of dried-up mummies with one foot in the grave, and I'm right in +the prime of life! Only a kid yet! It's humiliating, that's what it is, +humiliating! Forty dollars apiece you're into me—and a flock of golf +balls on the side! Boy! Where's that mint toddy? Let's have a little +service here!"</p> + +<p>I peeped through the door leading to the lounging room. The +Dubuque-California foursome was grouped at a table in a corner. The +Ooley-cow looked calm and placid as usual, but his guest was sweating +profusely, and as he talked he mopped his brow with the sleeve of his +shirt. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were listening politely, but the +speculative light in their eyes told me that they were wondering how far +they dared go with this outlander from the Middle West.</p> + +<p>"Why," boomed Cottle, "I can hit a ball twice as far as either one of +you! 'Course I don't always know where it's going, but the main thing is +I got the <i>strength</i>. I can throw a golf ball farther than you old +fossils can hit one with a wooden club, yet you lick me easy as breaking +sticks. Can't understand it at all.... Twice as strong as you are.... +Why, say, I bet I can take one hand and outdrive you! <i>One hand!</i>"</p> + +<p>"Easy, Calvin," said the Ooley-cow reprovingly. "Don't make wild +statements."</p> + +<p>"Well, I'll bet I can do it," repeated Cottle stubbornly. "If a man's +willing to bet his money to back up a wild statement, that shows he's +got the right kind of a heart anyway.</p> + +<p>"I ought to be able to stick my left hand in my pocket and go out there +and trim two men of your age. I ought to, and I'll be damned if I don't +think I can!"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut!" warned the Ooley-cow. "That's foolishness."</p> + +<p>"Think so?" Cottle dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out a +thick roll of bills. "Well, this stuff here says I can do it—at least I +can <i>try</i>—and I ain't afraid to back my judgment."</p> + +<p>"Put your money away," said Perkins. "Don't be a fool!"</p> + +<p>Cottle laughed uproariously and slapped the Ooley-cow on the back.</p> + +<p>"Good old Wes!" he cried. "Ain't changed a bit. Conservative! Always +conservative! Got rich at it, but me I got rich taking chances. What's a +little wad of bills to me, hey? Nothing but chicken-feed! I'll bet any +part of this roll—I'll bet <i>all</i> of it—and I'll play these sun-dried +old sports with one hand. Now's the time to show whether they've got any +sporting blood or not. What do you say, gentlemen?"</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy looked at the money and moistened his lips with the tip of +his tongue.</p> + +<p>"Couldn't think of it," he croaked at length.</p> + +<p>"Pshaw!" sneered Cottle. "I showed you too much—I scared you!"</p> + +<p>"He ain't scared," put in Old Man Sprott. "It would be too much like +stealing it."</p> + +<p>"I'm the one to worry about that," announced Cottle. "It's my money, +ain't it? I made it, didn't I? And I can do what I damn please with +it—spend it, bet it, burn it up, throw it away. When you've worried +about everything else in the world it'll be time for you to begin +worrying about young Mr. Cottle's money! This slim little roll—bah! +Chicken-feed! Come get it if you want it!" He tossed the money on the +table with a gesture which was an insult in itself. "There it is—cover +it! Put up or shut up!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, forget it!" said the Ooley-cow wearily. "Come in and have a bite to +eat and forget it!"</p> + +<p>"Don't want anything to eat!" was the stubborn response. "Seldom eat in +the middle of the day. But I'll have 'nother mint toddy.... Wait a +second, Wes. Don't be in such a rush. Lemme understand this thing. +These—these gentlemen here, these two friends of yours, these dead-game +old Native Sons have got eighty dollars of my money—not that it makes +any difference to me, understand, but they've got it—eighty dollars +that they won from me playing golf. Now I may have a drink or two in me +and I may not, understand, but anyhow I know what I'm about. I make +these—gentlemen a sporting proposition. I give 'em a chance to pick up +a couple of hundred apiece, and they want to run out on me because it'll +be like stealing it. What kind of a deal is that, hey? Is it +sportsmanship? Is it what they call giving a man a chance? Is it——"</p> + +<p>"But they know you wouldn't have a chance," interrupted the Ooley-cow +soothingly. "They don't want a sure thing."</p> + +<p>"They've had one so far, haven't they?" howled Cottle. "What are they +scared of now? 'Fraid I'll squeal if I lose? Tell 'em about me, Wes. +Tell 'em I never squealed in my life! I win if I can, but if I +can't—'s all right. No kick coming. There never was a piker in the +Cottle family, was there, Wes? No, you bet not! We're sports, every one +of us. Takes more than one slim little roll to send us up a tree! If +there's anything that makes me sick, it's a cold-footed, penny-pinching, +nickel-nursing, sure-thing player!"</p> + +<p>"Your money does not frighten me," said Uncle Billy, who was slightly +nettled by this time. "It is against my principles to play for a cash +bet——"</p> + +<p>"But you and your pussy-footed old side-partner got into me for eighty +dollars just the same!" scoffed Cottle. "You and your principles be +damned!"</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy swallowed this without blinking, but he did not look at +Cottle. He was looking at the roll of bills on the table.</p> + +<p>"If you are really in earnest——" began Poindexter, and glanced at Old +Man Sprott.</p> + +<p>"Go ahead, Billy," croaked that aged reprobate. "Teach him a lesson. He +needs it."</p> + +<p>"Never mind the lesson," snapped Cottle. "I got out of school a long +time ago. The bet is that I can leave my left arm in the clubhouse +safe—stick it in my pocket—and trim you birds with one hand."</p> + +<p>"We wouldn't insist on that," said Old Man Sprott. "Play with both hands +if you want to."</p> + +<p>"Think I'm a welsher?" demanded Cottle. "The original proposition goes. +'Course I wouldn't really cut the arm off and leave it in the safe, but +what I mean is, if I use two arms in making a shot, right there is where +I lose. Satisfactory?"</p> + +<p>"Perkins," said Uncle Billy, solemnly wagging his head, "you are a +witness that this thing has been forced on me. I have been bullied and +browbeaten and insulted into making this bet——"</p> + +<p>"And so have I," chimed in Old Man Sprott. "I'm almost ashamed——"</p> + +<p>The Ooley-cow shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I am a witness," said he quietly. "Calvin, these gentlemen have stated +the case correctly. You have forced them to accept your proposition——"</p> + +<p>"And he can't blame anybody if he loses," finished Uncle Billy as he +reached for the roll of bills.</p> + +<p>"You bet!" ejaculated Old Man Sprott. "He was looking for trouble, and +now he's found it. Count it, Billy, and we'll each take half."</p> + +<p>"That goes, does it?" asked Cottle.</p> + +<p>"Sir?" cried Uncle Billy.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I just wanted to put you on record," said Cottle, with a grin. +"Wesley, you're my witness too. I mislaid a five-hundred-dollar note the +other day, and it may have got into my change pocket. Might as well see +if a big bet will put these safety-first players off their game! Anyhow, +I'm betting whatever's there. I ain't sure how much it is."</p> + +<p>"I am," said Uncle Billy in a changed voice. He had come to the +five-hundred-dollar bill, sandwiched in between two twenties. He looked +at Old Man Sprott, and for the first time I saw doubt in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's there, is it!" asked Cottle carelessly. "Well, let it all +ride. I never backed up on a gambling proposition in my life—never +pinched a bet after the ball started to roll. Shoot the entire works—'s +all right with me!"</p> + +<p>Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott exchanged significant glances, but after +a short argument and some more abuse from Cottle they toddled over to +the desk and filled out two blank checks—for five hundred and eighty +dollars apiece.</p> + +<p>"Make 'em payable to cash," suggested Cottle. "You'll probably tear 'em +up after the game. Now the next thing is a stakeholder——"</p> + +<p>"Is that—necessary?" asked Old Man Sprott.</p> + +<p>"Sure!" said Cottle. "I might run out on you. Let's have everything +according to Hoyle—stakeholder and all the other trimmings. Anybody'll +be satisfactory to me; that young fellow getting an earful at the door; +he'll do."</p> + +<p>So I became the stakeholder—the custodian of eleven hundred and sixty +dollars in coin and two checks representing a like amount. I thought I +detected a slight nervousness in the signatures, and no wonder. It was +the biggest bet those old petty larcenists had ever made in their lives. +They went in to luncheon—at the invitation of the Ooley-cow, of +course—but I noticed that they did not eat much. Cottle wandered out +to the practise green, putter in hand, forgetting all about the mint +toddy which, by the way, had never been ordered.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>"You drive first, sir," said Uncle Billy to Cottle, pursuing his usual +system. "We'll follow you."</p> + +<p>"Think you'll feel easier if I should hit one over into the eucalyptus +trees yonder?" asked the man from Dubuque. "Little nervous, eh? Does a +big bet scare you? I was counting on that.... Oh, very well, I'll take +the honour."</p> + +<p>"Just a second," said Old Man Sprott, who had been prowling about in the +background and fidgeting with his driver. "Does the stakeholder +understand the terms of the bet? Mr. Cottle is playing a match with each +of us individually——"</p> + +<p>"Separately and side by each," added Cottle.</p> + +<p>"Using only one arm," said Old Man Sprott.</p> + +<p>"If he uses both arms in making a shot," put in Uncle Billy, "he +forfeits both matches. Is that correct, Mr. Cottle?"</p> + +<p>"Correct as hell! Watch me closely, young man. I have no moustache to +deceive you—nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Watch me +closely!"</p> + +<p>He teed his ball, dropped his left arm at his side, grasped the driver +firmly in his right hand and swung the club a couple of times in +tentative fashion. The head of the driver described a perfect arc, +barely grazing the top of the tee. His two-armed swing had been a thing +of violence—a baseball wallop, constricted, bound up, without +follow-through or timing, a combination of brute strength and +awkwardness. Uncle Billy's chin sagged as he watched the easy, natural +sweep of that wooden club—the wrist-snap applied at the proper time, +and the long graceful follow-through which gives distance as well as +direction. Old Man Sprott also seemed to be struggling with an entirely +new and not altogether pleasant idea.</p> + +<p>"Watch me closely, stakeholder," repeated Cottle, addressing the ball. +"Nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Would you gentlemen like to +have me roll up my sleeve before I start?"</p> + +<p>"Drive!" grunted Uncle Billy.</p> + +<p>"I'll do that little thing," said Cottle, and this time he put the power +into the swing. The ball, caught squarely in the middle of the +club-face, went whistling toward the distant green, a perfect screamer +of a drive without a suspicion of hook or slice. It cleared the +cross-bunker by ten feet, carried at least a hundred and eighty yards +before it touched grass, and then bounded ahead like a scared rabbit, +coming to rest at least two hundred and twenty-five yards away. "You +like that?" asked Cottle, moving off the tee. "I didn't step into it +very hard or I might have had more distance. Satisfactory, +stakeholder?" And he winked at me openly and deliberately.</p> + +<p>"Wha—what sort of a game is this?" gulped Old Man Sprott, finding his +voice with an effort.</p> + +<p>"Why," said Cottle, smiling cheerfully, "I wouldn't like to say off-hand +and so early in the game, but you might call it golf. Yes, call it golf, +and let it go at that."</p> + +<p>At this point I wish to go on record as denying the rumour that our two +old reprobates showed the white feather. That first tee shot, and the +manner in which it was made, was enough to inform them that they were up +against a sickening surprise party; but, though startled and shaken, +they did not weaken. They pulled themselves together and drove the best +they knew how, and I realised that for once I was to see their true +golfing form uncovered.</p> + +<p>Cottle tucked his wooden club under his arm and started down the course, +and from that time on he had very little to say. Uncle Billy and Old Man +Sprott followed him, their heads together at a confidential angle, and I +brought up the rear with the Ooley-cow, who had elected himself a +gallery of one.</p> + +<p>The first hole is a long par four. Poindexter and Sprott usually make it +in five, seldom getting home with their seconds unless they have a wind +behind them. Both used brassies and both were short of the green. Then +they watched Cottle as he went forward to his ball.</p> + +<p>"That drive might have been a freak shot," quavered Uncle Billy.</p> + +<p>"Lucky fluke, that's all," said Old Man Sprott, but I knew and they knew +that they only hoped they were telling the truth.</p> + +<p>Cottle paused over his ball for an instant, examined the lie and drew a +wooden spoon from his bag. Then he set himself, and the next instant the +ball was on its way, a long, high shot, dead on the pin.</p> + +<p>"And maybe that was a fluke!" muttered the Ooley-cow under his breath. +"Look! He's got the green with it!"</p> + +<p>From the same distance I would have played a full mid-iron and trusted +in Providence, but Cottle had used his wood, and I may say that never +have I seen a ball better placed. It carried to the little rise of turf +in front of the putting green, hopped once, and trickled onto the sand. +I was not the only one who appreciated that spoon shot.</p> + +<p>"Say," yapped Old Man Sprott, turning to Perkins, "what are we up +against here? Miracles?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, what have you framed up on us?" demanded Uncle Billy vindictively.</p> + +<p>"Something easy, gentlemen," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "A soft thing from +my home town. Probably he's only lucky."</p> + +<p>The two members of the Sure-Thing Society went after their customary +fives and got them, but Cottle laid his approach putt stone dead at the +cup and holed out in four. He missed a three by the matter of half an +inch. I could stand the suspense no longer. I took Perkins aside while +the contestants were walking to the second tee.</p> + +<p>"You might tell a friend," I suggested. "In strict confidence, what are +they up against?"</p> + +<p>"Something easy," repeated the Ooley-cow, regarding me with his soft, +innocent eyes. "They wanted it and now they've got it."</p> + +<p>"But yesterday, when he played with both arms——" I began.</p> + +<p>"That was yesterday," said Perkins. "You'll notice that they didn't have +the decency to offer him a handicap, even when they felt morally certain +that he had made a fool bet. Not that he would have accepted it—but +they didn't offer it. They're wolves, clear to the bone, but once in a +while a wolf bites off more than he can chew." And he walked away from +me. Right there I began reconstructing my opinion of the Ooley-cow.</p> + +<p>In my official capacity as stakeholder I saw every shot that was played +that afternoon. I still preserve the original score card of that amazing +round of golf. There are times when I think I will have it framed and +present it to the club, with red-ink crosses against the thirteenth and +fourteenth holes. I might even set a red-ink star against the difficult +sixth hole, where Cottle sent another tremendous spoon shot down the +wind, and took a four where most of our Class-A men are content with a +five. I might make a notation against the tricky ninth, where he played +a marvellous shot out of a sand trap to halve a hole which I would have +given up as lost. I might make a footnote calling attention to his +deadly work with his short irons. I say I think of all these things, but +perhaps I shall never frame that card. The two men most interested will +never forget the figures. It is enough to say that Old Man Sprott, +playing such golf as I had never seen him play before, succumbed at the +thirteenth hole, six down and five to go. Uncle Billy gave up the ghost +on the fourteenth green, five and four, and I handed the money and the +checks to Mr. Calvin D. Cottle, of Dubuque. He pocketed the loot with a +grin.</p> + +<p>"Shall we play the bye-holes for something?" he asked. "A drink—or a +ball, maybe?" And then the storm broke. I do not pretend to quote the +exact language of the losers. I merely state that I was surprised, yes, +shocked at Uncle Billy Poindexter. I had no idea that a member of the +Episcopal church—but let that pass. He was not himself. He was the +biter bitten, the milker milked. It makes a difference. Old Man Sprott +also erupted in an astounding manner. It was the Ooley-cow who took the +centre of the stage.</p> + +<p>"Just a minute, gentlemen," said he. "Do not say anything which you +might afterward regret. Remember the stakeholder is still with us. My +friend here is not, as you intimate, a crook. Neither is he a +sure-thing player. We have some sure-thing players with us, but he is +not one of them. He is merely the one-armed golf champion of +Dubuque—and the Middle West."</p> + +<p>Imagine an interlude here for fireworks, followed by pertinent +questions.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, I know," said Perkins soothingly. "He can't play a lick with +two arms. He never could. Matter of fact, he never learned. He fell off +a haystack in Iowa—how many years ago was it, Cal?"</p> + +<p>"Twelve," said Mr. Cottle. "Twelve next July."</p> + +<p>"And he broke his left arm rather badly," explained the Ooley-cow. +"Didn't have the use of it for—how many years, Cal?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, about six, I should say."</p> + +<p>"Six years. A determined man can accomplish much in that length of time. +Cottle learned to play golf with his right arm—fairly well, as you must +admit. Finally he got the left arm fixed up—they took a piece of bone +out of his shin and grafted it in—newfangled idea. Decided there was no +sense in spoiling a one-armed star to make a dub two-armed golfer. +Country full of 'em already. That's the whole story. You picked him for +an easy mark, a good thing. You thought he had a bad bet and you had a +good one. Don't take the trouble to deny it. Gentlemen, allow me to +present the champion one-armed golfer of Iowa and the Middle West!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Cottle modestly, "when a man does anything, give him credit +for it. Personally I'd rather have the cash!"</p> + +<p>"How do you feel about it now?" asked the Ooley-cow.</p> + +<p>Judging by their comments, they felt warm—very warm. Hot, in fact. The +Ooley-cow made just one more statement, but to me that statement +contained the gist of the whole matter.</p> + +<p>"This," said he, "squares us on the wallet proposition. I didn't say +anything about it at the time, but that struck me as a scaly trick. So I +invited Cal to come out and pay me a visit.... Shall we go back to the +clubhouse?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I made Little Doc Ellis see the point; perhaps I can make you see it +now.</p> + +<p>Returning to the original simile, the Ooley-cow was willing to be milked +for golf balls and luncheons and caddie hire. That was legitimate +milking, and he did not resent it. He would have continued to give down +in great abundance, but when they took fifty dollars from him, in the +form of a bogus reward, he kicked over the bucket, injured the milkers +and jumped the fence.</p> + +<p>Why? I'm almost ashamed to tell you, but did you ever hear of a country +cow—an Iowa cow—that would stand for being milked from the wrong side?</p> + +<p>I think this will be all, except that I anticipate a hard winter for the +golfing beginners at our club.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ADOLPHUS_AND_THE_ROUGH_DIAMOND" id="ADOLPHUS_AND_THE_ROUGH_DIAMOND"></a>ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Now that Winthrop Watson Wilkins has taken his clubs away and cleaned +out his locker some of the fellows are ready enough to admit that he +wasn't half bad. On this point I agree with them. He was not. He was +two-thirds bad, and the remainder was pure, abysmal, impenetrable +ignorance.</p> + +<p>Windy Wilkins may have meant well—perhaps he did—but when a fellow +doesn't know, and doesn't know that he doesn't know and won't let +anybody tell him that he doesn't know, he becomes impossible and out of +place in any respectable and exclusive golf club. I suppose his +apologists feel kindly toward him for eliminating Adolphus Kitts and +squaring about a thousand old scores with that person, but I claim it +was a case of dog eat dog and neither dog a thoroughbred. I for one am +not mourning the departure of Windy Winkins, and if I never see him +again, I will manage to bear it somehow.</p> + +<p>They say that every golf club has one member who slips in while the +membership committee is looking the other way. In Windy's case the +committee had no possible excuse. There was an excuse for Adolphus +Kitts. Adolphus got in when our club absorbed the Crystal Springs +Country Club, and out of courtesy we did not scrutinise the Crystal +Springs membership list, but Windy's name was proposed in the regular +manner. All that was known of him was that he was a stranger in the +community who had presumably never been in jail and who had money. The +club didn't need his initiation fee and wasn't after new members, but +for some reason or other the bars were down and Windy got in. The first +thing we knew he landed in our midst with a terrific splash and began +slapping total strangers on the back and trying to sign all the +tags and otherwise making an ass of himself. He didn't wait for +introductions—just butted in and took things for granted.</p> + +<p>"You see, boys," he explained, "I've always been more or less of an +ath-a-lete and I've tried every game but this one. Now that I'm gettin' +to the time of life when I can't stand rough exercise any more, I +thought I'd kind of like to take up golf. I would have done it when I +lived in Chicago, but my friends laughed me out of it—said it was silly +to get out and whale a little white pill around the country—but I guess +anything that makes a man sweat is healthy, hey? And then my wife +thought it would be a good thing socially, you know, and—no, waiter, +this round is on me. Oh, but I insist! My card, gentlemen. That's right; +keep 'em. I get 'em engraved by the thousand. Waiter! Bring some cigars +here—perfectos, cigarettes—anything the gentlemen'll have, and let it +be the best in the house! I don't smoke cigarettes myself, but my +friends tell me that's the next step after takin' up golf! Ho, ho! No +offence to any of you boys; order cigarettes if you want 'em. Everybody +smokes on the new member!"</p> + +<p>Well, that was Windy's tactful method of introducing himself. Is it any +wonder that we asked questions of the membership committee? No +out-and-out complaints, you understand. We just wanted to know where +Windy came from and how he got in and who was to blame for it. Most of +the information was furnished by Cupid Cutts.</p> + +<p>Cupid is pretty nearly the whole thing at our club. In every golf club +there is one man who does the lion's share of the work and gets nothing +but abuse and criticism for it, and Cupid is our golfing wheel horse, as +you might say. He is a member of the board of directors, a member of the +house committee, chairman of the greens committee, and the Big Stick on +the membership committee. He is also the official handicapper, which is +a mighty good thing to bear in mind when you play against him. I have +known Cupid to cut a man's handicap six strokes for beating him three +ways on a ball-ball-ball Nassau.</p> + +<p>Cutts is no Chick Evans, or anything like that, but, considering his +physical limitations, he is a remarkable golfer and steady as an +eight-day clock. He is so fat that he can't take a full-arm swing to +save his life, but his little half-shot pops the ball straight down the +middle of the course every time, and he plays to his handicap with a +persistency that has broken many a youngster's heart. Straight on the +pin all the time—that's his game, and whenever he's within a hundred +yards of the cup he's liable to lay his ball dead.</p> + +<p>There are lots of things I might tell you about Cupid Cutts—he's a sort +of social Who's Who in white flannels and an obesity belt, and an +authority on scandal and gossip, past and present—but the long and +short of it is that it would be hard to get on without him, even harder +than it is to get on with him. Well, we asked Cupid about Windy Wilkins, +and Cupid went to the bat immediately.</p> + +<p>"Absolutely all right, fellows, oh, absolutely! A little rough, perhaps, +a diamond in the rough, but a good heart. And all kinds of money. He +won't play often enough to bother anybody."</p> + +<p>That was where Cupid was wrong two ways. Windy played every day, rain or +shine, and he bothered everybody. He was just as noisy on the course as +he was in the locker room, and when he missed his putt on the +eighteenth green the fellows who were driving off at No. 1 had to wait +until he cooled down. And when he managed to hit his drive clean he +yelled like a Comanche and jumped up and down on the tee. He did all the +things that can't be done, and when we spoke to him kindly about golfing +etiquette he snorted and said he never had much use for red tape anyway +and thought it was out of place in sport.</p> + +<p>He tramped around on the greens and bothered people who wanted to putt. +He talked and laughed when others were driving. He played out of his +turn. He drove into foursomes whenever he was held up for a minute, just +to let the players know that he was behind 'em.</p> + +<p>He was absolutely impossible, socially and otherwise, but the most +astonishing thing was the way he picked up the game after the first +month or so. Windy was a tremendously big man and looked like the hind +end of an elephant in his knickers; but for all his size he developed a +powerful, easy swing and a reasonable amount of accuracy. As for form, +he didn't know the meaning of the word. His stance was never twice the +same, his grip was a relic of the dark ages, he handled his irons as a +labouring man handles a pick, he did everything that the books say you +mustn't do, and, in spite of it, his game improved amazingly. And he +called us moving-picture golfers!</p> + +<p>"Every move a picture!" he would say. "You have to plant your dear +little feet just so. Your tee has got to be just so high. Your grip must +be right to the fraction of an inch. You must waggle the club back and +forth seven times before you dare to swing it, and then chances are you +don't get anywhere! Step up and paste her on the nose the way I do! +Forget this Miss Nancy stuff and hit the ball!"</p> + +<p>When Windy got down around 90 he swelled all out of shape, and the next +step, of course, was to have some special clubs built by MacLeish, the +professional. They were such queer-looking implements that Cupid joked +him about them one Saturday noon in the locker room. It was then that we +got a real line on Windy, and Cupid found out that even a rough diamond +may have a cutting edge.</p> + +<p>"You're just like all beginners," said Cupid. "You make a few rotten +shots and then think the clubs must be wrong. The regular models aren't +good enough for you. You have to have some built to order, with bigger +faces and stiffer shafts. Get it into your head that the trouble is with +you, not with the club. The ball will go straight if you hit it right."</p> + +<p>"Clubs make a lot of difference," said Windy. "Ten strokes anyway."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! A good, mechanical golfer can play with any clubs!"</p> + +<p>"I suppose you think you can do it?"</p> + +<p>"I know I can."</p> + +<p>"And you'd bet on it?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly."</p> + +<p>Windy didn't say anything for as much as two minutes. The rascal was +thinking.</p> + +<p>"<i>All</i> right," said he at last. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll make you a +little proposition. You say you can play with any clubs. Give me the +privilege of pickin' 'em out for you, and I'll bet you fifty dollars +that I trim you on an even game—no handicap."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but where are you going to get these clubs for me to play with? +Off a scrap pile or something?"</p> + +<p>"Right out of MacLeish's shop! Brand-new stuff, selected from the +regular stock. And I'll go against you even, just to prove that you +don't know it all, even if you have been playin' golf for twenty years!"</p> + +<p>It was a flat, out-and-out challenge. Cupid looked Windy up and down +with a pitying smile—the same smile he uses when an 18-handicap man +asks to be raised to 24.</p> + +<p>"I'd be ashamed to rob you, Wilkins," said he.</p> + +<p>Windy didn't say anything, but he went into his locker and brought out a +roll of bills about the size of a young grindstone. He counted fifty +dollars off it, and you couldn't have told the difference. It looked +just as big as before. He handed the fifty to me.</p> + +<p>"It would be stealing it," said Cupid, but there was a hungry look in +his eye.</p> + +<p>"If you get away with it," said Windy, "I won't complain to the police. +Put up or shut up."</p> + +<p>Well, it looked like finding the money. We knew that Windy couldn't +break a 90 to save his life, and Cupid had done the course in an 84, +using nothing but a putting cleek.</p> + +<p>"How many clubs can I have?" asked Cupid with his usual caution in the +matter of bets.</p> + +<p>"Oh, six or eight," answered Windy. "Makes no difference to me."</p> + +<p>"I'll take eight," said Cupid briskly. "And if you don't mind, I'll post +a check. I'm not in the habit of carrying the entire cash balance in my +jeans."</p> + +<p>"Fair enough!" said Windy. "You boys are all witnesses to the terms of +this bet. I'm to pick out eight clubs—eight new ones—and Cutts here is +to play with 'em. Is that understood?"</p> + +<p>"Perfectly!" grinned Cupid. "It'll just cost you fifty fish to find out +that a mechanical golfer can lick you with strange weapons."</p> + +<p>Windy went out and Cupid promised us all a dinner on the proceeds of the +match.</p> + +<p>"I don't want the fellow's money," said he, "but Windy's entirely too +fresh for a new member. A beating will do him good and make him humble. +Eight clubs. If he brings me only two or three that I can use—a driver, +a mid-iron, and a putter—I'll hang his hide on the fence too easy. He's +made a bad bet."</p> + +<p>But it wasn't such a bad bet after all. Windy came back with eight +clubs in the crook of his arm, and when Cupid caught a glimpse of the +collection he howled himself purple in the face, and no wonder. Eight +nice, new, shiny, mashie niblicks!</p> + +<p>You see, nothing was said about the <i>sort</i> of clubs Windy was to pick +out, and he had selected eight of the same pattern, no good on earth +except for digging out of bunkers or popping the ball straight up in the +air! Harry Vardon himself can't <i>drive</i> with a mashie niblick!</p> + +<p>"What are you beefin' about?" asked Windy. "Eight clubs, you said, and +here they are. Play or pay."</p> + +<p>"Pay! Why, man alive, it's a catch bet—a cinch bet! It's not being done +this year at all! It's like stealing the money!"</p> + +<p>"And you thought you could steal mine," was the cool reply. "You thought +you had a cinch bet, didn't you? Be honest now. Eight clubs, by the +terms of the agreement, and you'll play with 'em or forfeit the fifty."</p> + +<p>Cupid looked at the mashie niblicks and then he looked at Windy. I +looked at him too and began to understand how he got his money. His face +was as hard as granite. "You'd collect that sort of a bet—from a +friend?" It was Cupid's last shot.</p> + +<p>"Just as quick as you would," said Windy.</p> + +<p>"I'll write you a check," and Cupid turned on his heel and started for +the office.</p> + +<p>Windy tried to turn it into a joke—after he got the check—but nobody +seemed to know where to laugh, and following that little incident he +found it a bit hard to get games. Whenever Windy was hunting a match the +foursomes were full and there was nothing doing. A sensitive man would +have suffered tortures, but Windy, with about as much delicacy as a +rhinoceros, continued to infest the course morning, noon, and night. +When he couldn't find any one weak-minded enough to play with him he +played with himself, and somehow managed to make just as much noise as +ever with only a caddie to talk to.</p> + +<p>This was the state of affairs when Adolphus Kitts returned from the +East, barely in time to shoot a 91 in the qualifying round of the Annual +Handicap. We had hoped that he would miss this tournament, but no; there +he was, large as life—which is pretty large—and ugly as ever. Grim and +silent and nasty, he stepped out on No. 1 tee, and Cupid Cutts groaned +as he watched him drive off.</p> + +<p>"That fellow," said Cupid, "would hang his harp on the walls of the New +Jerusalem and come back from the golden shore just to get into a +handicap event, where nobody wants him, nobody will speak to him, and +every one wishes him an ulcerated tooth! Why didn't he stay in the +East?"</p> + +<p>There were about four hundred and seventy-six reasons why Adolphus was +unpopular with us; a few will suffice. In the first place, he was a cup +hunter. He had an unholy passion for silver goblets and trophies with +the club emblem on them, and he preferred a small silver vase—worth not +to exceed three dollars, wholesale—to the respect and admiration of his +fellow golfers. Heaven knows why he wanted trophies! They are never any +good unless a man has friends to show them to!</p> + +<p>In the second place, Adolphus didn't care how he won a cup, and, as +Cupid used to say, the best club in his bag was the book of rules.</p> + +<p>If you don't know it already, I must tell you that golf is the most +strictly governed game in the world, and also the most ceremonious. It +is as full of "thou shalt nots" as the commandments. There are rules for +everything and everybody on the course, and the breaking of a rule +carries a penalty with it—the loss of a stroke or the loss of a hole, +as the case may be. Very few golfers play absolutely to the letter of +the law; even those who know the rules incur penalties through +carelessness, and in such a case it is not considered sporting to demand +the pound of flesh; but there was nothing sporting about Adolphus Kitts.</p> + +<p>He knew every obscure rule and insisted on every penalty. Question him, +and he fished out the book. That book of rules stiffened his match play +tremendously, besides making his opponents want to murder him. It was +rather a rotten system, but Kitts hadn't a drop of sporting blood in +his whole big body, and the element of sportsmanship didn't enter into +his calculations at all. He claimed strokes and holes even when not in +competition, and because of this he found it difficult to obtain +partners or opponents.</p> + +<p>"He's a golf lawyer, that's what he is—a technical lawyer!" said Cupid +one day. "And I wouldn't even play the nineteenth hole with him—I +wouldn't, on a bet!"</p> + +<p>Come to think of it, that is about the bitterest thing you can say of a +golfer.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Our Annual Handicap is the blue-ribbon event of the year so far as most +of us are concerned. The star players turn up their noses at it a bit, +but that is only because they realise that they have a mighty slim +chance to carry off the cup. The high-handicap men usually eliminate the +crack performers, which is the way it should be. What's the good of a +handicap event if a scratch man is to win it every year?</p> + +<p>Sixty-four members qualify and are paired off into individual matches, +which are played on handicaps, the losers dropping out. The man who +"comes through" in the top half of the drawing meets the survivor of the +lower half in the final match for the cup, which is always a very +handsome and valuable trophy, calculated to rouse all the cupidity in a +cup hunter's nature.</p> + +<p>When the pairings were posted on the bulletin board Kitts was in the +upper half and Windy in the lower one. Kitts had a handicap of 8 +strokes, and was really entitled to 12, but Cupid wouldn't listen to his +wails of anguish. Windy was a 12 man, and nobody figured the two +renegades as dangerous until the sixty-four entrants had narrowed down +to eight survivors. Kitts had won his matches by close margins, but +Windy had simply smothered his opponents by lopsided scores, and there +they were, in the running and too close to the finals for comfort.</p> + +<p>We began to sit up and take notice. Cupid read the riot act to Dawson, +who was Windy's next opponent, and also had a talk with Aubrey, who was +to meet Kitts. "Wilkins and Kitts must be stopped!" raved Cupid. "We +don't want 'em to get as far as the semi-finals, and it's up to you +chaps to play your heads off and beat these rotters!"</p> + +<p>Dawson and Aubrey saw their duty to the club, but that was as far as +they got with it. Windy talked from one end of his match to the other +and made Dawson so nervous that any one could have beaten him, and Kitts +pulled the book of rules on Aubrey and literally read him out of the +contest.</p> + +<p>After this the interest in the tournament grew almost painful. +Overholzer and Watts were the other semifinalists, and we told them +plainly that they might as well resign from the club if they did not win +their matches. Overholzer spent a solid week practicing on his approach +shots, and Watts carried his putter home with him nights, but it wasn't +the slightest use. Windy tossed an 83 at Overholzer, along with a lot of +noisy conversation, and an 83 will beat Overholzer every time he starts. +Poor Watts went off his drive entirely and gave such a pitiful +exhibition that Kitts didn't need the rule book at all.</p> + +<p>And there we were, down to the finals for the beautiful handicap cup, +sixty-two good men and true eliminated, and a pair of bounders lined up +against each other for the trophy!</p> + +<p>"This," said Cupid Cutts, "is a most unfortunate situation. I can't root +for a sure-thing gambler and daylight highwayman like Wilkins, and as +for the other fellow I hope he falls into a bunker and breaks both his +hind legs off short! Think of one of those fellows carrying home that +lovely cup! Ain't it enough to make you sick?"</p> + +<p>It made us all sick, nevertheless quite a respectable gallery assembled +to watch Wilkins and Kitts play their match.</p> + +<p>"Looks like we're goin' to have a crowd for the main event!" said Windy, +who had put in the entire morning practicing tee shots. "In that case +I'll buy everybody a little drink, or sign a lunch card—whatever's +customary. Don't be bashful, boys. Might as well drink with the winner +before as well as after, you know!"</p> + +<p>At this point Adolphus came in from the locker room and there was an +embarrassed silence, broken at last by Windy. "Somebody introduce me to +my victim," said he. "We've never met."</p> + +<p>"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Cupid. "Of all the men in this club, I'd +think you fellows ought to know each other! Kitts, this is +Wilkins—shake hands and get together!"</p> + +<p>Among the other reasons for not liking him, Adolphus had a face. I'm +aware that a man cannot help his face, but he can make it easier to look +at by wearing a pleasant expression now and then. Kitts seldom used his +face to smile with. As he turned to shake hands with Windy I noticed +that his left hip pocket bulged a trifle, and I knew that Adolphus was +taking no chances. That's where he carries the book of rules.</p> + +<p>"How do," said Kitts, looking hard at Windy. "I'm ready if you are, +sir."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't be in such a hurry!" said Wilkins. "We've got a lot of drinks +comin' here. Sit down and have one."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, I never drink," replied Adolphus.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, have a sandwich. Might as well load up; you've got a hard +afternoon ahead of you."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, I've had my lunch."</p> + +<p>"Then let's talk a little," urged Windy. "Let's get acquainted. This is +the first time I ever had a whack at a cup, and I don't know how to act. +I play golf by main strength and awkwardness, but I get there just the +same. They tell me you're a great man for rules."</p> + +<p>Windy paused, but Kitts didn't say anything, and Cupid stepped on my +foot under the table.</p> + +<p>"Now, I don't go very strong on the rules," continued Windy wheedlingly. +"I like to play a sporty game—count all my shots, of course—but damn +this technical stuff is what <i>I</i> say. For instance, if you should +accidentally tap your ball when you was addressin' it, and it should +turn over, I wouldn't call a stroke on you. I'd be ashamed to do it. If +I win, I want to win on my <i>playin'</i> and not on any technicalities. +Ain't that the way you feel about it, hey?"</p> + +<p>Kitts looked uncomfortable, but he wouldn't return a straight answer to +the question. He said something about hoping the best man would win, and +went out to get his clubs.</p> + +<p>"Cheerful kind of a party, ain't he?" said Windy. "I've told him where I +stand. <i>I</i> ain't goin' to claim anything on him if his foot slips, and +he oughtn't to claim anything on <i>me</i>. If he's a real sport, he won't. +What do you boys think?"</p> + +<p>We thought a great deal, but nobody offered any advice.</p> + +<p>"Well," said Windy, getting up and stretching, "he's got to start me 2 +up, on handicap, and I'm drivin' like a fool. I should worry about his +technicalities!"</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player is +very well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot. +It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, rough +to the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guarding +the green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee.</p> + +<p>"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts. <i>I</i> always drive best +when people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, they +say. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when I +address the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this: +'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! And +the little white devil certainly took a ride—long, low, and straight up +the middle of the course—the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it to +make it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixty +yards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pill +beside that one—if you think you can!"</p> + +<p>"You're a 12-handicap man—and you drive like that!" said Kitts, which +was, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot.</p> + +<p>"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. I +really play to a 6."</p> + +<p>Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversational +leads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberate +players who must make just so many motions before they pull off their +shots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he moved +up on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forth +over it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out a +nice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all, +he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot! +Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of a +contest——"</p> + +<p>"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windy +winked at the rest of us.</p> + +<p>"His goat is loose already!" said he in a stage whisper. "He can't stand +the gaff!"</p> + +<p>Adolphus got out of the tall grass on his third shot, but dropped his +fourth into a deep sand pit short of the green.</p> + +<p>"With a lot of luck," said Windy, reaching for his brassy, "you may get +an 8—but I doubt it. Pretty soft for me, pretty soft!" And with the +sole of his club he patted the turf behind his ball, smoothing it +down—three gentle little pats. "Pret-ty soft!" murmured Windy, and sent +the ball whistling straight on to the green for a sure 4. Then he turned +to Kitts. "D'you give up?" said he. "Might just as well; you haven't got +a burglar's chance!"</p> + +<p>"I claim the hole," said Adolphus calmly, fishing out the book of rules.</p> + +<p>"You—what?"</p> + +<p>"Rule No. 10," said Kitts, beginning to read. "'In playing through the +green, irregularities of surface which could in any way affect the +player's stroke shall not be removed nor pressed down by the player——' +You patted the grass behind your ball and improved the lie by smoothing +it down. I claim the hole."</p> + +<p>Windy went about the colour of a nice ripe Satsuma plum. His neck +swelled so much that his ears moved outward. "You don't mean to say that +you're goin' to call a thing like that on me when you're already licked +for the hole?" He spoke slowly, as if he found it hard to believe that +the situation was real.</p> + +<p>"I claim it," repeated Adolphus monotonously. "You can appeal to Mr. +Cutts, as chairman of the greens committee."</p> + +<p>"Hey, Fatty! All I did was pat the grass a few times with my club, and +this—this <i>gentleman</i> here says he claims the hole."</p> + +<p>"You violated the rule," shortly answered Cupid, who may be fat but does +not like to be reminded of it so publicly.</p> + +<p>"And you're goin' to let him get away with that?" demanded Windy. "I'm +on the green in two, and he's neck-deep in the sand on his fourth——"</p> + +<p>"Makes no difference," said Cupid, turning away. "You ought to know the +rules by now. Kitts wins the hole."</p> + +<p>Well, Windy finally accepted the situation, but he was in a savage frame +of mind—so savage that he walked all the way to the second tee without +opening his mouth. There he stepped aside, with a low bow to Kitts.</p> + +<p>"Your <i>honour</i>, I believe," said he with nasty emphasis.</p> + +<p>No. 2 is a short hole—a drive and a pitch. Windy got a good ball, and +it rolled almost to the edge of the green. Kitts's drive was short but +straight, and he pitched his second to the green, some thirty feet from +the pin, and the advantage seemed to be with Windy until it was +discovered that his ball was lying in a cuppy depression of the turf.</p> + +<p>"That's lovely, ain't it?" growled Windy. "A fine drive—and look at +this for a lie! I was goin' to use a putter, but a putter won't get the +ball out of there. Hey, Fatty, had I better use a niblick here?"</p> + +<p>"I claim the hole," said Kitts, reaching for the book.</p> + +<p>"But I haven't done anything!" howled Windy. "How can you claim the hole +when I haven't played the shot?"</p> + +<p>"You asked advice," said Kitts, reading. "'A player may not ask for nor +willingly receive advice from any one except his own caddie, his +partner, or his partner's caddie.' This is not a foursome, so you have +no partner. Advice is defined as any suggestion which could influence a +player in determining the line of play, in the choice of a club, or in +the method of making a stroke. You asked whether you should use a +niblick—and you lose the hole."</p> + +<p>Windy, knocked speechless for once in his life, looked over at Cupid, +and Cupid nodded his head.</p> + +<p>"The match is now all square," said Kitts as he started for the third +tee.</p> + +<p>"And squared by a couple of petty larceny protests!" said Windy. "Hey, +Mister Bookworm, wait a minute! I want to tell you something for your +own good!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, play golf!" said Kitts, over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>Windy strode after him and took him by the arm. It wasn't a gentle grasp +either.</p> + +<p>"That's exactly what I want to say. <i>You</i> play golf, Mr. Kitts! Play it +with your clubs, and forget that book in your hip pocket. If you pull it +on me again, I'll—I'll——"</p> + +<p>Adolphus tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort.</p> + +<p>"You can't intimidate me," said he.</p> + +<p>"Maybe not," said Windy, quite earnestly, "but I can lick you within an +inch of your life—and I will. Is there anything in the book about +that? If you read me out of this cup, you better make arrangements to +have it sent direct to the hospital. It'll make a nice flower holder—if +you've got any friends that think enough of you to send flowers!"</p> + +<p>"You gentlemen are witnesses to these threats," said Kitts, appealing to +the gallery.</p> + +<p>"We didn't hear a word," said Cupid. "Not a word. Go on and play your +match and stop squabbling. You act like a couple of fishwives!"</p> + +<p>The contestants walked off in the direction of the tee, with Windy still +rubbing it in.</p> + +<p>"A word to the wise. Keep that damn' book in your pocket, if you don't +want to eat it—cover and all!"</p> + +<p>"Suppose they do mix it?" said Cupid, mopping his brow. "Sweet little +golfing scandal, eh? Can't you see the headlines in the newspapers? +'Country Club finalists in fist fight on links!' And some of these +roughneck humourists will congratulate us on golf becoming one of the +vital, red-blooded sports! Oh, lovely!"</p> + +<p>"Bah!" said I. "There will be no fight. No man will fight who smiles +like a coyote when he is getting a call down."</p> + +<p>"But a coyote will fight if you put it up to him, don't make any mistake +about that. And Kitts will spring the book on Windy again, I feel it in +my bones, and if he does—choose your partners for the one-step! Oh, why +did we ever let these rotters into the club?"</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>I see no reason for inflicting upon you a detailed description of the +next fifteen holes of golfing frightfulness. Golf is a game which +requires mental calm, and the contestants were entirely out of calmness +after the second hole and could not concentrate on their shots.</p> + +<p>Windy began driving all over the shop, hooking and slicing tremendously, +and Kitts manhandled his irons in a manner fit to make a hardened +professional weep. Neither of them could have holed a five-foot putt in +a washtub, and they staggered along side by side, silent and nervous and +savage, and if Windy managed to win a hole Kitts would be sure to take +the next one and square the match. But he didn't take any holes with the +book. When Windy broke a rule—which he did every little while—Kitts +would sneer and pretend to look the other way. He tried to convey the +impression that it was pity and contempt that made him blind to Windy's +lapses, but he didn't fool me for a minute. It was fear of consequences.</p> + +<p>And so they came to the last hole, all square, and also all in.</p> + +<p>Our eighteenth has a vicious reputation among those golfing unfortunates +who slice their tee shots. The drive must carry a steep hill, the right +slope of which pitches away to a deep, narrow ravine—a ravine scarred +and marred by thousands of niblick shots, but otherwise as disgusted +Nature left it. We call it Hell's Half Acre, though the first part of +the name would be quite sufficient.</p> + +<p>The only improvements that have ever been made in this sinister locality +have been made by golf clubs, despairingly wielded. Hell's Half Acre is +full of stunted trees with roots half out of the ground, and thick brush +and matted weeds, and squarely in the middle of this desolation is a +deep sink, or pit, known as the Devil's Kitchen. Hell's Half Acre is bad +enough, believe one who knows, but the Devil's Kitchen is the last hard +word in hazards, and it is a crime to allow such a plague spot within a +mile of a golf course.</p> + +<p>At a respectful distance we watched the renegades drive from the +eighteenth tee. Kitts had the honour—if there is any honour in winning +a four hole in eight strokes—and messed about over his ball even longer +than usual. His drive developed a lovely curve to the right, and went +skipping and bounding down the hill toward the ravine.</p> + +<p>"And that'll be in the Kitchen unless something stops it!" said Cupid +with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid the blighters might halve this one +and need extra holes!"</p> + +<p>Now with Adolphus in the Devil's Kitchen all Windy needed was a straight +ball over the brow of the hill—in fact, a ball anywhere on the course +would be almost certain to win the hole and the match—but when he +walked out on the tee it was plain to be seen that he had lost +confidence in his wooden club. Any golfer knows what it means to lose +confidence in his wood, and Windy had reason to doubt his driver. His +tee shots had been fearfully off direction, and here was one that <i>had</i> +to go straight.</p> + +<p>He teed his ball, swung his club a couple of times, and shook his head. +Then he yelled at his caddie.</p> + +<p>"Oh, boy! Bring me my cleek!"</p> + +<p>Now, a cleek is a wonderful club if a man knows how to use one, but it +produces a low tee shot, as a general thing. It produced one for +Windy—a screamer, flying with the speed of a rifle bullet. I thought at +first that it was barely going to clear the top of the hill, but I +misjudged it. Three feet higher and the ball would have been over, but +it struck the ground and kicked abruptly to the right, disappearing in +the direction of the Devil's Kitchen. We heard a crashing noise. It was +Windy splintering his cleek shaft over the tee box.</p> + +<p>"Both down!" ejaculated Cupid. "Suffering St. Andrew, what a finish!"</p> + +<p>We arrived on the rim of the Kitchen and peered into that wild +amphitheatre. Kitts had already found his ball, and was staring at it +with an expression of dumb anguish on his face. It was lying underneath +a tangle of sturdy oak roots, as safely protected as if an octopus was +trying to hatch something out of it.</p> + +<p>Windy was combing the weeds which grew on the abrupt sides of the pit, +too full of his own trouble to pay any attention to his opponent.</p> + +<p>"If it's a lost ball——" said Cupid.</p> + +<p>But it wasn't. Windy found it, half-way up the left slope, hidden in the +weeds, and not a particularly bad lie except for the fact that nothing +human could have taken a stance on that declivity. Having found his +ball, Windy took a look at Kitts's lie and then, for the first and only +time in his golfing career, Wilkins recognised the rules of the game. +"You're away, sir," said he to Kitts. "Play!"</p> + +<p>Adolphus took his niblick and attacked the octopus. His first three +strokes did not even jar the ball, but they damaged the oak roots beyond +repair. On his eighth attempt the ball popped out of its nest, and the +next shot was a very pretty one, sailing up and out to the fair green, +but there was no applause from the gallery.</p> + +<p>"Countin' the drive," said Windy, "that makes ten, eh?"</p> + +<p>A man may play nine strokes in a hazard, but he hates to admit it. +Adolphus grunted and withdrew to the other side of the pit, from which +point he watched Windy morosely. With victory in sight the latter became +cheerful again; conversation bubbled out of him.</p> + +<p>"Boy, slip me the niblick and get up yonder on the edge of the ravine +where you can watch this ball. I'm goin' to knock it a mile out of here. +Ten shots he's had. If it was me, I'd give up. How am I to get a +footin' on this infernal side hill? Spikes won't hold in that stuff. +Wish I was a goat. Aha! The very thing!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly he delivered a powerful blow at the slope some distance below +his ball and three or four feet to the left of it. Cupid gasped and +opened his mouth to say something, but I nudged him and he subsided, +clucking like a nervous hen.</p> + +<p>"What's the idea?" demanded Kitts.</p> + +<p>"To make little boys ask questions," was the calm reply. "I climbed the +Alps once. Had to dig holes for my feet. Guess I haven't forgotten how, +but diggin' with a blasted niblick is hard work."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Kitts.</p> + +<p>Windy continued to hack at the wall, the gallery looking on in tense +silence. Nobody would have offered a suggestion; we all felt that it was +their own affair, and on the knees of the gods, as the saying is. When +Windy had hacked out a place for his right foot he cut another one for +his left. The weeds were tough and the soil was hard, and he grunted as +he worked.</p> + +<p>"Yep—that Alps trip—taught me something. Comes in—handy now. Pretty +nifty—job, hey?"</p> + +<p>I suppose a mountain climber would have called it a nifty job. Cupid +began to mutter.</p> + +<p>"Be quiet!" said I. "Let's see if Kitts has nerve enough to call it on +him!"</p> + +<p>With the shaft of his niblick in his teeth, Windy swarmed up the side +of the wall, found the footholds and planted himself solidly. Grasping a +bush above his head with his left hand, he measured the distance with +his eye, steadied himself and swung the niblick with his powerful right +arm. It was a wonderful shot, even if Windy Wilkins did make it; the +ball went soaring skyward, far beyond all trouble.</p> + +<p>"<i>Some—out!</i>" he panted, looking over his shoulder at Kitts. "I guess +that'll clinch the match!"</p> + +<p>For just a second Adolphus hesitated; then he must have thought of the +cup. "I rather think it will," said he. "You're nicely out, Wilkins—in +forty-seven strokes."</p> + +<p>"Forty-seven devils!" shouted Windy. "I'm out <i>in two</i>!"</p> + +<p>"In a hazard," quoted Kitts, "the club shall not touch the ground, nor +shall anything be touched or moved before the player strikes at the +ball." At this point Adolphus made a serious mistake; he reached for the +book. "Under the rule," he continued, "I could claim the hole on you, +but I won't do that. I'll only count the strokes you took in chopping a +stance for yourself——"</p> + +<p>That was where Windy dropped the niblick and jumped at him, and Cupid +was correct about the coyote. Put him in a hole where he can't get out, +attack him hard enough, and he <i>will</i> fight.</p> + +<p>Adolphus dropped the book and nailed Windy on the chin with a right +upper cut that jarred the whole Wilkins family.</p> + +<p>"Keep out of it, everybody!" yelled Cupid with a sudden flash of +inspiration. "It's an elimination contest! More power to both of +'em—and may they both lose!"</p> + +<p>Inside of two seconds the whole floor of the Devil's Kitchen was +littered up with fists and elbows and boots and knees. They fought into +clinches and battered their way out of them; they tripped over roots and +scrambled to their feet again; they tossed all rules to the winds except +the rule of self-preservation. The air was full of heartfelt grunts and +sounds as of some one beating a rag carpet, and the language which +floated to us was—well, elemental, to say the least. And through it all +the gallery looked down in decent silence; there was no favourite for +whom any one cared to cheer.</p> + +<p>When Windy came toiling up out of the pit alone, but one remark was +addressed to him.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you going to play it out?" asked Cupid.</p> + +<p>"Huh?" said Windy, pausing. His coat was torn off his back, his soiled +white trousers were out at the knees, his nose was bleeding freely, and +his mouth was lopsided.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you going to finish the match? You've only played 46. Kitts made +a mistake in the count."</p> + +<p>"Finish—hell!" snarled Windy. "You roosted up here like a lot of +buzzards and let me chop myself out of the contest! I feel like +finishin' the lot of you, and I'm through with any club that'll let a +swine like Kitts be a member!"</p> + +<p>Oddly enough, this last statement was substantially the same as the one +Adolphus made when he recovered consciousness.</p> + +<p>The wily Cupid, concealing from each the intentions of the other, and +becoming a bearer of pens, ink, and paper, managed to secure both their +resignations before they left the clubhouse that evening, and peace now +reigns at the Country Club.</p> + +<p>We have been given to understand that in the future the committee on +membership will require gilt-edged certificates of character and that no +rough diamonds need apply.</p> + +<p>Nobody won the handicap cup, and nobody knows what to do with it, though +there is some talk of having it engraved as follows:</p> + +<p>"Elimination Trophy—won by W. W. Wilkins, knockout, one round."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="Other_Fiction" id="Other_Fiction"></a>Other Fiction</h2> + + +<h3>ZANE GREY'S NOVELS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>THE MAN OF THE FOREST</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE DESERT OF WHEAT</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE U. P. TRAIL</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>WILDFIRE</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE BORDER LEGION</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE RAINBOW TRAIL</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE LONE STAR RANGER</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>DESERT GOLD</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>BETTY ZANE</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS</i><br /></span> +<span class="i3">The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Wetmore, with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +</div></div> + +<h3><i>ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS</i></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE YOUNG LION HUNTER</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE YOUNG FORESTER</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE YOUNG PITCHER</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE SHORT STOP</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h3>STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER</h3> + + +<h4><i>MICHAEL O'HALLORAN.</i> Illustrated by Frances Rogers.</h4> + +<p>Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward.</p> + + +<h4><i>LADDIE.</i> Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.</h4> + +<p>This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE HARVESTER.</i> Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.</h4> + +<p>"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality.</p> + + +<h4><i>FRECKLES.</i> Illustrated.</h4> + +<p>Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment.</p> + + +<h4><i>A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.</i> Illustrated.</h4> + +<p>The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.</p> + + +<h4><i>AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.</i> Illustrations in colors.</h4> + +<p>The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. +The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and +its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL.</i> Profusely illustrated.</h4> + +<p>A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<h3>THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART</h3> + + +<h4><i>DANGEROUS DAYS.</i></h4> + +<p>A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine +purpose and stirring appeal.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE AMAZING INTERLUDE.</i> Illustrations by The Kinneys.</h4> + +<p>The story of a great love which cannot be pictured—an +interlude—amazing, romantic.</p> + + +<h4><i>LOVE STORIES.</i></h4> + +<p>This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love +affairs—sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness.</p> + + +<h4><i>"K."</i> Illustrated.</h4> + +<p>K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where +beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The +joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympathetic +appreciation.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE MAN IN LOWER TEN.</i> Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.</h4> + +<p>An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the +"Man in Lower Ten."</p> + + +<h4><i>WHEN A MAN MARRIES.</i> Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.</h4> + +<p>A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his +aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family +income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met +the situation is entertainingly told.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE.</i> Illustrated by Lester Ralph.</h4> + +<p>The occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong on +the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is +announced. Around these two events is woven a plot o£ absorbing +interest.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS.</i> (Photoplay Edition.)</h4> + +<p>Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly +realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious +doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with +world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and +slender means.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<h3>BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS</h3> + + +<h4><i>SEVENTEEN.</i> Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.</h4> + +<p>No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen.</p> + + +<h4><i>PENROD.</i> Illustrated by Gordon Grant.</h4> + +<p>This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work.</p> + + +<h4><i>PENROD AND SAM.</i> Illustrated by Worth Brehm.</h4> + +<p>Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE TURMOIL.</i> Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.</h4> + +<p>Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibbs' life from failure to success.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA.</i> Frontispiece.</h4> + +<p>A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE FLIRT.</i> Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.</h4> + +<p>The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<h3>KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES</h3> + + +<h4><i>SISTERS.</i> Frontispiece by Frank Street.</h4> + +<p>The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful story +of sisterly devotion and sacrifice.</p> + + +<h4><i>POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY.</i> Frontispiece by George Gibbs.</h4> + +<p>A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and +"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures.</p> + + +<h4><i>JOSSELYN'S WIFE.</i> Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.</h4> + +<p>The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness +and love.</p> + + +<h4><i>MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED.</i> Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers.</h4> + +<p>The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE HEART OF RACHAEL.</i> Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.</h4> + +<p>An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a second +marriage.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE.</i> Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.</h4> + +<p>A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure and +lonely, for the happiness of life.</p> + + +<h4><i>SATURDAY'S CHILD.</i> Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.</h4> + +<p>Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheer +determination to the better things for which her soul hungered?</p> + + +<h4><i>MOTHER.</i> Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.</h4> + +<p>A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every +girl's life, and some dreams which came true.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<h3>SEWELL FORD'S STORIES</h3> + + +<h4><i>SHORTY McCABE.</i> Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</h4> + +<p>A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, +sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.</p> + + +<h4><i>SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY.</i> Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</h4> + +<p>Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human +nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for +"side-stepping with Shorty."</p> + + +<h4><i>SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB.</i> Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</h4> + +<p>Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to +the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," +and gives joy to all concerned.</p> + + +<h4><i>SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS.</i> Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.</h4> + +<p>These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for +physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at +swell yachting parties.</p> + + +<h4><i>TORCHY.</i> Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.</h4> + +<p>A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the +youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his +experiences.</p> + + +<h4><i>TRYING OUT TORCHY.</i> Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.</h4> + +<p>Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the +previous book.</p> + + +<h4><i>ON WITH TORCHY.</i> Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.</h4> + +<p>Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but +that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, +which brings about many hilariously funny situations.</p> + + +<h4><i>TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC.</i> Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.</h4> + +<p>Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for +the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious +American slang.</p> + + +<h4><i>WILT THOU TORCHY.</i> Illustrated by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.</h4> + +<p>Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, +in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his +friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place +an engagement ring on Vee's finger.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<h3>ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS</h3> + + +<h4><i>JUST DAVID</i></h4> + +<p>The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts +of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING</i></h4> + +<p>A compelling romance of love and marriage.</p> + + +<h4><i>OH, MONEY! MONEY!</i></h4> + +<p>Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his +relatives, sends them each a check for $100,000, and then as plain John +Smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment.</p> + + +<h4><i>SIX STAR RANCH</i></h4> + +<p>A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six Star +Ranch.</p> + + +<h4><i>DAWN</i></h4> + +<p>The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of +despair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to the +service of blind soldiers.</p> + + +<h4><i>ACROSS THE YEARS</i></h4> + +<p>Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some of +the best writing Mrs. Porter has done.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE TANGLED THREADS</i></h4> + +<p>In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all +her other books.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE TIE THAT BINDS</i></h4> + +<p>Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent for +warm and vivid character drawing.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + + +<h3>ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS</h3> + + +<h4><i>THE LAMP IN THE DESERT</i></h4> + +<p>The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lamp +of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to +final happiness.</p> + + +<h4><i>GREATHEART</i></h4> + +<p>The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE</i></h4> + +<p>A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance."</p> + + +<h4><i>THE SWINDLER</i></h4> + +<p>The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE TIDAL WAVE</i></h4> + +<p>Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false.</p> + + +<h4><i>THE SAFETY CURTAIN</i></h4> + +<p>A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other +long stories of equal interest.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fore!, by Charles Emmett Van Loan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORE! *** + +***** This file should be named 36682-h.htm or 36682-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/6/8/36682/ + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fore! + +Author: Charles Emmett Van Loan + +Release Date: July 9, 2011 [EBook #36682] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORE! *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + FORE! + + BY CHARLES E. VAN LOAN + +AUTHOR OF BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES, TAKING THE COUNT, SCORE BY +INNINGS, ETC. + + + GROSSET & DUNLAP + PUBLISHERS NEW YORK + + Made in the United States of America + + COPYRIGHT, 1918, + BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + Copyright, 1914, 1916, by P. F. Collier & Son + + Copyright, 1917, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + My dear Ed. Tufts:-- + + Once, when a mere child, I strayed as far away from home as + Pico Street, and followed that thoroughfare westward until the + houses gave way to open country, hedged by a dense forest of + real estate signs. + + In the midst of that wilderness I chanced upon a somewhat + chubby gentleman engaged in the pursuit of a small white ball, + which, when he came within striking distance, he beat savagely + with weapons of wood and iron. That, sir, was my first sight of + you, and my earliest acquaintance with the game of golf. I + remember scanning the horizon for your keeper. + + Times have changed since then. The old Pico Street course is + covered with bungalows and mortgages. Golf clubs are + everywhere. The hills are dotted with middle-aged gentlemen who + use the same weapons of wood and iron and the same red-hot + adjectives. A man may now admit that he commits golf and the + statement will not be used against him. Everybody is doing it. + The pastime has become popular. + + But it took courage to be a pioneer, to listen to the sneers + about "Cow-pasture pool" and to remain cool, calm and collected + when putting within sight of the country road and within + hearing of the comments of the Great Unenlightened. That + courage entitles you to this small recognition, and also + entitles you to purchase as many copies of this book as you can + afford. + + Yours as usual, + + CHARLES E. VAN LOAN + + To Mr. Edward B. Tufts of the Los Angeles Country Club. + + Los Angeles, Cal., January 17, 1918. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH + +LITTLE POISON IVY + +THE MAJOR, D.O.S. + +A MIXED FOURSOME + +"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR" + +A CURE FOR LUMBAGO + +THE MAN WHO QUIT + +THE OOLEY-COW + +ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND + + + + +GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH! + + +I + + There has been considerable argument about it--even a mention + of ethics--though where ethics figures in this case is more + than I know. I'd like to take a flat-footed stance as claiming + that the end justified the means. Saint George killed the + Dragon, and Hercules mopped up the Augean stables, but little + Wally Wallace--one hundred and forty-two pounds in his summer + underwear--did a bigger job and a better job when the betting + was odds-on-and-write-your-own-ticket that it couldn't be done. + I wouldn't mind heading a subscription to present him with a + gold medal about the size of a soup plate, inscribed as + follows, to wit and viz.: + + _W. W. Wallace--He Put the Fore in Foursome._ + +Every golfer who ever conceded himself a two-foot putt because he was +afraid he might miss it has sweated and suffered and blasphemed in the +wake of a slow foursome. All the clubs that I have ever seen--and I've +travelled a bit--are cursed with at least one of these Creeping +Pestilences which you observe mostly from the rear. + +You're a golfer, of course, and you know the make-up of a slow foursome +as well as I do: Four nice old gentlemen, prominent in business circles, +church members, who remember it even when they top a tee shot, pillars +of society, rich enough to be carried over the course in palanquins, but +too proud to ride, too dignified to hurry, too meek to argue except +among themselves, and too infernally selfish to stand aside and let the +younger men go through. They take nine practice swings before hitting a +shot, and then flub it disgracefully; they hold a prayer meeting on +every putting green and a _post-mortem_ on every tee, and a rheumatic +snail could give them a flying start and beat them out in a fifty-yard +dash. Know 'em? What golfer doesn't? + +But nobody knows why it is that the four slowest players in every club +always manage to hook up in a sort of permanent alliance. Nobody knows +why they never stage their creeping contests on the off days when the +course is clear. Nobody knows why they always pick the sunniest +afternoons, when the locker room is full of young men dressing in a +hurry. Nobody knows why they bolt their luncheons and scuttle out to the +first tee, nor where that speed goes as soon as they drive and start +down the course. Nobody knows why they refuse to walk any faster than a +bogged mooley cow. Nobody knows why they never look behind them. Nobody +knows why they never hear any one yell "Fore!" Nobody knows why they are +so dead set against letting any one through. + +Everybody knows the fatal effect of standing too long over the ball, all +dressed up with nowhere to go. Everybody knows of the tee shots that are +slopped and sliced and hooked; of the indecision caused by the long wait +before playing the second; of the change of clubs when the first choice +was the correct one; of the inevitable penalty exacted by loss of temper +and mental poise. Everybody knows that a slow foursome gives the +Recording Angel a busy afternoon, and leaves a sulphurous haze over an +entire course. But the aged reprobates who are responsible for all this +trouble--do they care how much grief and rage and bitterness simmers in +their wake? You think they do? Think again. Golf and Business are the +only games they have ever had time to learn, and one set of rules does +for both. The rest of the world may go hang! Golf is a serious matter +with these hoary offenders, and they manage to make it serious for +everybody behind them--the fast-walking, quick-swinging fellows who are +out for a sweat and a good time and lose both because the slow foursome +blocks the way. + +Yes, you recognise the thumb-nail sketch--it is the slow foursome which +infests your course; the one which you find in front of you when you go +visiting. You think that four men who are inconsiderate enough to ruin +your day's sport and ruffle your temper ought to be disciplined, called +up on the carpet, taken in hand by the Greens Committee. You think they +are the worst ever--but wait! You are about to hear of the golfing +renegades known as the Big Four, who used to sew us up twice a week as +regularly as the days came round; you are about to hear of Elsberry J. +Watlington, and Colonel Jim Peck, and Samuel Alexander Peebles, and W. +Cotton Hamilton--world's champions in the Snail Stakes, undisputed +holders of the Challenge Belt for Practice Swinging, and undefeated +catch-as-catch-can loiterers on the Putting Green. + +Six months ago we would have backed Watlington, Peck, Peebles and +Hamilton against the wide world, bet dollars against your dimes and +allowed you to select your own stakeholders, timekeepers and judges. +That's how much confidence we had in the Big Four. They were without +doubt and beyond argument the slowest and most exasperating quartette of +obstructionists that ever laid their middle-aged stomachs behind the +line of a putt. + +Do I hear a faint murmur of dissent? Going a little strong, am I? All +right, glad you mentioned it, because we may as well settle this +question of supremacy here and now. + +To save time, I will admit that your foursome is slower than Congress +and more irritating than the Senate. Permit me to ask you one question: +Going back over the years, can you recall a single instance when your +slow foursome allowed you to play through?... A lost ball, was it?... +Well, anyway, you got through them.... Thank you, and your answer puts +you against the ropes. I will now knock you clear out of the ring with +one well-directed statement of fact. Tie on your bonnet good and tight +and listen to this: The Big Four held up our course for seven long and +painful years, and during that period of time they never allowed any one +to pass them, lost ball or no lost ball. + +That stops you, eh? I rather thought it would. It stopped us twice a +week. + + +II + +Visitors used to play our course on Wednesdays and Saturdays--our big +days--and then sit in the lounging room and try hard to remember that +they were our guests. There were two questions which they never failed +to ask: + +"Don't they ever let anybody through?" + +And then: + +"How long has this been going on?" + +When we answered them truthfully they shook their heads, looked out of +the windows, and told us how much better their clubs were handled. Our +course was all right--they had to say that much in fairness. It was well +trapped and bunkered, and laid out with an eye to the average player; +the fair greens were the best in the state; the putting greens were like +velvet; the holes were sporty enough to suit anybody; but----And then +they looked out of the window again. + +You see, the trouble was that the Big Four practically ran the club as +they liked. They had financed it in its early days, and as a reward had +been elected to almost everything in sight. We used to say that they +shook dice to see who should be president and so forth, and probably +they did. They might as well have settled it that way as any other, for +the annual election and open meeting was a joke. + +It usually took place in the lounging room on a wet Saturday afternoon. +Somebody would get up and begin to drone through a report of the year's +activities. Then somebody else would make a motion and everybody would +say "Ay!" After that the result of the annual election of officers would +be announced. The voting members always handed in the printed slips +which they found on the tables, and the ticket was never scratched--it +would be Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton all the way. The only +real question would be whether or not the incoming president of the club +would buy a drink for all hands. If it was Peck's turn the motion was +lost. + +As a natural result of this sort of thing the Big Four never left the +saddle for an instant. Talk about perpetuation in office--they had it +down to a fine point. They were always on the Board of Directors; they +saw to it that control of the Greens Committee never slipped out of +their hands; they had two of the three votes on the House Committee, and +no outsider was even considered for treasurer. They were dictators with +a large D, and nobody could do a thing about it. + +If a mild kick was ever made or new blood suggested, the kicker was made +to feel like an ingrate. Who started the club anyway? Who dug up the +money? Who swung the deal that put the property in our hands? Why, +Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton, to be sure! Could any one blame +them for wanting to keep an eye on the organisation? Cer-tain-ly not. +The Big Four had us bluffed, bulldozed, buffaloed, licked to a whisper. + +Peck, Peebles and Hamilton were the active heads of the Midland +Manufacturing Company, and it was pretty well known that the bulk of +Watlington's fortune was invested in the same enterprise. Those who knew +said they were just as ruthless in business as they were in golf--quite +a strong statement. + +They seemed to regard the Sundown Golf and Country Club as their private +property, and we were welcome to pay dues and amuse ourselves five days +a week, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays we were not to infringe on the +sovereign rights of the Big Four. + +They never entered any of the club tournaments, for that would have +necessitated breaking up their foursome. They always turned up in a +body, on the tick of noon, and there was an immediate scramble to beat +them to Number One tee. Those who lost out stampeded over to Number Ten +and played the second nine first. Nobody wanted to follow them; but a +blind man, playing without a caddie, couldn't have helped but catch up +with them somewhere on the course. + +If you wonder why the club held together, you have only to recall the +story of the cow-puncher whose friend beckoned him away from the faro +layout to inform him that the game was crooked. + +"Hell!" said the cow-puncher. "I know that; but--it's the only game in +town, ain't it?" + +The S.G. & C.C. was the only golf club within fifty miles. + + +III + +When Wally Wallace came home from college he blossomed out as a regular +member of the club. He had been a junior member before, one of the +tennis squad. + +Wally is the son of old Hardpan Wallace, of the Trans-Pacific +outfit--you may have heard of him--and the sole heir to more millions +than he will ever be able to spend; but we didn't hold this against the +boy. He isn't the sort that money can spoil, with nothing about him to +remind you of old Hardpan, unless it might be a little more chin than +he really needs. + +Wally's first act as a full-fledged member of the club was to qualify +for the James Peck Annual Trophy--a pretty fair sort of cup, considering +the donor. + +He turned in a nice snappy eighty-one, which showed us that a college +education had not been wasted on him, and also caused several of the +Class-A men to sit up a bit and take notice. + +He came booming through to the semi-finals with his head up and his tail +over the dash-board. It was there that he ran into me. Now I am no Jerry +Travers, but there are times when I play to my handicap, which is ten, +and I had been going fairly well. I had won four matches--one of them by +default. Wally had also won four matches, but the best showing made +against him was five down and four to go. His handicap was six, so he +would have to start me two up; but I had seen enough of his game to know +that I was up against the real thing, and would need a lot of luck to +give the boy anything like a close battle. He was a strong, heady match +player, and if he had a weakness the men whom he had defeated hadn't +been able to spot it. Altogether it wasn't a very brilliant outlook for +me; but, as a matter of fact, I suppose no ten-handicap man ever ought +to have a brilliant outlook. It isn't coming to him. If he has one it is +because the handicapper has been careless. + +Under our rules a competitor in a club tournament has a week in which +to play his man, and it so happened that we agreed on Wednesday for our +meeting. Wally called for me in his new runabout, and we had lunch +together--I shook him and stuck him for it, and he grinned and remarked +that a man couldn't be lucky at everything. While we were dressing he +chattered like a magpie, talking about everything in the world but golf, +which was a sign that he wasn't worrying much. He expected easy picking, +and under normal conditions he would have had it. + +We left the first tee promptly at one-forty-five P.M., our caddies +carrying the little red flags which demand the right of way over +everything. I might have suggested starting at Number Ten if I had +thought of it, but to tell the truth I was a wee mite nervous and was +wondering whether I had my drive with me or not. You know how the +confounded thing comes and goes. So we started at Number One, and my +troubles began. Wally opened up on me with a four-four-three, making the +third hole in a stroke under par, and when we reached the fourth tee we +were all square and my handicap was gone. + +It was on the fourth tee that we first began to notice signs of +congestion ahead of us. One foursome had just driven off and beckoned us +to come through, another was waiting to go, and the fair green on the +way to the fifth looked like the advance of the Mexican standing army. + +"Somebody has lost the transmission out of his wheel chair," said Wally. +"Well, we should worry--we've got the red flags and the right of way. +Fore!" And he proceeded to smack a perfect screamer down the middle of +the course--two hundred and fifty yards if it was an inch. I staggered +into one and laid my ball some distance behind his, but on the direct +line to the pin. Then we had to wait a bit while another foursome putted +out. + +"There oughtn't to be any congestion on a day like this," said Wally. +"Must be a bunch of old men ahead." + +"It's the Big Four," said I. "Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. +They always take their time." + +From where we were we could see the seventh and eighth fair greens. +There wasn't a player in sight on either one. + +"Good Lord!" said Wally. "They've got the whole United States wide open +ahead of 'em. They're not holding their place on the course." + +"They never do," said I, and just then the foursome moved off the +putting green. + +"Give her a ride, old top!" said Wally. + +I claim that my second shot wasn't half bad--for a ten-handicap man. I +used a brassy and reached the green about thirty feet from the pin, but +the demon Wally pulled a mid-iron out of his bag, waggled it once or +twice, and then made my brassy look sick. When we reached the top of the +hill, there was his ball ten feet from the cup. I ran up, playing it +safe for a par four, but Wally studied the roll of the green for about +ten seconds--and dropped a very fat three. He was decent enough to +apologise. + +"I'm playing over my head," said he. + +I couldn't dispute it--two threes on par fours might well be over +anybody's head. One down and fourteen to go; it had all the earmarks of +a massacre. + +We had quite an audience at the fifth tee--two foursomes were piled up +there, cursing. "What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Wally. "Can't you +get through?" + +"Nobody can get through," said Billy Williams. "It's the Big Four." + +"But they'll respect the red flags, won't they?" + +It was a perfectly natural question for a stranger to ask--and Wally was +practically a stranger, though most of the men knew who he was. It +brought all sorts of answers. + +"You think they will? I'll bet you a little two to one, no limit, that +they're all colour-blind!" + +"Oh, yes, they'll let you through!" + +"They'll _ask_ you to come through--won't they, Billy? They'll insist on +it, what?" + +"They're full of such tricks!" + +Wally was puzzled. He didn't quite know what to make of it. "But a red +flag," said he, "gives you the right of way." + +"Everywhere but here," said Billy Williams. + +"But in this case it's a rule!" argued Wally. + +"Those fellows in front make their own rules." + +"But the Greens Committee----" And this was where everybody laughed. + +Wally stooped and teed his ball. + +"Look here," said he, "I'll bet you anything you like that they let us +through. Why, they can't help themselves!" + +"You bet that they'll let you through of their own accord?" asked Ben +Ashley, who never has been known to pass up a plain cinch. + +"On our request to be allowed to pass," said Wally. + +"If you drive into 'em without their permission you lose," stipulated +Ben. + +"Right!" said Wally. + +"Got you for a dozen balls!" said Ben. + +"Anybody else want some of it?" asked Wally. + +Before he got off the tee he stood to lose six dozen balls; but his +nerve was unshaken and he slammed out another tremendous drive. I sliced +into a ditch and away we went, leaving a great deal of promiscuous +kidding behind us. It took me two shots to get out at all, and Wally +picked up another hole on me. + +Two down--murder! + +On the sixth tee we ran into another mass meeting of malcontents. Old +Man Martin, our prize grouch, grumbled a bit when we called attention to +our red flags. + +"What's the use?" said he. "You're on your way, but you ain't going +anywhere. Might just as well sit down and take it easy. Watlington has +got a lost ball, and the others have gone on to the green so's nobody +can get through. Won't do you a bit of good to drive, Wally. There's two +foursomes hung up over the hill now, and they'll be right there till +Watlington finds that ball. Sit down and be sociable." + +"What'll you bet that we don't get through?" demanded Wally, who was +beginning to show signs of irritation. + +"Whatever you got the most of, sonny--provided you make the bet this +way: they got to _let_ you through. Of course you might drive into 'em +or walk through 'em, but that ain't being done--much." + +"Right! The bet is that they let us through. One hundred fish." + +Old Martin cackled and turned his cigar round and round in the corner of +his mouth--a wolf when it comes to a cinch bet. + +"Gosh! Listen to our banty rooster crow! Want another hundred, sonny?" + +"Yes--grandpa!" said Wally, and sent another perfect drive soaring up +over the hill. + +Number Six is a long hole, and the ordinary player never attempts to +carry the cross-bunker on his second. I followed with a middling-to-good +shot, and we bade the congregation farewell. + +"It's ridiculous!" said Wally as we climbed the hill. "I never saw a +foursome yet that wouldn't yield to a red flag, or one that wouldn't let +a twosome through--if properly approached. And we have the right of way +over everything on the course. The Greens Committee----" + +"Is composed," said I, "of Watlington, Peck and Peebles--three members +of the Big Four. They built the club, they run the club, and they have +never been known to let anybody through. I'm sorry, Wally, but I'm +afraid you're up against it." + +The boy stopped and looked at me. + +"Then those fellows behind us," said he, "were betting on a cinch, eh?" + +"It was your proposition," I reminded him. + +"So it was," and he grinned like the good game kid he is. "The Greens +Committee, eh? 'Hast thou appealed unto Caesar? unto Caesar shalt thou +go.' I'm a firm believer in the right method of approach. They wouldn't +have the nerve----" + +"They have nerve enough for anything," said I, and dropped the subject. +I didn't want him to get the idea that I was trying to argue with him +and upset his game. One foursome was lying down just over the hill; the +other was piled up short of the bunker. Watlington had finally found his +ball and played onto the green. The others, of course, had been standing +round the pin and holding things up for him. + +I took an iron on my second and played short, intending to pitch over +the bunker on my third. Wally used a spoon and got tremendous height and +distance. His ball carried the bunker, kicked to the right and stopped +behind a sandtrap. It was a phenomenal shot, and with luck on the kick +would have gone straight to the pin. + +I thought the Big Four would surely be off the green by the time I got +up to my ball, but no, Peck was preparing to hole a three-foot putt. Any +ordinary dub would have walked up to that pill and tapped it in, but +that wasn't Peck's style. He got down on all fours and sighted along the +line to the hole. Then he rose, took out his handkerchief, wiped his +hands carefully, called for his putter and took an experimental stance, +tramping about like a cat "making bread" on a woollen rug. + +"Look at him!" grunted Wally. "You don't mind if I go ahead to my ball? +It won't bother you?" + +"Not in the least," said I. + +"I want to play as soon as they get out of the way," he explained. + +The Colonel's first stance did not suit him, so he had to go all through +the tramping process again. When he was finally satisfied, he began +swinging his putter back and forth over the ball, like the pendulum of a +grandfather's clock--ten swings, neither more nor less. Could any one +blame Wally for boiling inside? + +After the three-footer dropped--he didn't miss it, for a wonder--they +all gathered round the hole and pulled out their cards. Knowing each +other as well as they did, nobody was trusted to keep the score. + +"Fore!" called Wally. + +They paid not the slightest attention to him, and it was fully half a +minute before they ambled leisurely away in the direction of the seventh +tee. + +I played my pitch shot, with plenty of back-spin on it, and stopped ten +or twelve feet short of the hole. Wally played an instant later, a +mashie shot intended to clear the trap, but he had been waiting too long +and was burning up with impatience. He topped the ball, hit the far edge +of the sandtrap and bounced back into a bad lie. Of course I knew why he +had been in such a hurry--he wanted to catch the Big Four on the seventh +tee. His niblick shot was too strong, but he laid his fifth dead to the +hole, giving me two for a win. Just as a matter of record, let me state +that I canned a nice rainbow putt for a four. A four on Number Six is +rare. + +"Nice work!" said Wally. "You're only one down now. Come on, let's get +through these miserable old men!" + +Watlington was just addressing his ball, the others had already driven. +He fussed and he fooled and he waggled his old dreadnaught for fifteen +or twenty seconds, and then shot straight into the bunker--a wretchedly +topped ball. + +"Bless my heart!" said he. "Now why--why do I always miss my drive on +this hole?" + +Peck started to tell him, being his partner, but Wally interrupted, +politely but firmly. + +"Gentlemen," said he, "if you have no objection we will go through. We +are playing a tournament match. Mr. Curtiss, your honour, I believe." + +Well, sir, for all the notice they took of him he might have been +speaking to four graven images. Not one of them so much as turned his +head. Colonel Peck had the floor. + +"I'll tell you, Wat," said he, "I think it's your stance. You're playing +the ball too much off your right foot--coming down on it too much. Now +if you want it to rise more----" They were moving away now, but very +slowly. + +"_Fore!_" + +This time they had to notice the boy. He was mad clear through, and his +voice showed it. They all turned, took one good look at him, and then +toddled away, keeping well in the middle of the course. Peck was still +explaining the theory of the perfect drive. Wally yelled again; this +time they did not even look at him. "Well!" said he. "Of all the damned +swine! I--I believe we should drive anyway!" + +"You'll lose a lot of bets if you do." Perhaps I shouldn't have said +that. Goodness knows I didn't want to see his game go to pieces behind +the Big Four--I didn't want to play behind them myself. I tried to +explain. The kid came over and patted me on the back. + +"You're perfectly right," said he. "I forgot all about those fool bets, +but I'd gladly lose all of 'em if I thought I could hit that long-nosed +stiff in the back of the neck!" He meant the Colonel. "And so that's the +Greens Committee, eh? Holy jumping Jemima! What a club!" + +I couldn't think of much of anything to say, so we sat still and watched +Watlington dig his way out of the bunker, Peck offering advice after +each failure. When Watlington disagreed with Peck's point of view he +took issue with him, and all hands joined in the argument. Wally was +simply sizzling with pent-up emotion, and after Watlington's fifth shot +he began to lift the safety-valve a bit. The language which he used was +wonderful, and a great tribute to higher education. Old Hardpan himself +couldn't have beaten it, even in his mule-skinning days. + +At last the foursome was out of range and I got off a pretty fair tee +shot. Wally was still telling me what he thought of the Greens Committee +when he swung at the ball, and never have I seen a wider hook. It was +still hooking when it disappeared in the woods, out of bounds. His next +ball took a slice and rolled into long grass. + +"Serves me right for losing my temper," said he with a grin. "I can play +this game all right, old top, but when I'm riled it sort of unsettles +me. Something tells me that I'm going to be riled for the next half hour +or so. Don't mind what I say. It's all meant for those hogs ahead of +us." + +I helped him find his ball, and even then we had to wait on Peebles and +Hamilton, who were churning along down the middle of the course in easy +range. I lighted a cigarette and thought about something else--my income +tax, I think it was. I had found this a good system when sewed up behind +the Big Four. I don't know what poor Wally was thinking about--man's +inhumanity to man, I suppose--for when it came time to shoot he failed +to get down to his ball and hammered it still deeper into the grass. + +"If it wasn't for the bets," said he, "I'd pick up and we'd go over to +Number Eight. I'm afraid that on a strict interpretation of the terms of +agreement Martin could spear me for two hundred fish if we skipped a +hole." + +"He could," said I, "and what's more to the point, he would. They were +to let us through--on request." + +Wally sighed. + +"I've tried one method of approach," said he, "and now I'll try another +one. I might tell 'em that I bet two hundred dollars on the suspicion +that they were gentlemen, but likely they'd want me to split the +winnings. They look like that sort." + +Number Seven was a gift on a golden platter. I won it with a frightful +eight, getting into all sorts of grief along the way, but Wally was +entirely up in the air and blew the short putt which should have given +him a half. + +"All square!" said he. "Fair enough! Now we shall see what we shall +see!" + +His chin was very much in evidence as he hiked to Number Eight tee, and +he lost no time getting into action. Colonel Peck was preparing to drive +as Wally hove alongside. The Colonel is very fussy about his drive. He +has been known to send a caddie to the clubhouse for whispering on the +bench. Wally walked up behind him. + +"Stand still, young man! Can't you see I'm driving?" + +It was in the nature of a royal command. + +"Oh!" said Wally. "Meaning me, I presume. Do you know, it strikes me +that for a golfer with absolutely no consideration for others, you're +quite considerate--of yourself!" + +Now I had always sized up the Colonel for a bluffer. He proved himself +one by turning a rich maroon colour and trying to swallow his Adam's +apple. Not a word came from him. + +"Quiet," murmured old Peebles, who looks exactly like a sheep. "Absolute +quiet, please." + +Wally rounded on him like a flash. + +"Another considerate golfer, eh?" he snapped. "Now, gentlemen, under the +rules governing tournament play I demand for my opponent and myself the +right to go through. There are open holes ahead; you are not holding +your place on the course----" + +"Drive, Jim," interposed Watlington in that quiet way of his. "Don't pay +any attention to him. Drive." + +"But how can I drive while he's hopping up and down behind me? He puts +me all off my swing!" + +"I'm glad my protest has some effect on you," said Wally. "Now I +understand that some of you are members of the Greens Committee of this +club. As a member of the said club, I wish to make a formal request that +we be allowed to pass." + +"Denied," said Watlington. "Drive, Jim." + +"Do you mean to say that you refuse us our rights--that you won't let us +through?" + +"Absolutely," murmured old Peebles. "Absolutely." + +"But why--why? On what grounds?" + +"On the grounds that you're too fresh," said Colonel Peck. "On the +grounds that we don't want you to go through. Sit down and cool off." + +"Drive, Jim," said Watlington. "You talk too much, young man." + +"Wait a second," said Wally. "I want to get you all on record. I have +made a courteous request----" + +"And it has been refused," said old Peebles, blinking at both of us. +"Gentlemen, you can't go through!" + +"Is that final?" + +"It is--absolutely." + +And Watlington and Peck nodded. + +"Drive, Jim!" + +This time it was Hamilton who spoke. + +"Pardon me," said Wally. He skipped out in front of the tee, lifted his +cap and made a low bow. "Members of the Greens Committee," said he, "and +one other hog as yet unclassified, you are witnesses that I default my +match to Mr. Curtiss. I do this rather than be forced to play behind +four such pitiable dubs as you are. Golf is a gentleman's game, which +doubtless accounts for your playing it so poorly. They tell me that you +never let any one through. God giving me strength, the day will come +when you will not only allow people to pass you, but you will _beg_ them +to do it. Make a note of that. Come along, Curtiss. We'll play the last +nine--for the fun of the thing." + +"Oh, Curtiss!" It was Watlington speaking. "How many did you have him +down when he quit?" + +The insult would have made a saint angry, but no saint on the calendar +could have summoned the vocabulary with which Wally replied. It was a +wonderful exhibition of blistering invective. Watlington's thick hide +stood him in good stead. He did not turn a hair or bat an eye, but +waited for Wally to run out of breath. Then: + +"Drive, Jim," said he. + +Now I did not care to win that match by default, and I did everything in +my power to arrange the matter otherwise. I offered to play the +remaining holes later in the day, or skip the eighth and begin all +square on the ninth tee. + +"Nothing doing," said Wally. "You're a good sport, but there are other +men still in the tournament, and we're not allowed to concede anything. +The default goes, but tell me one thing--why didn't you back me up on +that kick?" + +I was afraid he had noticed that I had been pretty much in the +background throughout, so when he asked me I told him the truth. + +"Just a matter of bread and butter," said I. "My uncle's law firm +handles all the Midland's business. I'm only the junior member, but I +can't afford----" + +"The Midland?" asked Wally. + +"Yes, the Midland Manufacturing Company--Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. +Watlington's money is invested in the concern too." + +"Why," said Wally, "that's the entire gang, isn't it--Greens Committee +and all?" + +"The Big Four," said I. "You can see how it is. They're rather +important--as clients. There has been no end of litigation over the site +for that new plant of theirs down on Third Avenue, and we've handled all +of it." + +But Wally hadn't been listening to me. + +"So all the eggs are in one basket!" he exclaimed. "That simplifies +matters. Now, if one of 'em had been a doctor and one of 'em a lawyer +and one of 'em----" + +"What are you talking about?" I demanded. + +"Blest if I know!" said Wally. + +So far as I could learn no official action was taken by the Big Four +because of conduct and language unbecoming a gentleman and a golfer. +Before I left the clubhouse I had a word or two with Peebles. He was +sitting at a table in the corner of the lounging room, nibbling at a +piece of cheese and looking as meek as Moses. + +"We--ah--considered the source," said he. "The boy is young and--rash, +quite rash. His father was a mule-skinner--it's in the blood--can't help +it possibly. Yes, we considered the source. Absolutely!" + +I didn't see very much of Wally after that, but I understood that he +played the course in the mornings and gave the club a wide berth on +Wednesdays and Saturdays. His default didn't help me any. I was +handsomely licked in the finals--four and three, I believe it was. About +that time something happened which knocked golf completely out of my +mind. + + +IV + +I was sitting in my office one morning when Atkinson, of the C. G. & N., +called me on the phone. The railroad offices are in the same building, +on the floor above ours. + +"That you, Curtiss? I'll be right down. I want to see you." + +Now, our firm handles the legal end for the C. G. & N., and it struck me +that Atkinson's voice had a nervous worried ring to it. I was wondering +what could be the matter, when he came breezing in all out of breath. + +"You told me," said he, "that there wouldn't be any trouble about that +spur track along Third Avenue." + +"For the Midland people, you mean? Oh, that's arranged for. All we have +to do is appear before the City Council and make the request for a +permit. To-morrow morning it comes off. What are you so excited about?" + +"This," said Atkinson. He pulled a big red handbill out of his pocket +and unfolded it. "Possibly I'm no judge, Curtiss, but this seems to be +enough to excite anybody." + +I spread the thing out on my desk and took a look at it. Across the top +was one of those headlines that hit you right between the eyes: + + SHALL THE CITY COUNCIL + LICENSE CHILD MURDER? + +Well, that was a fair start, you'll admit, but it went on from there. I +don't remember ever reading anything quite so vitriolic. It was a bitter +attack on the proposed spur track along Third Avenue, which is the +habitat of the down-trodden workingman and the playground of his +children. Judging solely by the handbill, any one would have thought +that the main idea of the C. G. & N. was to kill and maim as many +toddling infants as possible. The Council was made an accessory before +the fact, and the thing wound up with an appeal to class prejudice and a +ringing call to arms. + +"Men of Third Avenue, shall the City Council give to the bloated +bondholders of an impudent monopoly the right to torture and murder your +innocent babes? Shall your street be turned into a speedway for a modern +car of Juggernaut? Let your answer be heard in the Council Chamber +to-morrow morning--'No, a thousand times, no!'" + +I read it through to the end. Then I whistled. + +"This," said I, "is hot stuff--very hot stuff! Where did it come from?" + +"The whole south end of town is plastered with bills like it," said +Atkinson glumly. "What have we done now, that they should be picking on +us? When have we killed any children, I would like to know? What started +this? Who started it? Why?" + +"That isn't the big question," said I. "The big question is: Will the +City Council stand hitched in the face of this attack?" + +The door opened and the answer to that question appeared--Barney +MacShane, officially of the rank and file of the City Council of our +fair city, in reality the guiding spirit of that body of petty pirates. +Barney was moist and nervous, and he held one of the bills in his right +hand. His first words were not reassuring. + +"All hell is loose--loose for fair!" said he. "Take a look at this +thing." + +"We have already been looking at it," said I with a laugh intended to be +light and carefree. "What of it? You don't mean to tell me that you are +going to let a mere scrap of paper bother you?" + +Barney mopped his forehead and sat down heavily. + +"You can laugh," said he, "but there is more than paper behind this. The +whole west end of town is up in arms overnight, and I don't know why. +Nobody ever kicked up such a rumpus about a spur track before. That's my +ward, you know, and I just made my escape from a deputation of women and +children. They treed me at the City Hall--before all the newspaper +men--and they held their babies up in their arms and they dared me--yes, +dared me--to let this thing go through. And the election coming on and +all. It's hell, that's what it is!" + +"But, Barney," I argued, "we are not asking for anything which the city +should not be glad to grant. Think what it means to your ward to have +this fine big manufacturing plant in it! Think of the men who will have +work----" + +"I'm thinking of them," said Barney sorrowfully. "They're coming to the +Council meeting to-morrow morning, and if this thing goes through I may +as well clean out my desk. Yes, they're coming, and so are their wives +and their children, and they'll bring transparencies and banners and God +knows what all----" + +"But listen, Barney! This plant means prosperity to every one of your +people----" + +"They're saying they'll make it an issue in the next campaign," mumbled +MacShane. "They say that if that spur track goes down on Third Avenue +it's me out of public life--and they mean it too. God knows what's got +into them all at once--they're like a nest of hornets. And the women +voting now too. That makes it bad--awful bad! You know as well as I do +that any agitation with children mixed up in it is the toughest thing in +the world to meet." He struck at the poster with a sudden spiteful +gesture. "From beginning to end," he snarled, "it's just an appeal not +to let the railroad kill the kids!" + +"But that's nonsense--bunk!" said Atkinson. "Every precaution will be +taken to prevent accidents. You've got to think of the capital +invested." + +Barney rolled a troubled eye in his direction. + +"You go down on Third Avenue," said he, "and begin talking to them +people about capital! Try it once. What the hell do they care about +capital? They was brought up to hate the sound of the word! You know and +I know that capital ain't near as black as it's painted, but can you +tell them that? Huh! And a railroad ain't ever got any friends in a +gang standing round on the street corners!" + +"But," said I, "this isn't a question of friends--it's a straight +proposition of right and wrong. The Midland people have gone ahead and +put up this big plant. They were given to understand that there would be +no opposition to the spur track going down. They've got to have it! The +success of their business depends on it! Surely you don't mean to tell +me that the Council will refuse this permit?" + +"Well," said Barney slowly, "I've talked with the boys--Carter and +Garvey and Dillon. They're all figuring on running again, and they're +scared to death of it. Garvey says we'd be damned fools to go against an +agitation like this--so close to election, anyhow." + +I argued the matter from every angle--the good of the city; the benefit +to Barney's ward--but I couldn't budge him. + +"They say that the voice of the people is the voice of God," said he, +"but we know that most of the time it's only noise. Sometimes the noise +kind of dies out, and then's the time to step in and cut the melon. But +any kind of noise so close to election? Huh! Safety first!" + +Before the meeting adjourned it was augmented by the appearance of the +president and vice-president of the Midland Manufacturing Company, +Colonel Jim Peck and old Peebles, and never had I seen those +stiff-necked gentlemen so humanly agitated. + +"This is terrible!" stormed the Colonel. "Terrible! This is unheard of! +It is an outrage--a crime--a crying shame to the city! Think of our +investment! Other manufacturing plants got their spur tracks for the +asking. There was no talk of killing children. Why--why have we been +singled out for attack--for--for blackmail?" + +"You can cut out that kind of talk right now!" said Barney sternly. +"There ain't a nickel in granting this permit, and you know it as well +as I do. Nobody ain't trying to blackmail you! All the dough in town +won't swing the boys into line behind this proposition while this rumpus +is going on. And since you're taking that slant at it, here's the last +word--sit tight and wait till after election!" + +"But the pl-plant!" bleated Peebles, tearing a blotter to shreds with +shaking fingers. "The plant! Think of the loss of time--and we--we +expected to open up next month!" + +"Go ahead and open up," said Barney. "You can truck your stuff to the +depots, can't you? Yes, yes--I get you about the loss! Us boys in the +Council--we got something to lose too. Now here it is, straight from the +shoulder, and you can bet on it." Barney spoke slowly, wagging his +forefinger at each word. "If that application comes up to-morrow +morning, with the Council chamber jammed with folks from the south end +of the town--good-a-by, John! Fare thee well! It ain't in human nature +to commit political suicide when a second term is making eyes at you. +Look at our end of it for a while. We got futures to think of, too, and +Garvey--Garvey wants to run for mayor some day. You can't afford to have +that application turned down, can you? Of course not. Have a little +sense. Keep your shirts on. Get out and see who's behind this thing. +Chances are somebody wants something. Find out what it is--rig up a +compromise--get him to call off the dogs. Then talk to me again, and +I'll promise you it'll go through as slick as a greased pig!" + +"I believe there's something in that," said I. "We've never run into +such a hornets' nest as this before. There must be a reason. Atkinson, +you've got a lot of gumshoe men on your staff. Why don't you turn 'em +loose to locate this opposition?" + +"You're about two hours late with that suggestion," said the railroad +representative. "Our sleuths are on the job now. If they find out +anything I'll communicate with you P. D. Q." + +"Good!" ejaculated Colonel Peck. "And if it's money----" + +"Aw, you make me sick!" snapped Barney MacShane. "You think money can do +everything, don't you? Well, it can't! For one thing, it couldn't get me +to shake hands with a stiff like you!" + + * * * * * + +I was called away from the dinner table on the following Friday +evening. Watlington was on the telephone. + +"That you, Curtiss? Well, we think we've got in touch with the bug under +the chip. Can you arrange to meet us in Room 85 at the Hotel Brookmore +at nine to-night?... No, I can't tell you a thing about it. We're asked +to be there--you're asked to be there--and that's as far as my +information goes. Don't be late." + +When I entered Room 85 four men were seated at a long table. They were +Elsberry J. Watlington, Colonel Jim Peck, Samuel Alexander Peebles and +W. Cotton Hamilton. They greeted me with a certain amount of nervous +irritability. The Big Four had been through a cruel week and showed the +marks of strain. + +"Where's Atkinson?" I asked. + +"It was stipulated, expressly stipulated," said old Peebles, "that only +the five of us should be present. The whole thing is most mysterious. +I--I don't like the looks of it." + +"Probably a hold-up!" grunted Colonel Peck. + +Watlington didn't say anything. He had aged ten years, his heavy +smooth-shaven face was set in stern lines and his mouth looked as if it +might have been made with a single slash of a razor. + +Hamilton mumbled to himself and kept trying to light the end of his +thumb instead of his cigar. Peck had his watch in his hand. Peebles +played a tattoo on his chin with his fingers. + +"Good thing we didn't make that application at the Council meeting," +said Hamilton. "I never saw such a gang of thugs!" + +"Male and female!" added Colonel Peck. "Well, time's up! Whoever he is, +I hope he won't keep us waiting!" + +"Ah!" said a cheerful voice. "You don't like to be held up on the tee, +do you, Colonel?" + +There in the doorway stood Wally Wallace, beaming upon the Big Four. Not +even on the stage have I ever seen anything to match the expressions on +the faces round that table. Old Peebles' mouth kept opening and +shutting, like the mouth of a fresh caught carp. The others were frozen, +petrified. Wally glanced at me as he advanced into the room, and there +was a faint trembling of his left eyelid. + +"Well," said Wally briskly, "shall we proceed with the business of the +meeting?" + +"Business!" Colonel Peck exploded like a firecracker. + +"With--you?" It was all Watlington could do to tear the two words out of +his throat. He croaked like a big bullfrog. + +"With me," said Wally, bowing and taking his place at the head of the +table. "Unless," he added, "you would prefer to discuss the situation +with the rank and file of the Third Avenue Country Club." + +The silence which followed that remark was impressive. I could hear +somebody's heart beating. It may have been my own. As usual Colonel Peck +was first to recover the power of speech, and again as usual he made +poor use of it. + +"You--you young whelp!" he gurgled. "So it was----" + +"Shut up, Jim!" growled Watlington, whose eyes had never left Wally's +face. Hamilton carefully placed his cigar in the ashtray and tried to +put a match into his mouth. Then he turned on me, sputtering. + +"Are you in on this?" he demanded. + +"Be perfectly calm," said Wally. "Mr. Curtiss is not in on it, as you so +elegantly express it. I am the only one who is in on it. Me, myself, W. +W. Wallace, at your service. If you will favour me with your attention, +I will explain----" + +"You'd better!" ripped out the Colonel. + +"Ah," said the youngster, grinning at Peck, "always a little nervous on +the tee, aren't you?" + +"Drive, young man!" said Watlington. + +A sudden light flickered in Wally's eyes. He turned to Elsberry J. with +an expression that was almost friendly. + +"Do you know," said he, "I'm beginning to think there may be human +qualities in you after all." + +Watlington grunted and nodded his head. + +"Take the honour!" said he. + +Wally rose and laid the tips of his fingers on the table. + +"Members of the Greens Committee and one other"--and here he looked at +Hamilton, whose face showed that he had not forgotten the unclassified +hog--"we are here this evening to arrange an exchange of courtesies. You +think you represent the Midland Manufacturing Company at this meeting. +You do not. You represent the Sundown Golf and Country Club. I represent +the Third Avenue Country Club--an organisation lately formed. You may +have heard something of it, though not under that name." + +He paused to let this sink in. + +"Gentlemen," he continued, "you may recall that I once made a courteous +request of you for something which was entirely within my rights. You +made an arbitrary ruling on that request. You refused to let me through. +You told me I was too fresh, and advised me to sit down and cool off. I +see by your faces that you recall the occasion. + +"You may also recall that I promised to devote myself to the task of +teaching you to be more considerate of others. Gentlemen, I am the +opposition to your playing through on Third Avenue. I am the Man Behind. +I am the Voice of the People. I am a singleton on the course, holding +you up while I sink a putt. If you ask me why, I will give you your own +words in your teeth: You can't go through because I don't want you to go +through." + +Here he stopped long enough to light a cigarette, and again his left +eyelid flickered, though he did not look at me. I think if he had I +should have erupted. + +"You see," said he, flipping the match into the air, "it has been +necessary to teach you a lesson--the lesson, gentlemen, of courtesy on +the course, consideration for others. I realised that this could never +be done on a course where you have power to make the rules--or break +them. So I selected another course. Members of the Greens Committee and +one other, you do not make the rules on Third Avenue. You are perfectly +within your rights in asking to go through; but I have blocked you. I +have made you sit down on the bench and cool off. Gentlemen, how do you +like being held up when you want to play through? How does it feel?" + +I do not regret my inability to quote Colonel Peck's reply to this +question. + +"Quit it, Jim!" snapped Watlington. "Your bark was always worse than +your bite, and it's not much of a bark at that--'Sound and fury, +signifying nothing.' Young man, I take it you are the chairman of the +Greens Committee of this Third Avenue Country Club, empowered to act. +May I ask what are our chances of getting through?" + +"I _know_ I'm going to like you--in time!" exclaimed Wally. "I feel it +coming on. Let's see, to-morrow is Saturday, isn't it?" + +"What's that got to do with it?" mumbled Hamilton. + +"Much," answered Wally. "Oh, much, I assure you! I expect to be at the +Sundown Club to-morrow." His chin shot out and his voice carried the +sting of a lash. "I expect to see you gentlemen there, playing your +usual crawling foursome. I expect to see you allowing your fellow +members to pass you on the course. You might even invite them to come +through--you might _insist_ on it, courteously, you understand, and with +such grace as you may be able to muster. I want to see every member of +that club play through you--every member!" + +"All d-damned nonsense!" bleated Peebles, sucking his fingers. + +"Shut up!" ordered Watlington savagely. "And, young man, if we do +this--what then?" + +"Ah, then!" said Wally. "Then the reward of merit. If you show me that +you can learn to be considerate of others--if you show me that you can +be courteous on the course where you make the rules--I feel safe in +promising that you will be treated with consideration on this other +course which has been mentioned. Yes, quite safe. In fact, gentlemen, +you may even be _asked_ to play through on Third Avenue!" + +"But this agitation?" began Hamilton. + +"Was paid for by the day," smiled the brazen rascal, with a graceful +inclination of his head. "People may be hired to do anything--even to +annoy prominent citizens and frighten a City Council." Hamilton stirred +uneasily, but Wally read his thought and froze him with a single keen +glance. "Of course," said he, "you understand that what has been done +once may be done again. Sentiment crystallises--when helped out with a +few more red handbills--a few more speeches on the street corners----" + +"The point is well taken!" interrupted Watlington hurriedly. "Damn well +taken! Young man, talk to me. _I'm_ the head of this outfit. Pay no +attention to Jim Peck. He's nothing but a bag of wind. Hamilton doesn't +count. His nerves are no good. Peebles--he's an old goat. _I'm_ the one +with power to act. Talk to me. Is there anything else you want?" + +"Nothing," said Wally. "I think your streak of consideration is likely +to prove a lasting one. If not--well, I may have to spread this story +round town a bit----" + +"Oh, my Lord!" groaned Colonel Peck. + + * * * * * + +It was a noble and inspiring sight to see the Big Four, caps in hand, +inviting the common people to play through. The entire club marched +through them--too full of amazement to demand explanations. Even Purdue +McCormick, trudging along with a putter in one hand and a mid-iron in +the other, without a bag, without a caddie, without a vestige of right +in the wide world, even Purdue was coerced into passing them. At dusk he +was found wandering aimlessly about on the seventeenth fairway, babbling +to himself. We fear that he will never be the same again. + +I have received word from Barney MacShane that the City Council will be +pleased to grant a permit to lay a spur track on Third Avenue. The voice +of the people, he says, has died away to a faint murmuring. Some day I +think I will tell Barney the truth. He does not play golf, but he has a +sense of humour. + + + + +LITTLE POISON IVY + + +I + +The leopard cannot change his spots--possibly he wouldn't if he could; +and, this being the case, the next best thing is to overlook as many of +his freckles as possible. + +Yesterday I sat on the porch at the Country Club and listened while the +Dingbats said kind and complimentary things about young Ambrose Phipps, +alias Little Poison Ivy, alias The Pest, alias Rough and Reddy. One +short week ago the Dingbats would have voted him a nuisance and a menace +to society in general. Yesterday they praised him to the skies. It just +goes to show that good can be found in anybody--if that is what you are +looking for. + +Understand me: there has been no change in Ambrose. He is still as fresh +as a mountain breeze. Unquestionably he will continue to treat his +elders with a shocking lack of respect and an entire absence of +consideration. He was born with a deep depression where his bump of +reverence should have been located, and neither realises nor regrets his +deficiency. + +He will never change. It is the Dingbats who have changed. The whole +club has changed, so far as Ambrose is concerned. + +We are all trying to overlook the dark spots in his character and see +good in him, whether it is there or not. + +Now as to the Dingbats: if you do not know them you have missed +something rich and rare in the golfing line. There are four of them, all +retired capitalists on the shady side of sixty. They freely admit that +they are the worst golfers in the world, and in a pinch they could prove +it. They play together six days a week--a riotous, garrulous, hilarious +foursome, ripping the course wide open from the first tee to the home +green; and they get more real fun out of golf than any men I know. They +never worry about being off their game, because they have never been on +it; they know they can be no worse than they are and they have no hope +of ever being better; they expect to play badly, and it is seldom that +they are disappointed. Whenever a Dingbat forgets to count his shots in +the bunkers, and comes home in the nineties, a public celebration takes +place on the clubhouse porch. + +Yesterday it was Doc Pinkinson who brought in the ninety-eight--and +signed all the tags; and between libations they talked about Ambrose +Phipps, who was practising brassy shots off the grass beside the +eighteenth green. + +Little Poison Ivy was unusually cocky, even for him, and every move was +a picture. At the end of his follow-through he would freeze, nicely +balanced on the tip of his right toe, elbows artistically elevated, +clubhead up round his neck; and not a muscle would he move until the +ball stopped rolling. He might have been posing for a statue of the +Perfect Golfer. When he walked it was with a conscious little swagger +and a flirting of the short tails of his belted sport coat. He was +hitting them clean, he was hitting them far, he had an audience--and +well he knew it. Ambrose was in his glory yesterday afternoon! + +"By golly!" exclaimed Doc Pinkinson. "Ain't that a pretty sight? Ain't +it a treat to see that kid lambaste the ball?" + +"Certainly is," agreed Old Treanor with a sigh. "Perfect form--that's +what he's got." + +"And confidence in himself," put in Old Myles. "That's the big secret. +You can see it in every move he makes. Confidence is a wonderful thing!" + +"And youth," said Daddy Bradshaw. "That's the most wonderful thing of +all. It's his youth that makes him so--so flip. Got a lot to say, for a +kid; but--somehow I always liked him for it." + +"Me too!" chimed in Doc Pinkinson. "Doggone his skin! He used to make me +awful mad, that boy.... Oh, well, I reckon I'm kind of cranky, +anyway.... Yes; I always liked Ambrose." + +Now that was all rot, and I knew it. What's more, the Dingbats knew it +too. They hadn't always liked Ambrose. A week ago they would have marked +his swaggering gait, the tilt of his chin, the conscious manner in which +he posed after every shot; and they would have said Ambrose was showing +off for the benefit of the female tea party at the other end of the +porch--and they wouldn't have made any mistake, at that. + +No; they hadn't always liked young Mr. Phipps. Nobody had liked him. To +be perfectly frank about it, we had disliked him openly and cordially, +and had been at no pains to keep him from finding it out. We had snubbed +him, insulted him and ignored him on every possible occasion. Worst of +all, we had made a singleton of him. We had forced him to play alone, +because there wasn't a man in all the club who wanted him as a partner +or as an opponent. There is no meaner treatment than this; nor is there +anything more pathetically lonely than a singleton on a crowded golf +course. It is nothing more or less than a grown-up trip to Coventry. I +thought of all these things as I listened to the prattling of the +Dingbats. + +"Guess he won't have any trouble getting games now, hey?" chuckled Old +Treanor. + +"Huh!" grunted Doc Pinkinson. "He's dated up a week ahead--with Moreman +and that bunch! _A week ahead!_" + +"And he'll make 'em step!" chirped Daddy Bradshaw. "Here's to him, +boys--a redhead and a fighter! Drink her down!" + +"A redhead and a fighter!" chorused the Dingbats, lifting their glasses. + +Yes; they drank to Ambrose Phipps, and one short week ago they wouldn't +have tolerated him on the same side of the course with them. Our pet +leopard still has his spots, but we are now viewing him in the friendly +shade cast by a battered old silver cup: namely and to wit, the Edward +B. Wimpus Team Trophy, permanently at home on the mantelpiece in the +lounging room. + + +II + +Going back to the beginning, we never had a chance to blame Ambrose on +the Membership Committee; he slipped in on us via the junior-member +clause. Old Man Phipps does not play golf; but he is a charter member of +the club and, according to the by-laws, the sons of members between the +ages of sixteen and twenty-one enjoy all the privileges of the +institution. + +Ambrose was nineteen when he returned rather hurriedly from college. He +did this at the earnest and unanimous request of the Faculty and, it was +whispered, the police department of the university town. He hadn't done +much of anything, but he had tried very hard to drive a touring car and +seven chorus girls through a plate-glass window into a restaurant. The +press agent of the show saw his chance to get some publicity for the +broilers, and after an interview with the Faculty Ambrose caught the +first train for home. + +Having nothing to do and plenty of time in which to do it, Ambrose +decided to become a golfer. Old Dunn'l MacQuarrie, our professional, +sold him a large leather bag full of tools and gave him two lessons. +Thus equipped and fortified, young Mr. Phipps essayed to brighten our +drab lives by allowing us to play golf with him. Now this sort of thing +may be done in some clubs, but not in ours. We do not permit our sacred +institutions to be "rushed" by the golfing novice. We are not snobbish, +but we plead guilty to being the least bit set in our ways. They are +good ways, and they suit us. The club is an old one, as golf clubs go in +this country, and most of the playing members are men past forty years +of age. Nearly all of the foursomes are permanent affairs, the same men +playing together week after week, season in and season out. The other +matches are made in advance, by telephone or word of mouth, and the +member who turns up minus a game on Saturday afternoon is out of luck. + +We do not leap at the stranger with open arms. We do not leap at him at +all. We stand off and look him over. We put him on probation; and if he +shapes up well, and walks lightly, and talks softly, and does not try +to dynamite his way into matches where he is not wanted, some day he +will be invited to fill up a foursome. Invited--make a note of that. Now +see what Ambrose did. + +With his customary lack of tact, he selected the very worst day in the +week to thrust himself upon our notice. It was a Saturday, and the +lounging room was crowded with members, most of whom were shaking dice +for the luncheons. With a single exception, all the foursomes were made +up for the afternoon. + +A short, sturdily built youngster came through the doorway from the +locker room and paused close to the table where I was sitting. His hair +was red--the sort of red that will not be ignored--and he wore it combed +straight back over the top of his head. His slightly irregular features +were covered with large brown freckles, and on his upper lip was a +volunteer crop of lightish fuzz, which might, in time, become a +moustache. His green sport coat was new, his flannel trousers were new, +his shoes were new--from neck to sole he fairly shrieked with newness. +Considering that he was a stranger in a strange club, a certain amount +of reticence would not have hurt the young man's entrance; but he burst +through the swinging door with a skip and a swagger, and there was a +broad grin on his homely countenance. It was quite evident that he +expected to find himself among friends. + +"Who wants a game?" he cried. "Don't all speak at once, men!" + +A few of the members nearest the door glanced up, eyed the youth +curiously, and returned to their dice boxes. The others had not heard +him at all. Harson and Billford looked at me. + +"Who's the fresh kid?" asked Billford. + +"That," said I, "is Ambrose Phipps, only son of Old Man Phipps." + +"Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is a +failure. What's he want?" + +Ambrose himself answered the question. He had advanced to our table. + +"You gentlemen got a game?" he asked, laying his hand on Billford's +shoulder. + +Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it is +familiarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth; +so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared at +Ambrose. The boy did not remove his hand. + +"'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean--just washed +it. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar. +"No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?" + +"We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn't +seem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding. + +"Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." And +Ambrose passed on to the next table. + +"Insufferable young rotter!" snarled Billford. + +"Quite so," said Harson; "but he'll never miss anything by being too +bashful to ask for it. Look! He's asking everybody!" + +Ambrose made the entire circuit of the room. We could not hear what he +said, but we felt the chill he left in his wake. Men glanced up when he +addressed them, stared for an instant, and went back to their dice. Some +of them were polite in their refusals, some were curt, some were merely +disgusted. When he reached the table where Bishop, Gilmore, Moreman and +Elder were sitting, they laughed at him. They are our star golfers and +members of the team. The Dingbats were too much astonished to show +resentment; but when Ambrose left them he patted Doc Pinkinson on the +head, and the old gentleman sputtered for the best part of an hour. + +It was a discouraging tour, and any one else would have hunted a quiet +corner and crawled into it; but not Ambrose. He returned to our end of +the room, and the pleased and expectant light in his eyes had given way +to a steely glare. He beckoned to one of the servants. + +"Hey, George! Who's the boss here? Who's the Big Finger?" + +"Misteh Harson, he's one of 'em, suh. He's a membeh of the Greens +Committee." + +"Show him to me!" + +"Right there, suh, settin' by the window." + +Ambrose strode across to us and addressed himself to Harson. + +"My name is Phipps," said he. "I'm a junior member here, registered and +all that, and I want to get a game this afternoon. So far, I haven't had +any luck." + +Harson is really a mild and kindly soul. He hates to hurt any one's +feelings. + +"Perhaps all the games are made up," he suggested. "Saturday is a bad +day, unless your match is arranged beforehand." + +"Zat so? Humph! Nice clubby spirit you have here. You make a fellow feel +so much at home!" + +"So we notice," grunted Billford. + +Ambrose looked at him and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. +Then he turned back to Harson. + +"How about that fourth man of yours?" he demanded. "Has he shown up +yet?" + +Billford caught my eye. + +"Some one must have left the outside door open," said he. "Seems to me I +feel a strong draught." + +"Put on another shirt!" Ambrose shot the retort without an instant's +hesitation. "Now say, if your fourth man isn't here, what's the matter +with me?" + +"Possibly there is nothing the matter with you," said Harson +pleasantly; "but if you are a beginner----" + +"Aw, you don't need to be afraid of my game!" grinned Ambrose. "I'll be +easy picking." + +"That isn't the point," explained Harson. "Our game would be too fast +for you." + +"Well, what of it? How am I ever going to learn if I never play with +anybody better than I am? Don't you take any interest in young blood, or +is this a close corporation, run for the benefit of a lot of old +fossils, playing hooky from the boneyard?" + +"Oh, run away, little boy, and sell your papers!" Billford couldn't +stand it any longer. + +"I will if you lend me that shirt for a make-up!" snapped Ambrose. "Now +don't get mad, Cutie. Remember, you picked on me first. A man with a +neck as thick as yours ought not to let his angry passions rise. First +thing you know, you'll bust something in that bonemeal mill of yours, +and then you won't know anything." Ambrose put his hands on his hips and +surveyed the entire gathering. "A nice, cheerful, clubby bunch!" he +exclaimed. "Gee! What a picnic a hermit crab could have in this place, +meeting so many congenial souls!" + +"If you don't like it," said Billford, "you don't have to stay here a +minute." + +"That's mighty sweet of you," said Ambrose; "but, you see, I've made up +my mind to learn this fool game if it takes all summer. I'd hate to +quit now, even to oblige people who have been so courteous to me.... +Well, good-by, you frozen stiffs! Maybe I can hire that sour old +Scotchman to go round with me. He's not what you might call a cheerful +companion, but, at that, he's got something on you. He's _human_, +anyway!" + +Ambrose went outside and banged the door behind him. Billford made a few +brief observations; but his remarks, though vivid and striking, were not +quite original. Harson shook his head, and in the silence following +Ambrose's exit we heard Doc Pinkinson's voice: + +"If that pup was mine I'd drown him; doggone me if I wouldn't!" + +Young Mr. Phipps, you will observe, got in wrong at the very start. + + +III + +Bad news travels fast when a few press agents get behind it, and not all +the personal publicity is handed out by a man's loving friends. Those +who had met Ambrose warned those who had not, and whenever his fiery red +head appeared in the lounging room there was a startling drop in the +temperature. + +For a few weeks he persisted in trying to secure matches with members of +the club, but nobody would have anything to do with him--not even old +Purdue McCormick, who toddles about the course with a niblick in one +hand and a mid-iron in the other, _sans_ bag, _sans_ caddie, _sans_ +protection of the game laws. When such a renegade as Purdue refused to +go turf-tearing with him Ambrose gave up in disgust and devoted himself +to the serious business of learning the royal and ancient game. He +infested the course from dawn till dark, a solitary figure against the +sky line; our golfing Ishmael, a wild ass loose upon the links, his hand +against every man and every man's hand against him. + +He wore a chip on his shoulder for all of us; and it was during this +period that Anderson, our club champion and Number One on the team, +christened Ambrose "Little Poison Ivy," because of the irritating effect +of personal contact with him. + +Ambrose couldn't have had a great deal of fun out of the situation; but +MacQuarrie made money out of it. The redhead hired the professional to +play with him and criticise his shots. The dour old Scotch mercenary did +not like Ambrose any better than we did, but toward the end of the first +month he admitted to me that the boy had the makings of a star golfer, +though not, he was careful to explain, "the pr-roper temperament for the +game." + +"But it's just amazin', the way he picks up the shots," said Dunn'l. +"Ay, he'll have everything but the temperament." + +As the summer drew to a close the annual team matches began, and we +forgot Ambrose and all else in our anxiety over the fate of the Edward +B. Wimpus Trophy. + +Every golf club, you must know, has its pet trophy. Ours is the worn old +silver cup that represents the team championship of the Association. A +pawnbroker wouldn't look at it twice; but to us, who are familiar with +its history and the trips it has made to different clubhouses, the +Edward B. Wimpus Trophy is priceless, and more to be desired than +diamonds or pearls. + +When the late Mr. Wimpus donated the cup he stipulated that it should be +held in trust by the club winning the annual team championship, and that +it should become the property of the club winning it three times in +succession. For twenty years we had been fighting for permanent +possession of the trophy, and engraved on its shining surface was the +record of our bitter disappointment--not to mention the disappointment +of the Bellevue Golf Club. Twice we had been in a position to add the +third and final victory, and twice the Bellevue quintet had dashed our +hopes. Twice we had retaliated by preventing them from retiring the +Wimpus Trophy from competition; and now, with two winning years behind +us and a third opportunity in sight, we talked and thought of nothing +else. + +According to the rules governing team play in our Association, each club +is represented by five men, contesting from scratch and without +handicaps of any sort. In the past, two teams have outclassed the field, +and once more history repeated itself, for the Bellevue bunch fought us +neck and neck through the entire period of competition. With one match +remaining to be played, they were tied with us for first place, and that +match brought the Bellevue team to our course last Friday afternoon. + +I was on hand when the visitors filed into the locker room at +noon--MacNeath, Smathers, Crane, Lounsberry and Jordan--five seasoned +and dependable golfers, veterans of many a hard match; fighters who +never know when they are beaten. They looked extremely fit, and not in +the least worried at the prospect of meeting our men on their own +course. + +They brought their own gallery, too, Bellevue members who talked even +money and flashed yellow-backed bills. The Dingbats formed a syndicate +and covered all bets; but this was due to club pride rather than any +feeling of confidence. We knew our boys were in for a tough battle, in +which neither side would have a marked advantage. + +Four of our team players were on hand to welcome the enemy--Moreman, +Bishop, Elder and Gilmore--and they offered their opponents such +hospitality as is customary on like occasions. + +"Thanks," said MacNeath with a grin; "but just now we're drinking water. +After the match you can fill the cup with anything you like, and we'll +allow you one drink out of it before we take it home with us. Once we +get it over there it'll never come back. It's not in the cards for you +to win three times running.... Where's Anderson?" + +"He hasn't shown up yet," said Bishop. + +"He's on the way out in his car," added Moreman. "I rang up his house +five minutes ago. He'd just left." + +"Oh, very well," said MacNeath, who is Number One man for Bellevue, as +well as captain of the team. "Suppose we have lunch now, Bishop; and +while we're eating you can give me the list of your players and I'll +match them up." + +In team play it is customary for the home captain to submit the names of +his players, ranked from one to five, in the order of their ability. The +visiting captain then has the privilege of making the individual +matches; and this is supposed to offset whatever advantage the home team +has by reason of playing on its own course. + +Bishop, our captain, handed over a list reading as follows: 1--Anderson; +2--Moreman; 3--Bishop; 4--Elder; 5--Gilmore. MacNeath bracketed his own +name with Anderson's, and paired Crane with Moreman, Lounsberry with +Bishop, Smathers with Elder, and Jordan with Gilmore. + +After luncheon the men changed to their golfing togs; but still there +was no sign of Anderson. Another telephone call confirmed the first +message; his wife reported that he had left his home nearly an hour +before, bound for the club. + +"Queer!" said MacNeath. "Engine trouble or a puncture--possibly both. +It's not like the Swede to be late. Might as well get started, eh? +Anderson and I will go last, anyhow." + +A big gallery watched the first pair drive off, Gilmore getting a better +ball than Jordan, and cheering those who believe in omens. Then at +five-minute intervals, came Lounsberry and Bishop, Smathers and Elder, +and Crane and Moreman. Each match attracted a small individual gallery, +but most of the spectators waited to follow the Number One men. +MacNeath, refusing to allow himself to be made nervous by the delay, +went into the clubhouse; and many and wild were the speculations as to +the cause of Anderson's tardiness. The wildest one of them fell short of +the bitter truth, which came to us at the end of a telephone wire +located in the professional's shop. It had been relayed on from the +switchboard in the club office: + +"Anderson blew a front tire at the city limits. Car turned over with him +and broke his leg." + +A bombshell exploding under our noses could not have created more +consternation. There we were, with four of the matches under way, our +best man crippled, and up against the proposition of providing an +opponent for MacNeath, admittedly the most dangerous player on the +Bellevue team. Harson, as a member of the Greens Committee and an +officer of the club, assumed charge of the situation as soon as he heard +the news. + +"No good sending word to poor old Bishop," said he. "He's the team +captain, of course; but he can't do anything about it. Besides, he's +already playing his match, and this would upset him terribly. Is there +any one here who can give MacNeath a run for his money?" + +"Not unless you want to try it," said I. + +"He'd eat me alive!" groaned Harson. "We might as well forfeit one +match, and put it up to the boys to win three out of four. Oh, if we +only had one more good man!" + +"Ye have," said MacQuarrie, who had been listening. "Ye've overlooked +young Mister Phipps." + +"That kid?" demanded Harson. "Nonsense!" + +"Ay," said Dunn'l; "that kid! Call it nonsense if ye like, sir, but he +was under eighty twice yesterday. This mor-rnin' he shot a +seventy-seven, with two missed putts the length o' your ar-rm. He's on +top of his game now, an' goin' strong. If he'll shoot back to his +mor-rnin' round he'll give Mister MacNeath a battle; but the lad has +never been in a competition, so ye'll have to chance his ner-rves." + +"Ambrose!" I exclaimed. "I never should have thought of him!" + +"Of course ye wouldn't," said MacQuarrie. "Ye've never played with +him--never even seen him play." + +"But he's such a little rotter!" mumbled Harson. + +"Ay," said Dunn'l; "an', grantin' ye that, he's still the best ye have. +He's in the clubhouse now, dressed an' ready to start, once the crowd is +out of the way." + +"And he really did a seventy-seven this morning?" asked Harson. + +"With two missed putts--wee ones." + +I looked at Harson and Harson looked at me. + +"You go in and put it up to him," said he at last. "I can't talk to him +without losing my temper." + +I found our little red hope banging the balls about on the billiard +table, carefree as a scarlet tanager. + +"Young man," said I, "your country calls you." + +"I'm under age," said Ambrose, calmly squinting along his cue. "Don't +bother me. This is a tough shot." + +"Well, then," said I, "your club calls you." + +"My club, eh?" remarked the redhead with nasty emphasis. "Any time this +club calls me I'm stone-deaf." + +"Listen to me a minute, Phipps. This is the day of the big team match +and we're up against it hard. Anderson turned his car over on the way +out and broke his leg. We want you to take his place." + +"Anderson," repeated Ambrose. "Ain't that the squarehead who calls me +Little Poison Ivy? Only his leg, eh? Tough luck!" + +"You bet it is!" I exclaimed, ignoring his meaning. "Tough luck for all +of us, because if we can't dig up a man to take Anderson's place we'll +have to forfeit that particular match to MacNeath. We'd set our hearts +on winning this time, because it would give us the permanent possession +of the team trophy that we've been shooting at for twenty years----" + +"Let your voice fall right there!" commanded Ambrose. "Trophies are +nothing in my young life. This club is nothing in my life. Everybody +here has treated me worse than a yellow dog. Go ahead and take your +medicine; and I hope they lick you and make you like it!" + +I saw it was time to try another tack. Ambrose had used one word that +had put an idea into my head. + +"All right," said I. "Have it your own way. Perhaps it was a mistake to +mention MacNeath's name." + +"What do you mean--a mistake?" He fired up instantly. + +"Well," said I, "you must know Mac by reputation. He's one of the best +golfers in the state and a tough proposition to beat. He's their Number +One man--their star player. He shoots pretty close to par all the time." + +"What's that got to do with it?" asked Ambrose. + +"Why, nothing; only----" + +"Only what?" + +"Well, they all said you wouldn't want to go up against such a strong +player." + +"Who said that?" + +"Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I'm frank +enough to say that I wouldn't tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath is +hard game." + +"Look here!" snapped the redhead. "You're off on the wrong foot +entirely. You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not because I'm afraid +of this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman this +morning, and I guess you'll agree he's not soft picking. It's just that +I don't feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me." + +"A favour! Why, man alive, it's a compliment to stick you in at Number +One--the biggest compliment we can pay you!" + +"Well," said Ambrose slowly, "if you look at it in that light----" + +"I most certainly do.... But if you'd rather not meet MacNeath----" + +Ambrose dropped his cue with a crash. + +"You don't really think I'm _yellow_, do you?" he cried. + +"If you are," said I, "you're the first redhead that ever got his colour +scheme mixed." + +The little rascal grinned like a gargoyle. + +"Listen!" said he confidentially. "You've used me pretty well--to my +face, anyhow--and I'll tell yon this much: I don't care the snap of my +fingers for your ratty old cup. I care even less for the members of this +club--present company excepted, you understand; but I can't stand it to +have anybody think I'm not _game_. Ever since I was a runt of a kid I've +had to fight, and they can say anything about me except that I'm a +quitter.... Why, I've stuck round here for nearly five months just +because I wouldn't let a lot of old fossils drive me out and make me +quit--five months without a friend in the place, and only MacQuarrie to +talk to. + +"If I'd been yellow it would have shown that first Saturday when +everybody turned me down so cold. I wanted to walk out and never come +back. I wanted to; but I stuck. Honest, if I'm anything at all I'm +game--game enough to stand the gaff and take the worst of it; and I'll +prove it to you by playing this bird, no matter how good he is. I'll +fight him every jump of the way, and if he licks me he'll have to step +out some to do it. What's a licking, anyway? I've had a thousand of 'em! +Plenty of people can lick me; but you bet your life nobody ever scared +me!" + +"Good kid!" said I, and held out my hand. + +After an instant's hesitation Ambrose seized it. "Now lead me to this +MacNeath person," said he. "I suppose we ought to be introduced, eh? Or +has he been told that I'm the Country Club leper?" + +It was a sorely disappointed gallery that welcomed the +substitute--disappointed and amazed; but the few Bellevue members were +openly jubilant. They had reason to be, for word had been brought back +to them that Lounsberry and Crane were running away with their matches. +Between them and the cup they saw only a golfing novice, a junior member +without a war record. They immediately began offering odds of two to one +on the MacNeath-Phipps match; but there were no takers. The Dingbats +held a lodge of sorrow in the shade of the caddie house and mournfully +estimated their losses, while our feminine contingent showed signs of +retreating to the porch and spending the afternoon at bridge. + +MacNeath was first on the tee--a tall, flat-muscled, athletic man of +forty; and, as the veteran was preparing to drive, Ambrose and +MacQuarrie held a whispered conversation. + +"I'd like to grab some of that two to one," said the boy. + +"Don't be foolish," counselled the canny Scot. "Ye'll have enough on +your mind wi'out makin' bets; an' for pity's sake, remember what I've +told ye--slow back, don't press, keep your head down, an' count three +before ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-rnin' an' ye've a grand +chance to win." + +MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long, +well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silence +that was almost painful. + +"Mighty pretty," said he with a careless nod at his opponent. "Hope I do +as well." + +"Ye can," muttered old Dunn'l, "if ye'll keep your fool mouth shut an' +your eye on the ball!" + +As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of the +gallery--a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his next +move--expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitude +of the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused for +an instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant ease +was gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. He +looked again at MacNeath's ball, a white speck far down the fairway. +MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head. + +"Never mind that one!" he whispered to himself savagely. "Play the one +on the tee!" + +Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot +to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He +seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to +the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly +stiffened in every muscle and joint--gone tense with the nervous strain. +He did manage to remember about the back swing--it was slow enough to +suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long +enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised +this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the +ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned +it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was +a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it +reached the bunker. + +"Well, by the sweet and suffering----" + +This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a +gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath +followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just +the thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face. + +Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began +to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite +enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment: + +"No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks. +Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was +a fizzer--a false alarm." + +"Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw. +"Might just as well put _me_ in there against MacNeath! Fools!" + +MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil. + +"He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an' +he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Come +along, sir!" + +I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried +in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie, +an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly +what his lunacy deserved--a much worse lie than before, close against +the bank--and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his +audience. + +"What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four and +picked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to be _good_." + +I said I wanted to see how the other matches were coming on. + +"Everybody seems to feel the same way," said the redhead, looking at the +retreating gallery. "All because I slopped that drive! I'll have that +audience back again--see if I don't! And I'll bet you I won't look up on +another shot all day!" + +"If ye do," grumbled MacQuarrie, "I'll never play wi'ye again as long as +ye live!" + +"That's a promise!" cried Ambrose. "One down, eh? Where do we go from +here?" + + +IV + +Our team veterans did not lack sympathetic encouragement on the last +nine holes, and all four matches tightened up to such an extent that we +wavered between hope and fear until Crane's final putt on the +seventeenth green dropped us into the depths of despair. + +Gilmore, setting the pace with Jordan, gave us early encouragement by +maintaining a safe lead throughout and winning his match, 3 to 2. First +blood was ours, but the period of rejoicing was a short one; for the +deliberate Lounsberry, approaching and putting with heartbreaking +accuracy, disposed of Bishop on the seventeenth green. + +"One apiece," said Doc Pinkinson. "Now what's Elder doing?" + +The Elder-Smathers match came to Number Seventeen all square; but our +man ended the suspense by dropping a beautiful mashie pitch dead to the +pin from a distance of one hundred yards. Smathers' third shot also +reached the green; but his long putt went wide and Elder tapped the ball +into the cup, adding a second victory to our credit. + +"It's looking better every minute!" chirped the irrepressible Doc +Pinkinson. "Now if Moreman can lick his man we're all hunky-dory. If he +loses--good-a-by, cup! No use figuring on that red-headed snipe of a +kid. MacNeath has sent him to the cleaner's by now, sure!" + +The gallery waited at the seventeenth green, watching in anxious silence +as Crane and Moreman played their pitch shots over the guarding bunker. +Both were well on in threes; but the Bellevue caddie impudently held his +forefinger in the air as a sign that his man was one up. Moreman made a +good try, but his fourth shot stopped a few inches from the cup; and +Crane, after studying the roll of the green for a full minute, dropped a +forty-foot putt for a four--and dropped our spirits with it. + +"That settles it!" wheezed Daddy Bradshaw. "No need to bother about that +other match.... Oh, if Anderson was so set on breaking his leg, why +didn't he wait till to-morrow?" + +"Then he could have busted 'em both," remarked the unfeeling Pinkinson, +"and nobody would have said a word. Might's well pay those bets, I +reckon. We got as much chance as that snowball they're always talking +about. If it didn't melt, somebody would eat it." + +He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on the +skyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first one +was tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, and +even at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger. + +"Hello!" ejaculated Pinkinson. "Ain't that MacNeath and the kid, going +to Sixteen? It is, by golly! D'you reckon they're playing out the bye +holes just for fun--or what?" + +"It can't be anything else," said Bradshaw. "The boy couldn't have +carried him that far." + +Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, very +much out of breath. + +"Mister Phipps says--if you want to see--some reg'lar golf--you'd +better catch the finish--of his match. He says--bring all the gang with +you." + +"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean that +they're still playing?" + +"Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when I +left 'em." + +All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various +groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the +clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All +square? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holding +MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the +doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement +backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an +objective point. + +It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the +contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised +and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There +was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some +mysterious wireless of their own devising. + +"MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddy +has got to sink this one." + +Ambrose's ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took one +look at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without an +instant's hesitation--a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance to +waver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarrie +himself could not have shown more confidence. MacNeath's caddie replaced +the flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved them +back and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answered +the question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter of +applause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at us +with a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me. + +He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign of +nervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he stepped +forward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, and +got off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he did +not raise his head until the ball was well down the course. + +"He's countin' three before he looks up!" whispered a voice in my ear; +and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth, +and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can never +express in words. + +"Then he's really been playing good golf?" I asked. + +"Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It's a dingdong match, an' just a +question which one will crack fir-rst." + +MacNeath's drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under the +strain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the machinelike +precision of the veteran golfer--stance, swing and follow-through +standardised by years of experience. + +Our seventeenth hole is a long one, par 5, and the approach to the +putting green is guarded by an embankment, paralleled on the far side by +a wide and treacherous sand trap, put there to encourage clean mashie +pitches. The average player cannot reach the bunker on his second, much +less carry the sand trap on the other side of it; but the long drivers +sometimes string two tremendous wooden-club shots together and reach the +edge of the green. More frequently they get into trouble and pay the +penalty for attempting too much. + +The two balls were close together; but Ambrose's shot was the longer one +by a matter of feet, and it was up to MacNeath to play first. Would he +gamble and go for the green, or would he play short and make sure of a +five? The veteran estimated the distance, looked carefully at his lie, +and then pulled an iron from his bag. Instantly I knew what was passing +in his mind--sensed his golfing strategy: MacNeath intended to place his +second shot short of the bunker, in the hope that Ambrose would be +tempted into risking the long, dangerous wooden-club shot across to the +green. + +"Aha!" whispered MacQuarrie. "The old fox! He'll not take a chance +himself, but he wants the lad to take one. '"Will ye walk into my +parlour!" says the spider to the fly.' Ay; that's just it--will he, +now?" + +Ambrose gave us no time for suspense. MacNeath's ball had hardly stopped +rolling before his decision was made--and a sound one at that! He +whipped his mid-iron from the bag. + +"'Fraid I'll have to fool you, old chap," said he airily. "You wanted me +to go for the green--eh, what? Well, I hate to disappoint you; but I +can't gamble in an even game--not when the kitty is a sand trap.... +Ride, you little round rascal; ride!" + +The last remark was addressed to the ball just before the blade of the +mid-iron flicked it from the grass. Again there were two white specks in +the distance, lying side by side. If MacNeath was disappointed he did +not show it, but tramped on down the course, silent as usual and +absorbed in the game. Both took fives on the hole, missing long putts; +and the battle was still all square. + +Our home hole is a par 4--a blind drive and an iron pitch to the green; +and the vital shot is the one from the tee. It must go absolutely +straight and high enough to carry the top of the hill, one hundred and +forty yards away. To the right is an abrupt downward slope, ending in a +deep ravine. To the left, and out of sight from the tee, is a wide sand +trap, with the father of all bunkers at its far edge. The only safe ball +is the one that sails over the direction post. + +Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ball +had the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, I +thought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead of +that, it seemed to duck in flight, caught the hard face of the incline, +and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which broke +all our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in the +sand trap. + +"Hard luck!" said MacNeath; and I think he really meant to be +sympathetic. + +Ambrose looked at him as a bulldog might look at a mastiff. + +"Oh, I wouldn't say that!" he answered, rather stiffly. "I like to play +my second shot from over there." + +"You're welcome!" said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture by +poling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction post +and went sailing on up the plateau toward the clubhouse. + +No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled up +the hill I tried to say something hopeful. + +"He may have stopped short of the trap." + +"Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in--up to +his neck." + +Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful +statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper +distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I +swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in +and what sort of a lie it had found. + +"Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away from +the wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft to +it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's just +possible." + +"But not probable," said I. "What on earth is he waiting for?" + +Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from +the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette. + +"You don't mind if I study this situation a bit?" said he to MacNeath. + +"Take your time," said the veteran. + +"Because I wouldn't want to use the wrong club here," continued Ambrose. + +The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red +head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a +glimpse of me and beckoned. + +"How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?" he asked. + +"All even--two matches to two." + +"That," said Ambrose after a thoughtful pause, "seems to put it up to +me." + +At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for his +bag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; but +Ambrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but a +hundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club--out of a trap? +Suicide! Sheer suicide! An iron might give him a fighting chance to +halve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club in +the boy's hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said something +of the sort to MacQuarrie. + +"Sh-h!" he whispered. "Yon's a baffy. I made it for him." + +"What's a baffy?" + +"Well, it's just a kind of an exaggerated bulldog spoon--ye might almost +call it a wooden mashie, wi' a curvin' sole on it. It's great for +distance. The lie is good, the wind's behind him, an' if he can only hit +it clean--clean!----Oh, ye little red devil, keep your head down--keep +your head down an' hit it clean!" + +I shall never forget the picture spread out along the edge of that green +plateau--the red-headed stocky youngster in the sand trap taking his +stance and whipping the clubhead back and forth; MacNeath coolly leaning +on his driver and smiling over a match already won; the two caddies in +the background, one sneeringly triumphant, the other furiously angry; +the rim of spectators, motionless, hopeless. + +Everybody was watching Ambrose, and I think Old MacQuarrie was the only +onlooker who was not absolutely certain that the choice of a wrong club +was throwing away our last slender chance. + +When the tension was almost unbearable the redhead turned and grinned at +MacNeath. + +"I suppose you'd shoot this with an iron," said he; "but the baffy is a +great club--if you've got the nerve to use it." + +Ambrose settled his feet firmly in the sand, craned his neck for a final +look at the flag, two hundred yards away, dropped his chin on his chest, +waggled the clubhead over the ball, and then swung with every ounce of +strength in his sturdy body. I heard a sharp click, saw a tiny feather +of sand spurt into the air, and against the blue sky I caught a glimpse +of a soaring white speck, which went higher and higher until I lost it +altogether. The next thing I knew, the spectators were cheering, +yelling, screaming; and some one was hammering me violently between the +shoulder blades. It was the unemotional Dunn'l MacQuarrie, gone +completely daft with excitement. + +"Oh, man!" he cried. "He picked it up as clean as a whistle, an' he's on +the green--on the green!" + +"Told you that was a sweet little club!" said Ambrose as he climbed out +of the trap. "Takes nerve to use one though. On the green, eh? Well, I +guess that'll hold you for a while." + +His prediction soon had a solid backing of fact. MacNeath, the iron man, +the dependable Number One, the match player without nerves, was not +proof against a miracle. Ambrose's phenomenal recovery had shaken the +veteran to the soles of his shoes. + +MacNeath's second shot was an easy pitch to the green, but he lingered +too long over it; the blade of his mashie caught the turf at least three +inches behind the ball and shot it off at an angle into the thick, long +grass that guards the eighteenth green. He was forced to use a heavy +niblick on his third; but the ball rolled thirty feet beyond the pin. He +tried hard for the long putt, but missed, and picked up when Ambrose +laid his third shot on the lip of the cup. + +By the most fortunate fluke ever seen on a golf course our little red +Ishmael had won for us the permanent possession of the Edward B. Wimpus +Trophy. + +MacNeath was game. He picked up his ball with the left hand and offered +his right to Ambrose. "Well done!" said he. + +"Thanks!" responded Ambrose. "Guess I kind of jarred you with that baffy +shot. It's certainly a dandy club in a pinch. Better let MacQuarrie make +you one." + +MacNeath swallowed hard and nearly managed a smile. + +"It wasn't the club," said he. "It was just burglar's luck. You couldn't +do it again in a thousand years!" + +"Maybe not," replied the victor; "but when you get back to Bellevue you +tell all the dear chappies there that I got away with it once--got away +with it the one time when it counted!" + +At this point the gallery closed in and overwhelmed young Mr. Phipps. +Inside of a minute he heard more pleasant things about himself than had +come to his ears in a lifetime. He did not dispute a single statement +that was made; nor did he discount one by so much as the deprecating +lift of an eyebrow. For once in his life he agreed with everybody. In +the stag celebration that followed--with the Edward B. Wimpus Cup in the +middle of the big round table--he was easily induced to favour us with a +few brief remarks. He informed us that tin cups were nothing in his +young life, club spirit was nothing, but that gameness was +everything--and the cheering was led by the Dingbats! + + * * * * * + +Now you know why we feel that we owe Ambrose something; and, if I am any +judge, that debt will be paid with heavy interest. Dunn'l MacQuarrie is +also a winner. He has booked so many orders for baffles that he is now +endeavouring to secure the services of a first-class club maker. + +As Ambrose often tells us, the baffy is a sweet little club to have in +the bag--provided, of course, you have the nerve to use it. + + + + +THE MAJOR, D.O.S. + + +I + +I despise the sort of man who gloats and pokes his finger at you and +reminds you that he told you so. I hope I am not in that class, and I +would be the last to rub salt into an open wound; still I see no harm in +calling attention to the fact that I once expressed an opinion which had +to do with Englishmen in general and Major Cuthbert Eustace +Lawes--D.S.O., and a lot of other initials--in particular. What is more, +that opinion was expressed in the presence of Waddles Wilmot and one +other director of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club. + +"You can't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him." + +Those were my very words, and I stand by them. I point to them with +pride. If Waddles had listened to me--but Waddles never listens to +anybody. Sometimes he looks as if he might be listening, when as a +matter of fact he is only resting his voice and thinking up something +cutting and clever to say next. + +Speaking of Waddles, the fault is not all his. We have indulged him with +too much authority. We have allowed him to become a sort of autocrat, a +golfing Pooh-Bah, a self-appointed committee of one with arbitrary +powers. He began looking after the club when it was in its infancy, and +now that the organisation has grown to quite respectable proportions he +does not seem to know how to let go gracefully. He still looks after us, +whether we want him to or not, and if it is only the getting out of a +new score card Waddles must attend to it, having the first word, the +last word and all the words between. + +If any one presumes to disagree with him Waddles merely snorts in that +disdainful way of his and goes on talking louder and louder until +finally the opposition succumbs, blown down by sheer lung power, as it +were, gassed before reaching the trenches. Wind is all right in its +place, and in moderation, but a steady gale gets on the nerves in time. +Waddles is a human simoom, carrying dust, sand and cactus. + +I say this in all kindness, for I am really fond of the old boy. He has +many admirable qualities, and frequently tells us what they are, but +consideration for others is not one of them; and when he plays golf the +things he does to an opponent are sinful. He is just as ruthless and +overbearing on the links as he is in committee meeting--but of this, +more anon--much more. I made my remark about Englishmen a month or so +after the Major became a member of the club. We understood that Lawes +was a retired infantry officer in poor health, and when he arrived in +our part of the world he brought with him a Hindu servant with his head +wrapped up in about forty yards of cheesecloth, an unquenchable thirst, +some gilt-edged letters of introduction from big people, and a hobnail +liver. He was proposed by two of our financial moguls and passed the +membership committee without a whisper of dissent. + +"This old bird," said Waddles, "is probably a cracking good golfer. +Nearly all Englishmen are. We can use him to plug up that weak spot on +the team." And of course he looked straight at me when he said it. +Goodness knows, I never asked to be put on the club team, and I play my +worst golf in competition. + +Some of the other men thought that the Major would lend a bit of tone to +the organisation. I presume they got the idea from the string of +initials after his name. + +As to his golfing, the Major proved a disappointment. He did not seem in +any haste to avail himself of the privileges of active membership, and +when at the club he spent all his time sitting on the porch and staring +at the mountains in the distance. I don't remember ever seeing him +without a tall brandy highball at his elbow. + +Personally, the Major wasn't much to look at. You could just as easily +have guessed the age of a mummy. He was long-legged and cadaverous, +with thin, sandy hair and a yellowish moustache that never seemed to be +trimmed. His mouth was always slightly ajar, his front teeth were unduly +prominent, and his chin was short and receded at an acute angle. A side +view of the Major suggested a tired, half-starved old rabbit that had +lost all interest in life. His eyes were a faded light blue in colour +and blinked constantly without a vestige of human expression. He was +freckled like a turkey egg--freckled all over, but mostly on the neck +and the forearms. When he spoke, which was seldom, it was in a thin, +hesitating treble, reminiscent of a strayed sheep, and he had an +exasperating habit of leaving a sentence half finished and beginning on +another one. He could sit for hours, staring straight in front of him +and apparently seeing nothing at all. When addressed he usually jumped +half out of his chair and said something like this: + +"Eh? Oh! God-bless-me! God-bless-me! What say?" + +Socially he was a very mangy-looking lion, but we understood that he was +very well connected in the old country and not so stupid as he seemed. +He couldn't have been, and lived. He was a bachelor of independent +means; he bought a bungalow on Medway Hill and a six-cylinder runabout, +which the servant learned to drive, after a fearsome fashion. This put +the Major out of the winter-visitor class--which was reassuring--but as +the weeks passed and he was never seen with a golf club in his hands +Waddles began to worry about that weak spot on the team. + +Three of us were watching Lawes one afternoon through a window of the +lounging room, which commands a view of the porch. The Major was spread +out in a big wicker chair, and, save for certain mechanical movements of +the right hand and arm, was as motionless as a turtle on a log. As +usual, Waddles was doing most of the talking. + +"Ain't he the study in still life, eh?... With the accent on the +still--get me? Still! Ho, ho! Not bad a bit.... Gaze upon him, +gentlemen; the world's most consistent rum hound! He hasn't moved a +muscle in the last hour except to lift that glass. Wonderful type of the +athletic Englishman, what-oh? Devoted to sports and pastimes, my word, +yes! He wouldn't qualify for putting the shot, but for putting the +highball I'll back him against all comers." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Jay Gilman, who is a conservative sort of chap +and knows Waddles well enough not to believe everything he says. "I +don't know. The old boy makes a drink last a long time. He doesn't order +many in the course of an afternoon. I've never seen him the least bit +edged." + +"Fellow like that never gets edged," argued Waddles. "The skin stays +just so full all the time. Can't get any fuller. Did you ever try to +talk with his royal jaglets? Sociable as an oyster! I tried to get him +opened up the other day. He's been in India and Africa and everywhere +else, they tell me, and I thought he might want to gas about his +experiences. War stuff. Nothing stirring. A frost. Kidded him about the +Boers, and the way the embattled farmers hung it on perfidious Albion. +Couldn't even get a rise out of him. All he did was stare at me with +those fishy eyes of his and make motions with his Adam's apple! Ever +notice the way he watches you when you're talking to him? It's enough to +make a man nervous! A major, eh? If he was a major, I wonder what the +shave-tail lieutenants were like! D.S.O.! They got the initials balled +up when they hitched that title to him. It should have been D.O.S.!" + +"All right," said Gilman; "I'll bite. I'll be the Patsy. Why D.O.S.?" + +"Dismal Old Souse, of course!" cackled Waddles. "Fits him like a glove, +eh?" + +It was then that I expressed my opinion, as previously quoted: "You +can't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him." + +But Waddles only laughed. He usually laughs at his own witticisms. + +"D.O.S.," said he. "Impromptu, but good. I'll have to tell it to the +boys!" + + +II + +But for Cyril, I suppose the Major would have remained a chair warmer +indefinitely. + +Cyril was the Major's nephew, doing a bit of globe trotting after +getting out of college, and he dropped in out of a clear sky, taking the +Major entirely by surprise. We heard later that all the Major said was, +"Bless me, it's Cyril, isn't it?" + +Looking at the boy, you knew at once what the Major had been like at +twenty-five or thereabouts; so it goes without saying that Cyril was no +motion-picture type for beauty. He was tall and thin and gangling, his +feet were always in his way, his clothes did not fit him and would not +have fitted anything human, his cloth hats were really not hats at all +but speckled poultices, and he was as British as the unicorn itself. He +was almost painfully shy when among strangers, and blushed if any one +spoke to him; but his coming seemed to cheer the Major tremendously. It +hadn't occurred to me before, but I presume the D.O.S. had been lonely +for his kind. Cyril was his kind--no question about that--and the pair +of them held a love feast which lasted all of one afternoon. Waddles +witnessed this touching family reunion and told us about it afterward, +but it is likely he handled the truth in his usual nonchalant manner. +Waddles would never spoil a good story for the sake of mere accuracy. + +"It was great stuff!" said he. "They sat out there on the porch and +gabbled terribly. A dumb man couldn't have got a word in edge-wise. The +Major was never at a loss for a topic of conversation. As fast as one +was exhausted he would look in his glass and say, 'Shan't we have +another, dear boy?' Friend Nephew never missed his cue once. 'Rawther!' +he'd say, or 'Right-oh!' Then the Major would hoist signals of distress +and make signs at the waiter. Oh, it was lovely to see them taking so +much comfort in each other's society--and so much nourishment." + +"What I want to know is this," put in Jay Gilman: "Did it liven 'em up +any?" + +"Not so you could notice it with the naked eye. For all the effect that +anybody could see, the stuff might just as well have been poured into a +pair of gopher holes. They went away at six o'clock, solemn and +dignified, loaded to capacity but not even listing the least bit from +the cargo they'd taken on. A lot of raw material wasted. That sort of +thing is inhuman--uncanny. It must be a gift that runs in +families--what?" + +Before long we had a real sensation--the Major blossomed out into a +playing member. A mummy doing a song and dance wouldn't have created any +more excitement round the clubhouse. Even the caddies were talking about +it. + +Sam broke the news to me while I was practising mid-iron shots on the +other side of the eighteenth green. Sam has carried my bag for years. He +is too old to be a caddie, too young to be a member of the Supreme +Court, and too wise for either job. He shoots the course in the +seventies every time he can dodge the greens keeper--play by employes +being strictly prohibited. He has forgotten more golf than I shall ever +know, and tries hard to conceal the superiority he feels, but never +quite makes the grade. You know the sort of caddie I mean--every club +has a few like Sam. + +"There you go again! What did I tell you about playin' the ball too far +off your right foot? Stiffen up those wrists a bit--don't let 'em flop +so. Put some forearm into the shot, and never mind lookin' up to see +where the ball goes.... Say, that long, thin gentleman, him with the +nose and teeth--the one they call the Major, that sits on the porch so +much liftin' tall ones--I caddied for him this morning." + +"You don't tell me so!" + +"Yeh, I do. Sure! Him and his relative--the young fellah. Serial, ain't +it? Well, they was both out early this morning, the Major beefin' a +little about losin' his sleep, and sayin' he wouldn't make a fool of +himself for anybody else on earth; but after he connected with a few +shots he began to enjoy it and talk about what a lovely day it was goin' +to be. You know how it is: any weather looks good to you when your shots +are comin' off." + +"Can he play at all?" + +"Who, the Major? A shark, I tell you! That old boy has been a great +golfer in his day, and it wasn't so long ago neither. To look at him you +wouldn't think he had a full cleek shot in his system, but that's where +he'd fool you. What's more, he knows where it's goin' when he ties into +it. The young fellah plays a mighty sweet game--mighty sweet. He hits +everything clean and hard and right on the line, but give the Major a +few days' practise and he'll carry my small change every time. Knows +more golf than Serial--got more shots, and he's a whale with his irons. +He's a little wild with his wood off the tee--hooks too much and gets +into trouble--but when he straightens out that drive he'll have Serial +playin' the odd behind him. Say, it'd be great to get 'em both into the +Invitation Tournament, eh?" + +Now our Invitation Tournament is the big show of the year in golfing +circles. Waddles sees to that. All members of the association are +eligible, but visitors have to have a card and an invitation as well. + +Waddles always scans these visitors very closely, and if a man is known +as a cup hunter no amount of pressure can get him in. The Major, being a +member of the club, was automatically invited to participate, but Cyril +must be classed as a visitor. + +I went to Waddles and told him what Sam had told me, suggesting that +here was the chance to coax the Major off the porch for good, and +perhaps get him onto the team later. I said that I thought it would be a +graceful thing to issue an invitation to Cyril without waiting for a +request from the Major. + +"You poor fish!" said Waddles. "I was going to do that anyway. Do you +think I'm asleep all the time?" + +That is the way with Waddles. He can catch an idea on the fly, and +before it settles he has adopted it as his own. He doesn't care a +brass-mounted continental who scared it up in the first place. Before it +lights it is his--all his. He said he didn't believe the Major was half +so good as his advance notices, and, as for the full cleek shot, he +pooh-poohed that part of the story entirely. Waddles has never mastered +the cleek, but he is a demon with a bulldog spoon or with a brassy. + +"I'll do this thing--as a common courtesy to a member," said Waddles; +"but I'm not counting on the Major's golf. A man can't lay off for +months and come back playing any sort of a game." + +So the invitation was issued in Cyril's name, and we went in search of +the Major. He was on the porch and Cyril was practising putts on the +clock green. + +Waddles can be very formal and dignified and diplomatic when he wants to +be, and as a salve spreader he has few equals and no superiors. He pays +a compliment in such a bluff, hearty fashion that it carries with it an +air of absolute sincerity. + +"Major," he began, "I can't tell you how delighted I am to hear that you +have taken up the game again. Aside from the pleasure, it is bound to +benefit your health." + +"Eh?" said the Major, staring at Waddles intently. "Oh, yes! I'm feeling +quite well at present, thanks." + +"And you'll feel better for taking exercise," continued Waddles. "We are +hoping that you will enter our Invitation Tournament next week. You'll +get a number of good matches, meet some charming people and make some +friends. Play begins on Wednesday." + +"Ah!" said the Major. + +"You can pick your own partner in the qualifying round." And here +Waddles brought out the envelope containing the invitation. "I thought +likely you might want to play with your nephew." + +The Major took the envelope and opened it. After he had read the +inclosure he looked up at Waddles and smiled. + +"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said he. "Most kind. Cyril will appreciate +this.... Shan't we have a drink?" + +"Can you beat him?" said Waddles to me when we were back in the lounging +room. "Just about as chummy as an oyster!" + +"Either that or very inattentive," said I; "but just the same I think +he'll play. Cyril will persuade him." + +"I don't care a whoop whether he plays or not," growled Waddles. "I hate +a man who can't loosen up and _talk_!" + +"There is only one thing worse," said I, "and that is a man who talks +too much." + +Waddles took my remark as personal and wolfed at me for half an hour. +Why is it that the man who has no consideration for your feelings is +always so confoundedly sensitive about his own? + + +III + +Flashing now to a close-up of the scores for the qualifying round, there +were two strange faces in the first sixteen--Cyril's and the +Major's--and Cyril walked off with the cup offered for low man. His +seventy-three created quite a commotion among the Class A men, but the +Major's eighty-one was what knocked them all a twister. Even Waddles was +amazed. Waddles had turned in an eighty-five, which barely got him into +the championship flight, but medal scores are nothing in Waddles' life. +Match play is where he shines--match play against a nervous opponent. + +"The old rum-hound must have been shooting over his head," said Waddles. +"I'll bet he holed a lot of niblick shots." + +I might have been in the fourth flight if I had not picked up my ball +after playing eleven in the ditch at the fifth hole, and by that act +eliminated myself from the tournament. I finished the round, of course, +and signed my partner's card, becoming thereafter a mere spectator and a +bit of the gallery. + +Sam was disgusted with me--so much so that he refused me advice or +sympathy. As a usual thing Sam walks up on a drive and selects the club +which he thinks I should use. I may disagree with him, but I notice that +in the end I always make the shot with the club of his selection. If I +am short he tells me that I spared the shot; if I am over he says I hit +it too hard. + +After the catastrophe at the fifth hole Sam stood the bag on end and +turned his back, a statue of silent contempt. When he allows me to pick +out a club I know that he has washed his hands of me; when he will not +accept a cigarette I am past praying for. I can think of nothing more +keenly humiliating than to feel myself a disappointment to a caddie like +Sam, but I have disappointed him so often that he should be getting +hardened to it by now. + +The first and second rounds of match play took place on Thursday, and +the pairings put Cyril at the top of the drawing and the Major at the +bottom. When the day was over the first flight had assumed a distinctly +international aspect, for the semifinalists appeared as follows: + +Waddles versus Cyril; Jay Gilman versus the Major. + +Cyril had won his matches quite handily and without being pressed, but +the Major had caught a brace of seasoned campaigners, one of whom took +him to the twentieth hole before he passed out on the end of a long +rainbow putt. + +Gilman had played his usual steady game--nothing brilliant about it, but +extremely dependable; and, as for Waddles, he had staggered along on the +ragged edge of defeat both morning and afternoon, annoying his opponents +as much as possible and winning quite as much with his head as with his +clubs. + +The time has come to say a few brief but burning words about the way +friend Waddles plays the royal and ancient game of golf when there is +anything in sight for the victor. I trust that when he reads this he +will have the decency to remember that he had already cut my handicap to +the quick, as it were. + +To begin with, Waddles has no more form than an apple woman or a Cubist +nude. He is so constructed that he cannot take a full swing to save his +immortal soul. Everything has to be wrist and forearm with Waddles, but +somehow or other he manages to snap his foolish little tee shots +straight down the middle of the course, popping them high over the +bunkers and avoiding all the traps and pits. The special providence that +cares for taxicab drivers, sailors and drunken men seems to take charge +of Waddles' ball in flight, imparting to it a tremendous overspin that +gives it distance. I never saw Waddles square away at a drive without +pitying him for his short, choppy swing; but he usually beats me about +ten yards on account of the run that he gets. I never watched him jab at +a putt without feeling certain that the ball was hit too hard to stay in +the hole; but stay it does. Waddles actually putts with an overspin, and +his ball burrows like a mole, dropping into the cup as if made of lead. + +His brassy shots are just pusillanimous--there is no other word which +describes them accurately--but somehow they keep on bouncing toward the +pin. His irons run half-way and creep the rest of the distance. He +always gets better results than his shots deserve, and complains that he +should have had more. This one little trick of his is enough to drive an +opponent crazy. Every golfer knows the moral--no, immoral--effect of +going up against some one who gets more out of every shot than he puts +into it, and still is not satisfied. It is like sitting in a poker game +with a man who draws four to a deuce, makes an ace full, wins the pot, +and then wolfs because it wasn't four aces. + +I never played with Waddles without feeling certain that I could show +him up on the long game, and it was straining to do it that ruined me. +Trying to pick the tail feathers out of that lame duck has ruined many a +golfer, the secret being that the duck isn't as lame as he looks. +Waddles makes 'em all press--a big factor in his match play; but there +are others, and not nearly so legitimate. + +Playing the game strictly on merit, observing all the little niceties of +demeanour and the courtesies due an opponent, Waddles would be a +desperately hard man to beat; but he does not stop at merit. When he is +out to win he does not stop anywhere. He has made a lifelong study of +the various ways in which an opponent may be annoyed and put off his +game, and he is the acknowledged master of all of them. + +For instance, if he plays Doc Jones, who is chatty and conversational +and likes to talk between shots, Waddles never opens his mouth once, but +plods along with a scowl on his face and his lower lip sticking out a +foot. Before long the poor little Doc begins to wonder whether he has +said anything to hurt Waddles' feelings--and that is the end of Jones. +But if Waddles plays Chester Hodge, who believes that the secret of a +winning game is concentration, he is a perfect windmill, talking to +Chester every minute, telling him funny stories, asking him questions, +and literally conversing him off his feet. + +Bill Mulqueen is nervous and impatient and hates to wait on his second +shots; so when Waddles plays him he drives short and takes five minutes +to play the odd, while Bill fumes and frets and accumulates steam for +the final explosion, which never fails to strew the last nine with his +mangled remains. On the other hand, old Barrison is deliberation itself, +and Waddles beats him by playing his own shots quickly and then crowding +Barry--hurrying him up, nagging at him, riding him from shot to shot, +trying to speed up an engine that can't be speeded without racking +itself to pieces. Joe Bowhan hates to have any one moving about the tee +when he is setting himself to drive. Waddles licks him by washing his +ball fresh on every hole. Joe can't see him, but he can hear him +scouring away behind him. "Hand-laundered out of the contest again" is +what Joe tells us when he comes into the clubhouse. + +Perhaps the cruelest thing Waddles ever did was in the finals of the +Spring Handicap against young Archie Gatter. The kid was inclined to +think fairly well of himself and his game, but on the day of the match +Waddles lugged a visiting golf architect round the course with him, +planning improvements in the way of traps and bunkers, discussing +various kinds of grass for the greens, arguing about soil, and paying no +attention whatever to the wretched Archie--not even watching him make +his shots. It broke the boy's heart to be ignored so completely, and he +shot the last nine holes in a fat fifty-seven, finishing a total wreck. + +These are only a few of Waddles' little villainies, and the fact that he +is a consistent winner at match play bears out the theory that the best +study of golf is golfers--splitting it fifty-fifty with the late Mr. +Pope. + +The most exasperating thing about Waddles is the bland, unconscious +manner in which he perpetrates these outrages upon his opponents. He +never seems aware that he is doing anything wrong or taking an unfair +advantage; he pleads thoughtlessness if driven into a corner--and gets +away with it too. You have to know Waddles very well before you are +certain that every little movement has a meaning all its own and is part +of a cold-blooded and deliberate plan of campaign. + +With all these things in mind, I had a hunch that Friday's match with +Cyril would be worth watching, and I was at the clubhouse at nine in the +morning. Cyril and the Major were already there, driving practise balls. +It was generally understood that the matches in the semi-finals would +start at nine-thirty, and promptly on the dot Jay Gilman and the Major +were on their way--both of them off to perfect drives. + +I waited to follow Cyril and Waddles--and a long, weary wait it was. +There is nothing which secures the angora so neatly and completely as to +be all dressed up and keyed up with nowhere to go. Have you ever seen a +boxer fretting and chafing in his corner, waiting for the champion to +put in an appearance; and did you ever stop to think that the champion, +in his dressing room, was counting on the effect of that nervous period +of inactivity? Golf is a game which demands mental poise, and Cyril was +losing his, minute by minute. He prowled all over the place, searching +for Waddles; he walked out and looked down the road toward town; he +practiced putting--and hit every shot too hard. If he had not been an +Englishman, and schooled to keep his feelings to himself, I think he +would have said something of a blistering nature. + +It was eleven-fifteen when Waddles arrived, dripping apologies from +every pore. Had Cyril understood that nine-thirty was the hour? Well, +wasn't that a shame--too bad he hadn't telephoned or something! Waddles +stated--and there was and is no reason to doubt his word--that he +thought the matches were scheduled for the afternoon. He dawdled in the +locker room for a scandalously long time, while Cyril made little +journeys to the first tee and back again, growing warmer and warmer with +each trip. + +When Waddles finally emerged, neatly swathed in flannels, he suggested +lunch. Cyril replied a bit stiffly that he never took food in the middle +of the day. + +"And a hard match in front of you, too," said Waddles. "I couldn't think +of starting without a sandwich. Do you mind waiting while I have one?" + +Cyril lied politely, but it was a terrible strain on him, and Waddles +consumed a sandwich, a glass of milk and forty-five minutes more. Then +he had to have one of his irons wrapped where the shaft had +split--another straw for the camel's back. By this time the Major and +Jay had finished their match, the Major winning on the sixteenth green. +They joined the gallery, after the usual ceremonies at the nineteenth +hole. + +"Are you ready?" asked Waddles, breezing out on the first tee--and that +was rather nervy, too, seeing that Cyril hadn't been anything else for +three mortal hours. + +"After you, sir," said the boy, short and sharp. He knew that he was +getting "the work," and he resented it. + +It always suits Waddles to have the honour. He likes to shoot first +because his tee shot usually makes an opponent sore. He popped one of +his dinky little drives into the air, but instead of dropping into the +bunker it floated beyond it to the middle of the course and ran like a +scared rabbit. + +"No distance!" grumbled Waddles, slapping his club on the tee. "No +distance. I'm all out of luck to-day." + +Well, that was no more than rubbing it in by word of mouth. It produced +the desired effect, because Cyril nearly broke himself in two in an +attempt to beat that choppy half-arm swing. He swung much too hard, +didn't follow through at all, and the ball sliced into a trap far up to +the right. + +"Do you know what you did then?" asked Waddles. "You tried to kill it, +you didn't follow through, and----" + +"And I sliced. I know perfectly, thanks." And Cyril started down the +course, with Waddles tagging at his hip and telling him what was the +matter with his swing. Coming from a man who never took a full-arm +wallop at a ball in his life, criticism must have seemed superfluous. I +couldn't see Cyril's face, but his ears reddened. + +Waddles slapped a brassy to the edge of the putting green, but Cyril, +trying for distance out of a heel print, took too much sand and barely +got back on the course again. His third reached the green, whereupon +Waddles promptly laid his ball dead for a four. Cyril missed a +twenty-footer and lost the first hole. + +Again Waddles spatted out a drive that narrowly escaped a cross bunker, +but it struck on a hard spot and ran fully one hundred yards before it +stopped. Waddles knows every hard spot on the course and governs himself +accordingly. + +Cyril followed through this time--followed through so vigorously that +the ball developed a hook. A cross wind helped it along into the rough +grass, leaving him a nasty second shot over shrubbery and trees. It +hadn't stopped rolling before Waddles was talking again. + +"You know what you did then? Too much right hand; and your club +head----" + +"Precisely," said Cyril, and left the tee almost on a dog-trot; but +Waddles trotted with him, explaining what had happened to the club +head. He was so earnest about it, so eager to be of assistance, so +persistent, that Cyril did not know how to take him. Then, to add to the +boy's discomfiture, Waddles played a perfect spoon shot, taking +advantage of the wind, and the ball stopped six feet from the pin. Only +a miracle could have saved Cyril after that, and there were no miracles +left in his system. His ball carried low from the rough, struck the limb +of a tree and glanced out of bounds. He played another, which dropped +into thick weeds, and then picked up, conceding the hole. All the way to +the third tee Waddles expounded the theory of the niblick shot out of +grass, pausing only to spat another perfect ball down the course. + +It was here that Cyril left the wood in his bag and took out a cleek. He +wanted distance and he needed direction, our third hole calling for a +well-placed tee shot; but he sliced just enough to put him squarely +behind the largest tree on the entire course. + +"I was sure you'd do that," said Waddles, sympathetically. "It's really +a wooden club shot, and when you took your iron I knew you were afraid +of it. Changing clubs is always a sign of weakness, don't you think so?" + +Cyril mumbled something and started down the path, and at this point the +old Major, who had been lingering in the background, swung in behind him +with his first and last bit of advice. + +"Keep your hair on, dear boy," he bleated. "Keep your hair on. Whatever +happens, don't get waxy." + +Cyril grunted but didn't say anything, and the Major dropped to the rear +again, making queer little noises in his throat. + +"Now the ideal--shot on this--hole," panted Waddles, overtaking his +victim, "is a little bit--farther to the left. A hook--doesn't hurt +you--as much--as a slice----" + +"I'm not hurt yet!" snapped Cyril. + +"Why, of course not!" cried Waddles with the heartiest good nature. "Of +course not--but if your ball--had been farther to the left--you wouldn't +have to play--over that tree--and----" There was more, but Cyril did not +wait to hear it. + +Waddles, executing his second with mechanical precision, carried the +deep ravine with his mashie and put the ball on the green for a sure +four. Off to the right Cyril prepared to do likewise, but the tree +loomed ahead of him, his nerves were unstrung, his temper was ruffled, +and instead of going cleanly under the ball he caught the turf four +inches behind it and pitched into the ravine, where he found a lie that +was all but unplayable. + +"Tough luck!" said Waddles. + +Cyril turned and looked at him. I expected an outburst of some sort, but +the boy was evidently trying to keep his hair on. + +"I didn't hit it," said he at length, swallowing hard. I heard an odd +choking noise behind me. It was the Major, attempting to remain calm. + +"Of course you didn't hit it!" agreed Waddles. "You took a hatful of +turf; and you know why, don't you?" + +Cyril groaned and plunged into the ravine. + +Why follow the harrying details too closely? With the Major as chief +mourner, and Waddles holding sympathetic postmortems on all his bad +shots, Cyril suffered a complete collapse. I could have beaten him--any +one could have beaten him--and as a matter of fact he beat himself. +Having found his weak spot, Waddles never let up for an instant. Talk, +talk, talk; his flow of conversation was as irritating as a neighbour's +phonograph, and as incessant. I wondered that Cyril contained himself as +well as he did, until I remembered that it is tradition with the English +to lose as silently as they win. + +The Major, who saw it all, addressed but one remark to me. It was on the +tenth hole, and Waddles was showing Cyril why he had topped an iron +shot. + +"Look here," said the Major, jerking his thumb at Waddles, "does he +always do this sort of thing? Talk so much, I mean?" + +I replied, and quite truthfully, that it depended on the way he felt. +The Major grunted, and that ended the conversation. + +The match was wound up on the thirteenth; Cyril shook hands, +complimented Waddles on his game, and made a bee line for the +clubhouse. Nobody could blame him for not wanting to finish the round. +Waddles tagged along at his elbow, gesticulating, explaining the theory +of golf, even offering to illustrate certain shots with which Cyril had +had trouble. + +The Major spent the rest of the afternoon on the porch, nursing a tall +glass and looking at the hills. After a shower Cyril joined him. + +"The blooming Britons are holding a lodge of sorrow," said Waddles, who +was in high spirits. "What's the betting on the finals to-morrow?" + +"I'll back the Major," spoke up Jay Gilman, "if you'll promise not to +talk the shirt off his back." + +"Another dumb player, eh?" asked Waddles, grinning. + +"Never opened his mouth to me but once the entire way round," answered +Jay. + +"And what did he say then?" + +"As near as I recall," replied Jay, "he said 'Dormie!'" + +"I hate a man who can't talk!" exclaimed Waddles. + +"How you must hate yourself," I suggested, and was forced to dodge a +match safe. + +"Just the same," persisted Jay, "I'll take the Major's end if you'll +promise to keep your mouth shut." + +"I'll accept no bets on that basis," Waddles announced. "I like a +friendly, chatty game." + +"I've got you for fifty, then, and talk your head off!" And Jay laughed +until I thought he would choke. As a matter of fact, he laughed all the +rest of the afternoon. + + +IV + +Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was no +delay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There was +considerable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major to +the limit. + +"You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injured +tone of voice. + +"Make it a hundred if you want to," was Jay's come-back. + +"Fifty is plenty, thanks." + +"What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit on +the conversation!" + +"Got you!" snapped Waddles. + +He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him to +it. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch of +sand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamer +dead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then he +stepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled--actually +cackled like a hen. + +"Do you know," said he, addressing Waddles--"I believe I've burst my +belt! Yes, I'm quite certain I have; but don't fear, old chap. I +sha'n't be indecent. I have braces on. Ho, ho, ho!" + +Waddles paused with his mouth open. At first I thought he was going to +say something, but evidently nothing occurred to him, so he teed his +ball and took his stance. + +"It was an old one," said the Major. "I've worn it for ages. Given me by +Freddy Fitzpatrick. Queer chap, Fitz.... You don't mind my babbling a +little, do you? Dare say I'm a bit nervous." + +"Oh, not in the least," grunted Waddles, addressing his ball. He hit his +usual drive, with the usual result, but his ball was at least forty +yards short of the Major's. + +"Very fortunate, sir!" bleated the Major, following Waddles from the +tee. "Blest if I see how you do it! Your form--you don't mind criticism, +old chap?--your form is wretchedly bad. Atrocious! Your swing is +cramped, your stance is awkward, yet somehow you manage to get over the +bunkers. Extraordinary, I call it. Some day you shall teach me the +stroke if you will, eh?" + +Waddles didn't say a word. He tucked his chin down into his collar and +made tracks for his ball, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes. He +didn't seem to know what to make of this sudden flood of conversation. +The Major was with him every step of the way, blatting about his friend +Fitzpatrick. + +"He had a stroke like yours, old Fitz. Frightfully crippled up with +rheumatism, poor chap! Abominable golfer! No form, no swing, but the +devil's own luck.... I say, what club shall you use next? I should take +a cleek, but you don't carry one, I've noticed. Too bad. Very useful +club, but it calls for a full, clean swing. You'd boggle a cleek +horribly.... You're taking a brassy? Quite right, old chap, quite right. +I should, too, if I couldn't depend on my irons." + +Waddles waved the Major aside, and pulled off his shot; but it seemed to +me that he hurried the least little bit. Perhaps he was expecting +another outburst of language. His ball stopped ten yards short of the +putting green. + +"Ah!" said the Major. "You stabbed at that one, dear boy. Old Fitz +stabbed his second shots too. Nervousness, I dare say; but you haven't +the look of a man with nerves. Rather beefy for that, I should think. +Tight match, and all. Too much food, perhaps. Never can tell, eh? Old +Fitz was a gross feeder too.... Now I'm going to take an iron, and if +you don't mind I wish you'd stand behind me and tell me how to shorten +my swing a bit. I'm inclined to play an iron too strong.... A little +farther over, if you please. I don't want you where I can see you, old +chap, but I sha'n't mind your talking." + +The Major pulled his mid-iron out of the bag and Waddles obliged with a +steady stream of advice, not one item of which was heeded: + +"Advance that left foot a little, and don't drop your shoulder so much! +Come back a bit slower, keep your eye on the ball, start your swing +higher up----" + +At this point the blade of the mid-iron connected with the ball and sent +it sailing straight for the pin--a beautiful shot, and clean as a +whistle. A white speck bounded on the green and rolled past the hole. + +"You see?" cried the Major. "Too strong--oh, much too strong!" + +"You're up there for a putt!" snorted Waddles. "What did you expect--at +this distance?" + +"With your assistance," continued the Major, ignoring Waddles' sarcasm, +"I shall shorten my swing. You've the shortest swing I've ever seen. +Shorter than poor old Fitz's. I'm sorry about that belt, but I sha'n't +be indecent. I have braces on--suspenders, I believe you call them." He +squinted at his ball as he advanced. "Too strong. Never mind. I dare say +I shall hole the putt.... You're taking a mashie next? Tricky +shot--very, especially on a fast green." + +Waddles composed himself with a visible effort and really achieved a +very fine approach shot. The ball had the perfect line to the hole, but +was three feet short of the cup. + +"Never up, never in!" cackled the Major, and proceeded to sink a +three--a nasty, twisting twelve-footer, and downhill at that. There was +a patter of applause from the gallery, started by Gilman and Cyril. The +Major marched to the second tee, babbling continually: + +"I owe you an apology. Never had a three there before. Never shall +again. Stroke under par, isn't it? Not at all bad for a beginning. +Better luck next time. Wish I hadn't broken this belt. Puts me off my +shots." + +"What do you mean--better luck next time?" demanded Waddles, but got no +response. The Major had switched to his friend Fitzpatrick, and was +chirping about rheumatism and gout and heaven knows what all. He stopped +talking just long enough to peel off another tremendous drive, and if he +had taken the ball in his hand and carried it out on the course he +couldn't have selected a better spot from which to play his second. + +It was on this tee that Waddles tried to hand the Major's stuff back to +him, probably figuring that he could stand as much conversation as his +opponent, and last longer at the repartee. He began to tell the story of +the Scotch golfer and his collie dog, which is one of the best things he +does, but I noticed that when it came time for him to drive he grunted +as he hit the ball, and when Waddles grunts it is a sign that he is +calling up the reserves. He got the same old shot and the same old run, +and would have finished the same old story, but the Major horned in with +a long-winded reminiscence of his own, and the collie was lost in the +shuffle. Another animal was lost too--a goat belonging to Waddles. He +spoke sharply to his opponent before playing his second, and then sliced +a spoon shot deep into the rough. + +"Ah, too bad!" chirruped the Major. "And the grass is quite deep over +there, isn't it? Now I shall use the mid-iron again, and you shall watch +and tell me about my swing--that is, if you don't mind, old chap." + +Waddles didn't mind. He told the Major enough things to rattle a wooden +Indian, and just as the club had started to descend he raised his voice +sharply. It would have made me miss the ball entirely, but it seemed to +have no effect on the Major, who did not even flinch but lined one out +to the green. + +Waddles wandered off into the rough, mumbling to his caddie. The third +shot was a remarkable one. He tore the ball out of the thick grass, +raised it high in the air and put it on the green, six feet from the +cup. The Major then laid his third shot stone-dead for a four. Waddles +still had a difficult putt to halve the hole, but while he was studying +the roll of the green the Major spoke up. + +"I shan't ask you to putt that," said he. "I concede you a four." + +Waddles stared at him with eyes that fairly bulged. + +"You--what?" said he. "You give me this putt?" + +The Major nodded and walked off the green. Waddles looked first at his +ball, then at the cup, and then at the crowd of spectators. At last he +picked up and followed, and a whisper ran through the gallery. The +general impression prevailed that conceding a six-foot putt at the +outset of an important match was nothing short of emotional insanity. + +Of course since he had been offered a four on the hole Waddles could do +nothing but accept it gracefully--and begin wondering why on earth his +opponent had been so generous. I dare any golfer to put himself in +Waddles' place and arrive at a conclusion soothing to the nerves and the +temper. The most natural inference was that the Major held him cheaply, +pitied him, did not fear his game. + +I thought this was what the old fellow was getting at, but it was not +until they reached the third putting green that I began to appreciate +the depth of the Major's cunning and the diabolical cleverness of his +golfing strategy. + +Waddles had a two-foot putt to halve the third hole--a straight, simple +tap over a perfectly flat surface--the sort of putt that he can make +with his eyes shut, ninety-nine times out of the hundred. The Major had +already holed his four, and I knew by the careless manner in which +Waddles stepped up to his ball that he expected the Major to concede the +putt. It was natural for him to expect it, since he had already been +given a difficult six-footer. + +Waddles stood there, waggling his putter behind the ball and waiting for +the Major to say the word, but the word did not come. This seemed to +irritate Waddles. He looked at the Major, and his expression said, plain +as print, "You don't really insist on my making this dinky little putt?" +It was all wasted, for the Major was regarding him with a fishy +stare--looking clear through him in fact. The expectant light faded out +of Waddles' eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and gave his attention to +the shot, examining every inch of the line to the cup. It seemed to be a +straight putt, but was it? Waddles took his lower lip in his teeth and +tapped the ball very gently. It ran off to the left, missing the cup by +at least three inches. + +"Aha!" chuckled the Major. "You thought I would give you that one too, +eh? Old Fitz used to say, 'Give a man a hard putt and he'll miss an easy +one. After that he'll never be sure of anything.' Extraordinary how +often it happens just that way. Seems to have an unsettling effect on +the nerves. Tricky beggar, Fitz. Won the Duffers' Cup at Bombay by +conceding a twenty-foot putt on the sixteenth green. Opponent went all +to little pieces. Finished one down, with a fifteen on the last hole. +Queer game, golf!" + +"Yes," said Waddles, breathing hard, "and a lot of queer people play it. +Your honour, sir." + +The Major smacked out another long one, but Waddles, boiling inside and +scarcely able to see the ball, topped his tee shot and bounded into the +bunker. + +"You see what it does," said the Major. "You were still thinking about +that putt. The effect on the nerves----" + +"Oh, cut it out!" growled Waddles. "Play the game right if you're going +to play it at all! Your mouth is the best club in your bag!" + +The Major did not resent this in the least; paid no attention in fact. +He toddled away, blatting intermittently about his friend Fitz, and +Waddles knocked half the sand out of the bunker before he finally +emerged, spitting gravel and adjectives. Sore was no name for it! He +lost the hole, of course, making him three down. + +The rest of the contest was interesting, but only from a psychological +point of view. Evidently considering that he had a safe lead the Major +cut out the conversation and the horseplay and settled down to par golf. +There was no lack of talk, however, for Waddles erupted constantly. +Braced by the thought that he was annoying his opponent by these verbal +outbursts, he managed to halve four holes in a row, but on the ninth +green he missed another short putt. In the explosion that followed he +blew off his safety valve completely, and the rest of the match +degenerated into a riotous procession, so far as noise was concerned. + +The thing I could not understand was that the Major held on the even +tenour of his way, unruffled and serene as a June morning. The louder +Waddles talked the better the old fellow seemed to like it. Never once +did he seem disturbed; never once did he hesitate on a shot. With calm, +mechanical precision he proceeded to go through Waddles like a cold +breeze, and the latter was so busy thinking up things to say that he +flubbed disgracefully, and was beaten on the thirteenth green, seven and +five. + +Well, Waddles may have his faults, but losing ungracefully is not one of +them. He will fight you to the very last ditch, but once the battle is +over he declares peace immediately. He walked up to the Major and held +out his hand. He grinned, too, though I imagine it hurt his face to do +it. + +"You're all right, Major!" said he. "You're immense! You licked me and +you made me like it. If I had your nerves--if I could concentrate on my +shots and not let anything bother me----" + +Some one behind me laughed. It was Jay Gilman. + +"It has been a pleasure, dear chap," said the Major. "A pleasure, I +assure you!" + + * * * * * + +Several of us had dinner at the club that night, Jay offering to give +the party because of the money he had won from Waddles. When the coffee +came on, America's representative in the finals attempted to explain his +defeat. + +"The Major began the gab-fest," said Waddles. "He started off chattering +like a magpie and trying to rattle me, and naturally I went back at him +with the same stuff. Fair for one as for the other, eh? I'll admit that +he out-generalled me by giving me that putt on the second hole, but the +thing that finally grabbed my angora was his infernal concentration. +Never saw anything like it! Why, he actually asked me to stand behind +him and criticise his swing--while he was shooting, mind you? Asked me +to do it! And when I saw that he went along steady as the rock of +Gibraltar--well, I blew, that's all. I went to pieces. The thing reacted +on me. I'll bet that old rascal could listen to you all day long-and +never top a ball!" + +"You'd lose that bet," said Jay quietly. + +"How do you mean--lose it?" demanded Waddles, bristling. "I talked my +head off, and he didn't top any, did he?" + +"No; and he didn't listen any, either. As a matter of fact, you could +have fired a cannon off right at his hip without making him miss a +shot." + +"You don't mean to tell me----" said Waddles, gaping. + +Jay laughed unfeelingly. + +"You had a fat chance of talking the old Major out of anything!" said +he. "He hasn't advertised it much, because he's rather sensitive about +his affliction; but he's----" + +"Deaf!" gulped Waddles. + +"As a post," finished Jay. + +Waddles' jaw dropped. + +There was a long, painful silence. + +Then Waddles crooked his finger at the waiter. + +"Boy!" he called. "Bring me this dinner check!" + + + + +A MIXED FOURSOME + + +I + +When the returns were all in, a lot of people congratulated the winners +of the mixed-foursome cups, after which the weak-minded ones sympathised +with Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson. + +Sympathy is a wonderful thing, and so rare that it should not be wasted. +Any intelligent person might have seen at a glance that Mary didn't need +sympathy; and as for Russell Davidson, there never was a time when he +deserved it. + +And in all this outpouring of sentiment, this hand-shaking and +back-patting, nobody thought to offer a kind word to old Waddles. Nobody +shook him by the hand and told him that he was six of the seven wonders +of the world. It seems a pity, now that I look back on it. + +Possibly you remember Waddles. He was, is, and probably always will be, +an extremely important member of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club. +Important, did I say? That doesn't begin to express it. +Omnipotent--that's better. + +To begin with, he is chairman of the Greens Committee, holding dominion +over every blade of grass which grows on the course. He is intimately +acquainted with every gopher hole, hoofprint and drain cover on the club +property. Policing two hundred broad acres is a strong man's job, but +Waddles attends to it in his spare moments. He waves his pudgy hand and +says: "Let there be a bunker here," and lo! the bunker springs up as if +by magic. He abolishes sand traps which displease him, and creates new +ones. The heathen may rage, and sometimes they do, but Waddles holds on +the even tenor of his way, hearing only one vote, and that vote his own. + +Then again, he is the official handicapper--another strong man's +job--with powers which cannot be overestimated. Some handicappers are +mild and apologetic creatures who believe in tempering justice with +mercy and pleasing as many people as possible, but not our Waddles. + +Heaven pity the wily cup hunter who keeps an improved game under cover +in order that he may ease himself into a competition and clean up the +silverware! + +Waddles hates a cup hunter with a deep and abiding hatred and deals with +him accordingly. There was once an 18-handicap man who waltzed blithely +through our Spring Handicap, and his worst medal round was something +like 85. His fat allowance made all his opponents look silly and he +took home a silver water pitcher worth seventy-five dollars. + +This was bad enough, but he crowned his infamy by boasting openly that +he had outwitted Waddles. The next time the cup hunter had occasion to +glance at the handicap list he received a terrible shock. + +"Waddy," said this person--and there were tears in his eyes and a sob in +his voice--"you know that I'll never be able to play to a four handicap, +don't you?" + +"Certainly," was the calm response. + +"Then what was the idea of putting me at such a low mark?" + +"Well," said Waddles with a sweet smile, "I don't mind telling you, in +strict confidence: I cut you down to four to keep you honest." + +The wretched cup hunter howled like a wolf, but it got him nothing. He +is still a four man, and if he lives to be as old as the Dingbats he +will never take home another trophy. + +Not only is Waddles supreme on the golf course but he dominates the +clubhouse as well. He writes us tart letters about shaking dice for +money and signs them "House Committee, per W." Really serious matters +are dealt with in letters signed "Board of Directors, per W." The old +boy is the law and the prophets, the fine Italian hand, the mailed fist, +the lord high executioner and the chief justice, and if he misses you +with one barrel he is sure to get you with the other. + +You might think that this would be power enough for one weak mortal. You +might think that there are some things which Waddles would regard as +beyond his jurisdiction. You might think that the little god of love +would come under another dispensation--you might think all these things, +but you don't know our Waddles. He is afflicted with that strange malady +described by the immortal Cap'n Prowse as "the natural gift of +authority," and such a man recognises no limits, knows no boundaries, +and wouldn't care two whoops if he did. Come to think of it, the Kaiser +is now under treatment for the same ailment. + +Since I have given you some faint conception of Waddles and his +character I will proceed with the plain and simple tale of Mary Brooke, +Bill Hawley and Russell Davidson. Beth Rogers was in the foursome too, +but she doesn't really count, not being in love with any one but +herself. + + +II + +Ladies first is a safe rule, so we will start with Mary. +My earliest recollection of this young woman dates back +twenty-and-I-won't-say-how-many-more years, at which time she +entertained our neighbourhood by reciting nursery rimes--"Twinka, +twinka, yitty tar," and all the rest of that stuff. + +I knew then that she was an extremely bright child for her age. Her +mother told me so. I used to hold her on my lap and let her listen to my +watch, and the cordial relations which existed then have lasted ever +since. She doesn't sit on my lap any more, of course, but you understand +what I mean. + +I watched Mary lose her baby prettiness and her front teeth. I watched +her pass through that distressing period when she seemed all legs and +freckles, to emerge from it a different being--only a little girl still, +but with a trace of shyness which was new to me, and a look in her eyes +which made me feel that I must be growing a bit old. + +About this time I was astounded to learn that Mary had a beau. It was +the Hawley kid, who lived on the next block. His parents had named him +William, after an uncle with money, but from the time he had been able +to walk he had been called Bill. He will always be called Bill, because +that's the sort of fellow he is. + +As I remember him at the beginning of his love affair Bill was somewhat +of a mess, with oversized hands and feet, a shock of hair that never +would stay put, and an unfortunate habit of falling all over himself at +critical moments. He attached himself to Mary Brooke with all the +unselfish devotion of a half-grown Newfoundland pup, minus the pup's +rough demonstrations of affection. + +He carried Mary's books home from school, he took her to the little +neighbourhood parties, he sent her frilly pink valentines, and +once--only once--he stripped his mother's rose garden because it was +Mary's birthday. It also happened to be Mrs. Hawley's afternoon to +entertain the whist club, and she had been counting on those roses for +decorations. If my memory serves me, she allowed Mary to keep the +flowers, but she stopped the amount of a florist's bill out of her son's +allowance of fifty cents a Week. The Hawley's are all practical people. + +Mary's father used to fuss and fume and say that he hoped Bill would get +over it and park his big clumsy feet on somebody else's front porch, but +I don't think he really minded it as much as he pretended he did. Mrs. +Brooke often remarked that since it had to be somebody she would rather +it would be Bill than any other boy in the neighbourhood. Even in those +days there was something solid and dependable about Bill Hawley; he was +the sort of kid that could be trusted, and more of a man at sixteen than +some fellows will ever be. + +During Mary's high-school days several boys carried her books, but not +for long, and Bill was always there or thereabouts, waiting patiently in +the background. When another youngster had the front porch privilege +Bill did not sulk or rock the boat, and if the green-eyed monster was +gnawing at his vitals there were no outward signs of anguish. We always +knew when one of Mary's little affairs was over because Bill would be +back on the job, nursing his shin on Brooke's front steps and filling +the whole block with an air of silent devotion. I suppose he grew to be +a habit with Mary; such things do happen once in a while. + +Then Bill went away to college, and while he was struggling for a +sheepskin Mary entered the debutante period. Some of the women said that +she wasn't pretty, but they would have had a hard time proving it to a +jury of men. Her features may not have been quite regular, but the +general effect was wonderfully pleasing; so the tabbies compromised by +calling her attractive. They didn't have a chance to say anything else, +because Mary was always the centre of a group of masculine admirers, and +if that doesn't prove attraction, what does? + +In addition to her good looks she was bright as a new dollar--so bright +that she didn't depend entirely on her own cleverness but gave you a +chance to be clever yourself once in a while. Mary Brooke knew when to +listen. She listened to Waddles once, from one end of a country-club +dinner to the other, and he gave her the dead low down on the reformer +in politics--a subject on which the old boy is fairly well informed. I +think his fatherly interest in her dated from that evening--and +incidentally let me say it was the best night's listening that Mary ever +did, because if Waddles hadn't been interested--but that's getting ahead +of the story. + +"There's something to that little Brooke girl!" he told me afterward. "A +society bud with brains! Who'd have thought it?" + +Bill came ambling home from time to time and picked up the thread of +friendship again. It grieves me to state that an Eastern college did not +improve his outward appearance to any marked extent. He looked nothing +at all like the young men we see in the take-'em-off-the-shelf clothing +ads. He was just the same old Bill, with big hands and big feet and more +hair than he could manage. He danced the one-step, of course--the only +dance ever invented for men with two left feet--but his conception of +the fox trot would have made angels weep, and I never realised how much +hesitation could be crowded into a hesitation waltz until I saw Bill +gyrate slowly and painfully down the floor. Mary always seemed glad to +see him, though, and we heard whispers of an engagement, to be announced +after Bill had made his escape from the halls of learning. Like most of +the whispering done, this particular whisper lacked the vital element of +truth, but the women had a lovely time passing it along. + +"Isn't it just too perfectly ideal--sweethearts since childhood! Think +of it!" + +"Yes, we so seldom see anything of the sort nowadays." + +"There's one advantage in that kind of match--they won't have to get +acquainted with each other after marriage." + +"Well, now, I don't know about that. Doesn't one always find that one +has married a total stranger? Poor, dear Augustus! I thought I knew him +so well, but----" + +And so forth, and so on, by the hour. Give a woman a suspicion, and +she'll manage to juggle it into a certainty. Shortly before Bill's +graduation, the dear ladies at the country club had the whole affair +settled, even to the probable date of the wedding, and of course Mary +heard the glad news. Naturally, she was annoyed. It annoys any young +woman to find the most important event of her life arranged in advance +by people who have never taken the trouble to consult her about any of +the details. + +At this point I am forced to dip into theory, because I can't say what +took place inside Mary's pretty little head. I don't know. Perhaps she +wanted to teach the gossips a lesson. Perhaps she resented having a +husband pitchforked at her by public vote; but however she figured it +she needn't have made poor old Bill the goat, and she needn't have +fallen in love with Russell Davidson. Waddles says it wasn't love at +all--merely an infatuation; but what I'd like to know is this: How are +you going to tell one from the other when the symptoms are identical? + + +III + +Personally, I haven't a thing in the world against Russell Davidson. He +never did me an injury and I hope he will never do me a favour. Russell +is the sort of chap who is perfectly all right if you happen to like the +sort of chap he is. I don't, and that's the end of the matter so far as +I am concerned. + +He hasn't been with us very long, and still it seems long enough. He +came West to grow up with the country, arriving shortly before Bill's +graduation, and he brought with him credentials which could not be +overlooked, together with an Eastern golf rating which caused Waddles to +sit up and take notice. + +Ostensibly Russell is in the brokerage business, but he doesn't seem to +work much at it. Those who know tell me that it isn't necessary for him +to work much at anything, his father having attended to that little +matter. Some of the dear ladies were mean enough to hint that Mary had +this in mind, but they'll never get me to believe it. + +At any rate the gossips soon had a nice juicy topic for conversation, +and when Bill came home, wagging his sheepskin behind him, he found the +front-porch privilege usurped by a handsome stranger who seemed quite at +home in the Brooke household, and, unless I'm very much mistaken, +inclined to resent Bill's presence on the premises. + +It just happened that I was walking up and down the block smoking an +after-dinner cigar on the evening when Bill discovered that he was +slated for second-fiddle parts again. Russell's runabout was standing +in front of the Brooke place, there was a dim light in the living room, +and an occasional tenor wail from the phonograph. I heard quick, +thumping footsteps, a big, lumbering figure came hurrying along the +sidewalk--and there was Bill Hawley, grinning at me in the moonlight. + +"Attaboy!" he cried, shaking hands vigorously. "How're you? How're all +the folks? Gee, it's great to be home again! How's Mary?" + +"She's fine," said I. "Haven't you seen her yet?" + +"Just got in on the Limited at five o'clock. Thought I'd surprise her. +Got a thousand things to tell you. Well, see you later!" + +He went swinging up the front steps and rang the bell. + +I was finishing my cigar when Bill came out again and started slowly +down the walk. His wonderful surprise party had not lasted more than +twenty minutes. I had to hail him twice before he heard me. We took a +short walk together, and reached the end of the block before Bill opened +his mouth. On the corner Bill swung round and faced me: "Who is that +fellow?" It wasn't a question; it was a demand for information. + +"What fellow?" + +"Davis, or Davidson, something like that. Who is he?" + +There wasn't a great deal I could tell him. Bill listened till I got to +the end of my string, with a perfectly wooden expression on his homely +countenance. Then for the first, last and only time he expressed his +opinion of Russell Davidson. + +"Humph!" said he. And after a long pause: "Humph!" + +You may think that a grunt doesn't express an opinion, but as a matter +of fact it's one of the most expressive monosyllables in any language. +It can be made to mean almost anything. A ten-minute speech with a lot +of firecracker adjectives wouldn't have made Bill's meaning any clearer. + +The two grunts which came out of Bill's system were fairly dripping with +disapproval. + +"It's a wonderful night." I felt the need of saying something. "Must be +quite a relief after all that humidity in the East." + +"Uh huh." + +"I understand you played pretty good golf on the college team, Bill." + +"Uh huh." + +"We've made a lot of improvements out at the club. You won't know the +last nine now." + +"Uh huh." + +I couldn't resist the temptation of slipping a torpedo under his bows. I +thought it might wake him up a trifle. + +"Mary is playing a better game now. Davidson has been teaching her some +shots." + +Bill wanted to open up and say something, but he didn't know how to go +about it. He looked at me almost piteously and I felt ashamed of myself. + +"I'll be going now," he mumbled. "Haven't had much sleep the last few +nights. Never sleep on a train anyway. See you later." + +That was all I got out of him, but it was enough. It wasn't any of my +affair, of course, but from the bottom of my heart I pitied the big, +clumsy fellow. I felt certain that Mary was giving him the worst of it, +and taking the worst of it herself, but what could I do? Absolutely +nothing. In life's most important game the spectators are not encouraged +to sit on the side lines and shout advice to the players. + +As for Bill, I think he fought it out with himself that night and +decided to return to his boyhood policy of watchful waiting. It wasn't +the first time that he had lost the front-porch privilege, and in the +past he had won it back again by keeping under cover and giving the +incumbent a chance to become tiresome. Bill declined to play the +second-fiddle parts; he took himself out of Mary's orchestra entirely. +He did not call on her any more; but I am willing to bet any sum of +money, up to ten dollars, that Bill knew how many times a week Russell's +runabout stood in front of the Brooke place. Five would have been a fair +average. + +Russell had things all his own way, and before long we began to hear the +same vague whisperings of a wedding, coupled with expressions of +sympathy for Bill. Bill heard those whisperings too--trust the dear +ladies for that--but he listened to everything with a good-natured grin, +and even succeeded in fooling a portion of the female population; but he +didn't fool Waddles and he didn't fool me. Bill met Mary at dinner +parties and dances now and then, and whenever this happened the women +watched every move that he made, and were terribly disappointed because +he failed to register deep grief; but Bill never was the sort to wear +his heart outside his vest. Russell was very much in evidence at all +these meetings, for he took Mary everywhere, and Bill was scrupulously +polite to him--the particular brand of politeness which makes a real man +want to fight. And thus the summer waned, and the winter season came +on--for in our country we have only two seasons--and it was in November +that old Waddles finally unbuttoned his lip and informed me that young +Mr. Davidson would never do. + +It was in the lounging room at the country club. We had finished our +round, and I had paid Waddles three balls as usual. It never costs less +than three balls to play with him. We were sitting by the window, +acquiring nourishment and looking out upon the course. In the near +foreground Russell Davidson was teaching Mary Brooke the true inwardness +of the chip shot. He wasn't having a great deal of luck. Waddles broke +the silence by grunting. It was a grunt of infinite disgust. I searched +my pockets and put a penny on the table. + +"For your thoughts," said I. + +"They're worth more than that," said Waddles. + +"Not to me." + +There was a period of silence and then Waddles grunted again. + +"Get it off your chest," I advised him. + +"That fellow," said Waddles, indicating Russell with a jerk of his +thumb, "gives me a pain." + +"And me," said I. + +"I thought Mary Brooke had some sense," complained Waddles; "but I see +now that she's like all the rest--anything with a high shine to it is +gold. Now the pure metal often has a dull finish." + +"Meaning Bill?" I asked. + +"Meaning Bill. He isn't much to look at, but he's on the level, and he +worships the very ground she walks on. Why can't she see it?" + +"Why can't any woman see it?" I asked him. + +"But somebody ought to tell her! Somebody ought to put her wise! +Somebody----" + +"Well," I interrupted, "why don't you volunteer for the job?" + +"Oh, Lord!" groaned Waddles. "It's one of the things that can't be done. +Tell her and you'd only make matters that much worse. And I thought Mary +Brooke had brains!" + +There was a long break in the conversation, during which Waddles munched +great quantities of pretzels and cheese. Then: + +"I wasn't much stuck on that Davidson person the first time I saw him!" +His tone was the tone of a man who seeks an argument. "He's a good +golfer, I admit that, but he's a cup hunter at heart, he's a rotten hard +loser, and--well, he's not on the level!" + +"You've been opening his mail?" I asked. + +"Not at all. Listen! You know the Santa Ynez Gun Club? Well, he's joined +that, among other things. He's a cracking good duck shot. I was down +there the other night, and we had a little poker game." + +"A little poker game?" said I. + +"Table stakes," corrected Waddles. "Davidson was the big winner." + +"You're not hinting----" + +"Nothing so raw as that. Listen! Joe Herriman was in the game, and +playing in the rottenest luck you ever saw. Good hands all the time, +understand, but not quite good enough. If he picked up threes he was +sure to run into a straight, and if he made a flush there was a full +house out against him. Enough to take the heart out of any man. Finally +he picked up a small full before the draw--three treys and a pair of +sevens. Joe opened it light enough, because he wanted everybody in, but +the only man who stayed was Davidson, who drew one card. After the draw +Joe bet ten dollars for a feeler, and Davidson came back at him with +the biggest raise of the night--a cool hundred." + +"Well," said I, "what was wrong with that?" + +"Wait. The hundred-dollar bet started Joe to thinking. He had been +bumping into topping hands all the evening, and Davidson knew it. + +"'If I were you,' says Davidson in a nice kind tone of voice, 'I +wouldn't call that bet. Luck is against you to-night, and I'd advise +you, as a friend, to lay that pat hand down and forget it.' + +"Joe looked at him for a long time and then he looked at his cards; you +see he'd been beaten so often that he'd lost his sense of values. + +"'You think I hadn't better play these?' asks Joe. + +"'I've given you a tip,' says Davidson. 'I hate to see a man go up +against a sure thing.' + +"'Well,' says Joe at last, 'I guess you've done me a favour. It wasn't +much of a full anyway,' and he spread his hand on the table. Davidson +didn't show his cards--he pitched 'em into the discard and raked in the +pot--not more than fifteen dollars outside of his hundred." + +"And what of that?" I asked. + +"Oh, nothing," said Waddles; "nothing, only I was dealing the next hand, +and I arranged to get a flash at the five cards that Davidson tried to +bury in the middle of the deck." + +"What did he have?" + +Waddles snorted angrily. + +"Four diamonds and a spade! A four flush, that's what he had! The two +sevens alone would have beaten him! And all that sympathetic talk, that +bum steer, just to cheat the big loser out of one measly pot! What do +you think of a fellow who'd do a trick like that?" + +I told him what I thought, and again there was silence and cheese. + +"Do you think Mary is going to marry that--that crook?" demanded +Waddles. + +"That's what they say." + +More cheese. + +"I'd like to tell her," said Waddles thoughtfully, "but it's just one of +the things that isn't being done this season. I'd like to give her a +line on that handsome scalawag--before it's too late. I can't waltz up +to her and tell her that he's bogus. There must be some other way. But +how? How?" + +Waddles sighed and attacked the cheese again. You'd hardly think that a +man could get an inspiration out of the kind of cheese that our House +Committee buys to give away, but before Waddles left the club that +evening he informed me that a mixed-foursome tournament wouldn't be half +bad--for a change. + +"You won't get many entries," said I. "You know how the men fight shy of +any golf with women in it." + +"Don't want many." + +"Then why a tournament?" I asked. "The entry fees won't pay for the +cups." + +"I'm giving the cups," said Waddles, and investigated the cheese bowl +once more. "Two of 'em. One male cup and one female cup. About sixteen +dollars they'll set me back, but I've an idea--just a sneaking, +lingering scrap of a notion--that I'll get my money's worth." + +And he went away mumbling to himself and blowing cracker crumbs out of +his mouth. + + +IV + +Of course you know the theory of the mixed foursome. There are four +players, two men and two women, and each couple plays one ball. It +sounds very simple. Miss Jones and Mr. Brown are partners. Miss Jones +drives, and it is up to Mr. Brown to play the next shot from where the +ball lies, after which Miss Jones takes another pop at the pill, and so +on until the putt sinks. Yes, it sounds like an innocent pastime, but of +all forms of golf the mixed foursome carries the highest percentage of +danger and explosive material. It is the supreme test of nerves and +temper, and the trial-by-acid of the disposition. + +In our club there is an unwritten law that no wife shall be partnered +with her husband in a mixed-foursome match, because husbands and wives +have a habit of saying exactly what they think about each other--a +practise which should be confined to the breakfast table. There was a +case once--but let us avoid scandal. She has a new husband and he has a +new wife. + +Waddles' mixed-foursome tournament was scheduled for a Thursday, and it +was amazing how many of the male members discovered that imperative +business engagements would keep them from participating in the contest. +The women were willing enough to play--they always are, bless 'em!--but +it was only after a vast amount of effort and Mexican diplomacy that +Waddles was able to lead six goats to the slaughter. Six, did I say? +Five. Russell Davidson needed no urging. + +The man who gave Waddles the most trouble was Bill Hawley. Bill was +polite about it, but firm--oh, very firm. He didn't want any mixed +foursomes in his young life, thank you just the same. More than that, he +was busy. Waddles had to put it on the ground of a personal favour +before Bill showed the first sign of wavering. + +When I arrived at the club on Thursday noon I found Waddles sweating +over the handicaps for his six couples. Now it is a cinch to handicap +two women or two men if they are to play as partners, but to handicap a +woman and a man is quite another matter, and all recognised rules go by +the board. I watched the old boy for some time, but I couldn't make head +or tail of his system. Finally I asked him how he handicapped a mixed +foursome. + +"With prayer," said Waddles. "With prayer, and in fear and trembling. +And sometimes that ain't any good." + +I noted that he had given Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson the lowest +mark--10. Beth Rogers and Bill Hawley were next with 16, and the other +couples ranged on upward to the blue sky. + +"Of course," I suggested, "the low handicap is something of a +compliment, but haven't you slipped Davidson a bit the worst of it?" + +"Not at all," growled Waddles. "He was just crazy to get into this +thing, and he wouldn't have been unless he figured to have a cinch; +consequently, hence and by reason of which I've given him a mark that'll +make him draw right down to his hand. He won't play any four-flush +here." Waddles then arranged the personnel of the foursomes, and jotted +down the order in which they would leave the first tee. When I saw which +quartette would start last I offered another suggestion. + +"You're not helping Bill's game any," said I. "You know that he doesn't +like Davidson, and----" + +Waddles stopped me with his frozen-faced, stuffed-owl stare. In deep +humiliation I confess that at the time I attributed it to his distaste +for criticism. I realise now that it must have been amazement at my +stupidity. + +"Excuse me for living," said I with mock humility. + +"There is no excuse," said Waddles heavily. + +Bill turned up on the tee at the last moment, and if he didn't like the +company in which he found himself he masked his feelings very well. + +"How do, Mary? Beth, this is a pleasure. How are you, Davidson? Ladies +first, I presume?" + +"Drive, Miss Rogers," said Davidson. + +Now a fluffy blonde is all right, I suppose, if she wears a hair net. +Beth doesn't, and her golden aureole would make a Circassian woman +jealous. Still, there are people who think Beth is a beauty. I more than +half suspect that Beth is one of them. Beth drove, and the ball plumped +into the cross bunker. + +"Oh, partner!" she squealed. "Can you ever forgive me?" + +"That's all right," Bill assured her. "I've often been in there myself. +Takes a good long shot to carry that bunker." + +"It's perfectly dear of you to say so!" + +"Fore!" said Mary, who was on the tee, and the conversation ceased. + +"Better shoot to the left," advised Russell, "and go round the end of +the bunker." + +Mary stopped waggling her club to look at him. If there is anything in +which the female of the golfing species takes sinful pride it is the +length of her drive. She likes to stand up on a tee used by the men and +smack the ball over the cross bunker. She wouldn't trade a +two-hundred-yard drive for twenty perfect approach shots. She may be a +wonder on the putting green, but she offers herself no credit for that. +It is the long tee shot that takes her eye--the drive that skims the +bunker and goes on up the course. Waddles says the proposition of sex +equality has a bearing on the matter, but I claim that it is just +ordinary, everyday pride in being able to play a man's game, man +fashion. + +Coming from a total stranger, that suggestion about driving to the left +would have been regarded as a deadly insult; coming from Russell---- + +"But I think I can carry it," said Mary with a tiny pout. + +"Change your stance and drive to the left." The suggestion had become a +command. + +"Fore!" said Mary again--and whacked the ball straight into the +bunker--straight into the middle of it. + +"Now, you see?" Russell was aggravated, and showed it. "If you had +changed your stance and put that ball somewhere to the left you might +have given me a chance to reach the green. As it is----" + +He was still enlarging upon her offence as they moved away from the tee. +Mary did not answer him, but she gave Beth a bright smile, as much as to +say, "What care I?" Bill trailed along in the rear, juggling a niblick, +his homely face wiped clean of all expression. + +There wasn't much to choose between the second shots--both lies were +about as bad as could be--but Russell got out safely and Bill +duplicated the effort. + +Beth then elected to use her brassy, and sliced the ball into the long +grass. Of course she had to wail about it. + +"Isn't that just too maddening? Partner, I'm so sorry!" + +"Don't you care," grinned Bill. "That's just my distance with a mashie. +And as for long grass, I dote on it." + +Mary was taking her brassy out of the bag when Russell butted in +again--with excellent advice, I must confess. + +"You can't reach the green anyway," said he, "so take an iron and keep +on the course." + +There was a warning flash in Mary's eye which a wiser man would not have +ignored. + +"Remember you've got a partner," urged Russell. "Take an iron, there's a +good girl." + +"Oh, Russell! Do be still; you fuss me so!" + +"But, my dear! I'm only trying to help----" + +The swish of the brassy cut his explanation neatly in two, and the ball +went sailing straight for the distant flag--a very pretty shot for any +one to make. + +"Oh, a peach!" cried Bill. "A peach!" + +"And you," said Mary, turning accusingly to Russell, "you wanted me to +take an iron!" + +"Because you can keep straighter with an iron," argued Davidson. + +"Wasn't that ball straight enough to please you?" asked Mary with just a +touch of malice. + +"You had luck," was the ungracious response, "but it doesn't follow that +all your wooden-club shots will turn out as well. The theory of the +mixed foursome is to leave your partner with a chance to hit the ball." + +"Oh, dear!" sighed Beth. "Now you're making me feel like a criminal!" + +"Lady," said Bill, "if I don't mind, why should you?" + +"I think you're an angel!" gushed Beth. + +"Yep," replied Bill, "I am; but don't tell anybody." + +While Mary and Russell were discussing the theory of the mixed foursome +old Bill made a terrific mashie shot out of the grass, and the ball +reached the edge of the green. Beth applauded wildly, Mary chimed in, +but Davidson did not open his mouth. He was irritated, and made no +secret of it, but his irritation did not keep him from dropping the next +shot on the putting green. + +Bill didn't even blink when Beth took her putter and overran the hole by +ten feet. Beth said she knew he'd never, never speak to her again in +this world, and she couldn't blame him if he didn't. + +"Well," said Bill cheerfully, "you gave the ball a chance, anyhow. +That's the main thing. It's better to be over than short." + +"You're a perfect dear!" said Beth. "I'll do better--see if I don't." + +Mary then prepared to putt, Russell's approach having left her twelve +feet short of the hole. "And be sure to get it there," cautioned her +partner. "It's uphill, you know. Allow for it." + +Mary bit her lip and hit the grass an inch behind the ball. It rolled +something less than four feet. + +"Hit the ball! Hit the ball!" snapped Russell angrily. "What's the +matter with you to-day?" + +Mary apologised profusely--probably to keep Russell quiet; and she +laughed too--a dry, hard little laugh that didn't have any fun in it. +Bill glared at Davidson for an instant, and his mouth opened, but he +swallowed whatever impulse was troubling him, and carefully laid his +ball on the lip of the cup for a two-inch putt that not even Beth could +have missed. Russell then holed his long one, which seemed to put him in +a better humour, and the men started for the second tee. In mixed +foursomes the drive alternates. + +Mary and Beth took the short cut used by the caddies, and I followed +them at a discreet distance. Mary babbled incessantly about everything +in the world but golf, which was her way of conveying the impression +that nothing unusual had happened; and Beth, womanlike, helped her out +by pretending to be deeply interested in what Mary was saying. And yet +they tell you that if women could learn to bluff they would make good +poker players! + +As I waited for the men to drive I thought of the Mary Brooke I used to +know--the leggy little girl with her hair in pigtails--and I remembered +that in those days she would stand just so much teasing from the boys, +and then somebody would be slapped--hard. Had she changed so much, I +wondered? + +On the third hole Russell began nagging again, and Bill's face was a +study. For two cents I think he would have choked him. Mary tried to +carry it off with a smile, but it was a weak effort. Nothing but +absolute obedience and recognition of his right to give orders would +satisfy Russell. + +"It's no use your telling me now that you're sorry," he scolded after +Mary had butchered a spoon shot on Number Three. "You won't take advice +when it's offered. I told you not to try that confounded spoon. A spoon +is no club for a beginner." + +Mary gasped. + +"But--I'm not a beginner! I've been playing ever and ever so long! And I +like that spoon." + +"I don't care what you like. If we win this thing you must do as I say." + +"Oh! So that's it--because you want to win?" + +"What do you think I entered for--exercise? Nothing to beat but a lot of +dubs--and you're not even trying!" + +"Bill is no dub." Mary flared up a bit in defence of her old friend. + +"Ho!" sneered Russell. "So you call him Bill, do you?" + +I lost the thread of the conversation there because Mary lowered her +voice, but she must have told the young man something for the good of +his soul. Anyway he was in a savage frame of mind when he stepped on the +fourth tee. He wanted to quarrel with some one, but it wouldn't have +been healthy to pick on old Bill, and Russell probably realised it. Bill +hadn't spoken to him since the first hole, and to be thus calmly ignored +was fresh fuel on a smouldering fire. + +There was another explosion on Number Four--such a loud one that +everybody heard it. + +"There you go again!" snarled Russell. "I give you a perfect drive--I +leave you in a position where all you have to do is pop a little mashie +over a bunker to the green--and see what a mess you've made of it! I'm +sorry I ever entered this fool tournament!" + +"I'm sorry too," said Mary quietly, and walked away from him leaving him +fuming. + +It must have been an uncomfortable situation for Beth and Bill. They +kept just as far away from the other pair as they could--an exhibition +of delicacy which I am sure Mary appreciated--and pretended not to hear +the nasty things Russell said, though there were times when Bill had to +hide his clenched fists in his coat pockets. He wanted to hit +something, and hit it hard, so he took it out on the ball, with +excellent results. And no matter what Beth did or did not do Bill never +had anything for her but a cheery grin and words of encouragement. They +got quite chummy, those two, and once or twice I thought I surprised +resentment in Mary's eye. I may have been mistaken. + +Russell grew more rabid as the round proceeded, possibly because Mary's +manner was changing. After the seventh hole, where Russell said it was a +waste of time to try to teach a woman anything about the use of a wooden +club, Mary made not the slightest attempt to placate him. She +deliberately ignored his advice, and did it smilingly. She became very +gay, and laughed a great deal--too much, in fact--and of course her +attitude did not help matters to any appreciable extent. A bully likes +to have a victim who cringes under the lash. + +The last nine was painful, even to a spectator, and if Russell Davidson +had been blessed with the intelligence which God gives a goose he would +have kept his mouth shut; but no, he seemed determined to force Mary to +take some notice of his remarks. The strangest thing about it was that +some fairly good golf was played by all hands. Even fuzzy-headed little +Beth pulled off some pretty shots, whereupon Bill cheered uproariously. +I think he found relief in making a noise. + +While they were on the seventeenth green I spied old Waddles against +the skyline, cutting off the entire sunset, and I climbed the hill to +tell him the news. You may believe it or not, but up to that moment I +had overlooked Waddles entirely. I had been stupid enough to think that +the show I had been witnessing was an impromptu affair--a thing of pure +chance, lacking a stage manager. Just as I reached the top of the hill, +enlightenment came to me--came in company with Mary's laugh, rippling up +from below. At a distance it sounded genuine. A shade of disappointment +crossed Waddles' wide and genial countenance. + +"So it didn't work," said he. "It didn't work--and I'm sixteen dollars +to the bad. Hey! Quit pounding me on the back! Anybody but a born ass +would have known the whole thing was cooked up for Mary's benefit--and +you've just tumbled, eh? Now then, what has he done?" + +Briefly, and in words of one syllable, I sketched Russell's activities. +Waddles wagged his head soberly. + +"Treated her just the same as if he was already married to her, eh? A +mixed foursome is no-o-o place for a mean man; give him rope enough and +he'll hang himself. How do they stand?" + +I had not been keeping the score, so we walked down the hill to the +eighteenth tee. + +"Pretty soft for you folks," said Waddles with a disarming grin. +"Pretty soft. You've only got to beat a net 98." + +"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell snatched a score card from +his pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left his +face; his eyes sparkled; he smiled. + +"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that--84. Why--it's a +cinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!" + +"And you?" asked Waddles, turning to Bill. + +"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's their +handicap?" + +"Sixteen," answered Waddles. + +"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to be +interesting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here. +Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Go +straight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three." + +Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles--Waddles, with his +lip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cup +hunters and winter members who try to hog the course. + +Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summit +of the hill. + +"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we've +got 'em licked!" + +Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots--two hundred +pounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind the +pill--and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, and +at every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ball +straight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as he +offered it. I never saw a man change so in a short space of time. + +"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tiny +bit better----" + +"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between +friends?" + +"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling +silver, you poor cow!" + +Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our +last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is +paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom +of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and +heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is +almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair +green there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball may +easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution. + +"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we +need is a six." + +"Boy," said Mary, addressing the caddie, "my brassy, please." + +"Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me. +We've got this thing won now----" + +"Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but most +men do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back, +stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings--four of +them. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing career +depended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club head +descended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followed +through beautifully--but at the click of contact a strangled howl of +anguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the rounded +toe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result was +a flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green--a +wretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. By +running at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as it +bounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled--the first +real smile of the afternoon. + +"Isn't that provoking?" said she. + +Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must have +been all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows and +half buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothing +short of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill. +Even Waddles applauded the shot. + +Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked the +burs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers. + +"Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means a +possible five--a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake, +Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to lay +the ball dead!" + +Waddles sniffed. + +"He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was Mary +Brooke----Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot at +it with that brassy!" + +But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, he +entreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath. + +"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice this +one. You watch me." She kept her promise--kept it with a savage hook, +which sailed clear across the course and into the thick grass. The ball +carried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, and +disappeared without even a bounce. + +"That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a foot +deep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away." + +Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar, +lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the putting +green, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough and +relieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit, +however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore through +that tangle of thick grass, cut under the ball and sent it spinning high +in the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green. + +We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our reward +was a black scowl, which we shared with Mary. + +"Lay it up!" said he curtly. "A seven may tie 'em. Lay it up!" + +By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of the +match. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studied +the shot. It was an absurdly simple one--a 30-foot approach over a level +green, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then if +Beth missed her ten-footer---- + +"It's fast," warned Russell. "It's fast, so don't hit it too hard!" + +Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly a +gasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watching +Russell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicate +shade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skate +merrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterward +expressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before it +stopped. + +Mary ignored the polite murmur of sympathy from the gallery. + +"Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'm +afraid you're away." + +Waddles pinched my arm. + +"Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? She +threw him down--threw him down cold!" + +Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a noble effort to hole the +putt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ball +within three inches of the cup. + +"Put it down!" grunted Russell. "Sink it--and let's get it done with!" + +Bill tapped the ball into the hole, and the match was over. + +"Why--why," stuttered Beth, "then--we've _won_!" + +At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one more +exchange of remarks between the losers as they started for the +clubhouse. + +"We had it won--if you'd only listened to me----" Russell began. + +"Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you all +the afternoon--listening and learning!" + + * * * * * + +That very same evening I was sitting on my front porch studying the +stars and meditating upon the mutability of human relationships. + +A familiar runabout drew up at the Brooke house, and a young man passed +up the walk, moving with a stiff and stately stride. In exactly twelve +minutes and thirty-two seconds by my watch the young man came out again, +bounced down the steps, jumped into his car, slammed the door with a +bang like a pistol shot, and departed from the neighbourhood with a +grinding and a clashing of gears which might have been heard for half a +mile. + +The red tail light had scarcely disappeared down the street when big +Bill Hawley lumbered across the Brooke lawn, took the front steps at a +bound and rang the doorbell. + +Not being of an inquisitive and a prying nature, I cannot be certain how +long he remained, but at 11:37 I thought I heard a door close, and +immediately afterward some one passed under my window whistling loudly +and unmelodiously. The selection of the unknown serenader was that +pretty little thing which describes the end of a perfect day. + + + + +"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR" + + +I + +The front porch of our clubhouse is a sort of reserved-seat section from +which we witness the finish of all important matches. The big wicker +rocking-chairs command the eighteenth putting green, as well as the +approach to it, and when nothing better offers we watch the dub +foursomes come straggling home, herding the little white pills in front +of them. + +We were doing this only yesterday--Waddles, the Bish and yours +truly--and Waddles was picking the winners and losers at a distance of +three hundred yards. The old rascal is positively uncanny at that sort +of thing; in fact, he rather prides himself on his powers of +observation. The Bish was arguing with him, as usual. Of course he isn't +really a bishop, but he has a long, solemn ecclesiastical upper lip and +a heavy manner of trundling out the most commonplace remarks, so we call +him the Bish, and there is nothing he can do about it. In justice to all +parties concerned I feel it my duty to state that in every other way he +is quite unlike any bishop I have ever met. + +"Hello!" said Waddles, sitting up straight. "Here's the Old +Guard--what's left of it, at least." + +Away down to the right of the sycamore trees a single figure topped the +brow of the hill and stalked along the sky line. There was no mistaking +the long, thin legs or the stiff swing with which they moved. + +"Walks like a pair of spavined sugar tongs," was Waddles' comment. "You +can tell Pete Miller as far as you can see him." + +A second figure shot suddenly into view--the figure of a small, nervous +man who brandished a golf club and danced from sheer excess of emotion, +but even at three hundred yards it was evident that there was no joy in +that dance. Waddles chuckled. + +"Bet you anything you like," said he, "that Sam Totten sliced his tee +shot into the apricot orchard. He's played about four by now--and +they're cutthroating it on the drink hole, same as they always do.... +About time for Jumbo to be putting in an appearance." + +While he was speaking a tremendous form loomed large on the sky line, +dwarfing Miller and Totten. Once on level ground this giant struck a +rolling gait and rapidly overhauled his companions--overhauled them in +spite of two hundred and sixty pounds and an immense paunch which +swayed from side to side as he walked. + +"Little Jumbo," said Waddles, sinking back in his chair. "Little Jumbo, +with his bag of clubs tucked under his left arm--one driver and all of +three irons. He carries that awful load because his doctor tells him he +ought to reduce. And he eats four pieces of apple pie a la mode with his +lunch. But a fine old fellow at that.... Well, I notice it's still a +threesome." + +"Notice again," said the Bish, pointing to the left of the sycamores. + +Waddles looked, and rose from his chair with a grunt of amazement. A +fourth figure came dragging itself up the slope of the hill--the +particular portion of the slope of the hill where the deepest trouble is +visited upon a sliced second shot. Judging by his appearance and manner +this fourth golfer had been neck-deep in grief, to say nothing of cactus +and manzanita. His head was hanging low on his breast, his shoulders +were sagging, his feet were shuffling along the ground, and he trailed a +golf club behind him. When a man trails a club to the eighteenth putting +green it is a sure sign that all is over but the shouting; and the wise +observer will do his shouting in a whisper. Waddles sat down suddenly. + +"Well, as I live and breathe and run the Yavapai Golf and Country Club!" +he ejaculated, "there's my old friend, Mr. Peacock, with all his tail +feathers pulled out! The deserter has joined the colours again, and the +Old Guard is recruited to full war strength once more! They've actually +taken him back, after the way he's acted, too! Now what do you think of +that, eh?" + +"If you ask me," said the Bish in his booming chest notes, "I'd say it +was just a case of _similia similibus curantur_." + +"Nothing of the sort!" said Waddles, bristling instantly; "and besides, +I don't know what you mean. Bish, when you cut loose that belly barytone +of yours you always remind me of an empty barrel rolling down the cellar +stairs--a lot of noise, but you never spill anything worth mopping up. +Come again with that foreign stuff." + +"_Similia similibus curantur_," repeated the Bish. "That's Latin." + +Waddles shook his head. + +"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. While +you were hog-wrastling Caesar's Commentaries I was down in the Indian +Territory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. I +learned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as I +got. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plain +unvarnished United States." + +"Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction, +"that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite." + +"The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "The +hair--of--the--dog.... H'm-m." + +"Oh, it's deep stuff," said the Bish. "Take a good long breath and dive +for it." + +"The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," said +Waddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn't +drink." + +The Bish made use of a very unorthodox expletive. + +"Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something cured +him. Think it over." + +Slowly the light of intelligence dawned in Waddles' eyes. He began to +laugh inwardly, quivering like a mould of jelly, but the joke was too +big to remain inside him. It burst forth, first in chuckles, then in +subdued guffaws, and finally in whoops and yells, and as he whooped he +slapped his fat knees and wallowed in his chair. + +"Why," he panted, "I saw it all the time--of course I did! It was just +your fool way of putting it! The hair of the dog--oh, say, that's rich! +Make a note of that Latin thing, Bish. I want to spring it on the +Reverend Father Murphy!" + +"Certainly--but where are you off to in such a hurry?" + +"Me?" said Waddles. "I'm going to do something I've never done before. +I'm going to raise a man's handicap from twelve to eighteen!" + +He went away, still laughing, and I looked over toward the eighteenth +green. Pete Miller was preparing to putt, Sam Totten and Jumbo were +standing side by side, and in the background was Henry Peacock, his +hands in his pockets, his cap tilted down over his eyes and his lower +lip entirely out of control. His caddie was already on the way to the +shed with the bag of clubs. + +"From twelve handicap to eighteen," said I. "That's more or less of an +insult. Think he'll stand for it?" + +"He'll stand for anything right now," said the Bish. "Look at him! He's +picked up his ball--on the drink hole too. Give him the once +over--'mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream!'" + + +II + +As far back as my earliest acquaintance with the royal and ancient game, +the Old Guard was an institution of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club--a +foursome cemented by years and usage, an association recognised as +permanent, a club within the club--four eighteen-handicap men, bound by +the ties of habit and hopeless mediocrity. The young golfer improves his +game and changes his company, graduating from Class B into Class A; the +middle-aged golfer is past improvement, so he learns his limitations, +hunts his level and stays there. Peter Miller, Frank Woodson, Henry +Peacock and Sam Totten were fixtures in the Grand Amalgamated Order of +Dubs, and year in and year out their cards would have averaged something +like ninety-seven. They were oftener over the century mark than below +it. + +Every golf club has a few permanent foursomes, but most of them are held +together by common interests outside the course. For instance, we have a +bankers' foursome, an insurance foursome and a wholesale-grocery +foursome, and the players talk shop between holes. We even have a +foursome founded on the ownership of an automobile, a jitney alliance, +as Sam Totten calls it; but the Old Guard cannot be explained on any +such basis, nor was it a case of like seeking like. + +Peter Miller, senior member, is grey and silent and as stiff as his own +putter shaft. He is the sort of man who always lets the other fellow do +all the talking and all the laughing, while he sits back with the air of +one making mental notes and reservations. Peter is a corporation lawyer +who seldom appears in court, but he loads the gun for the young and +eloquent pleader and tells him what to aim at and when to pull the +trigger. A solid citizen, Peter, and a useful one. + +Frank Woodson, alias Jumbo, big and genial and hearty, has played as +Miller's partner for years and years, and possesses every human quality +that Peter lacks. They say of Frank--and I believe it--that in all his +life he never hurt a friend or lost one. Frank is in the stock-raising +business at present, and carries a side line of blue-blooded dogs. He +once made me a present of one, but I am still his friend. + +A year ago I would have set against Henry Peacock's name the words +"colourless" and "neutral." A year ago I thought I knew all about him; +now I am quite certain that there is something in Henry Peacock's nature +that will always baffle me. Waddles swears that Peacock was born with +his fingers crossed and one hand on his pocketbook, but that is just his +extravagant way of putting things. Henry has shown me that it is +possible to maintain a soft, yielding exterior, and yet be hard as +adamant inside. He has also demonstrated that a meek man's pride is a +thing not lightly dismissed. I have revised all my estimates of H. +Peacock, retired capitalist. + +Last of all we have Samuel Totten, youngest of the Old Guard by at least +a dozen years. How he ever laughed his way into that close corporation +is a mystery, but somewhere in his twenties he managed it. Sam is a +human firebrand, a dash of tabasco, a rough comedian and +catch-as-catch-can joker. Years have not tamed him, but they have +brought him into prominence as a consulting specialist in real estate +and investments. Those who should know tell that Sam Totten can park his +itching feet under an office desk and keep them there long enough to +swing a big deal, but I prefer to think of him as the rather florid +young man who insists on joining the hired orchestra and playing +snare-drum solos during the country-club dances, much to the +discomfiture of the gentleman who owns the drum. You will never realise +how poor Poor Butterfly is until you hear Sam Totten execute that melody +upon his favourite instrument. + +These four men met twice a week, rain or shine, without the formality of +telephoning in advance. Each one knew that, barring flood, fire or act +of God, the others would be on hand, fed, clothed and ready to leave the +first tee at one-fifteen P. M. If one of the quartette happened to be +sick or out of town the others would pick up a fourth man and take him +round the course with them, but that fourth man recognised the fact that +he was not of the Old Guard, but merely with it temporarily. He was +never encouraged to believe that he had found a home. + +Imagine then, this permanent foursome, this coalition of fifteen years' +standing, this sacred institution, smitten and smashed by a bolt from +the blue. And like most bolts from the blue it picked out the most +unlikely target. Henry Peacock won the Brutus B. Hemmingway Cup! + +Now as golf cups go the Hemmingway Cup is quite an affair--eighteen +inches from pedestal to brim, solid silver of course, engraved and +scrolled and chased within an inch of its life. Mr. Hemmingway puts up a +new cup each year, the conditions of play being that the trophy shall +go to the man making the best net score. A Class-B man usually wins it +with a handicap of eighteen or twenty-four and the Class-A men +slightingly refer to Mr. Hemmingway's trophy as "the dub cup." Sour +grapes, of course. + +I remember Mr. Peacock's victory very well; in fact, I shall never +forget it. On that particular afternoon my net score was seventy-one, +five strokes under our par, and for half an hour or so I thought the +Hemmingway Cup was going home with me. I recall trying to decide whether +it would show to best advantage on the mantel in the living room or on +the sideboard in the dining room. Numbers of disappointed contestants +offered me their congratulations--they said it was about time I won +something, even with the assistance of a fat handicap--and for half an +hour I endeavoured to bear my honours with becoming modesty. Waddles +brought the Hemmingway Cup over and put it in the middle of the table. + +"'S all yours, I guess," said he. "Nobody out now but the Old Guard. Not +one of them could make an 88 with a lead pencil, and that's what they've +got to do to beat you. Might as well begin to buy." + +I began to buy, and while I was signing the first batch of tags the Old +Guard came marching in from the eighteenth green. Sam Totten was in the +lead, walking backward and twirling his putter as a drum major twirls a +baton. Frank Woodson and Peter Miller were acting as an escort of +honour for Henry Peacock, and I began to have misgivings. I also ceased +signing tags. + +The door of the lounging room crashed open and Sam Totten entered, +dragging Henry Peacock behind him. Miller and Woodson brought up the +rear. + +"Hey, Waddles!" shouted Sam. "What do you think of this old stiff? He +shot an eighty-two; he did, on the level!" + +"An eighty-two?" said I. "Then his net was----" + +"Sixty-four," murmured Mr. Peacock with an apologetic smile. +"Yes--ah--sixty-four." + +"The suffering Moses!" gulped Waddles. "How did he do it?" + +"He played golf," said Peter Miller. "Kept his tee shots straight, and +holed some long putts." + +"Best round he ever shot in his life!" Woodson chimed in. "Won three +balls from me, but it's a pleasure to pay 'em, Henry, on account of your +winning the cup! Who'd have thought it?" + +"And we're proud of him!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm proud of him! He's my +partner! An eighty-two--think of an old stiff like him shooting an +eighty-two! One foot in the grave, and he wins a cup sixteen hands high +and big as a horse! Cheers, gentlemen, cheers for the Old Guard! It +dies, but it never surrenders!" + +"Here," said I, thrusting the rest of the tags into Henry's limp and +unresisting hand. "You sign these." + +"But," said he, "I--I didn't order anything, and I won the drink hole." + +"You won the cup too, didn't you?" demanded Waddles. "Winner always +buys--buys for everybody. Boy, bring the rest of those tags back here +and let Mr. Peacock sign them too. Winner always buys, Henry. That's a +club rule." + +Mr. Peacock sat down at the table, put on his glasses and audited those +tags to the last nickel. After he had signed them all he picked up the +Hemmingway Cup and examined it from top to bottom. + +"Can you beat that?" whispered Waddles in my ear. "The old piker is +trying to figure, with silver as low as it is, whether he's ahead or +behind on the deal!" + +"Well, boys," said Sam Totten, standing on his chair and waving his +arms, "here's to the Old Guard! We won a cup at last! Old Henry won it; +but it's all in the family, ain't it, Henry? Betcher life it is! The Old +Guard--drink her up, and drink her down!" + +Frank Woodson dropped his big ham of a hand on Henry Peacock's shoulder. + +"I couldn't have been half so tickled if I'd won it myself!" said he. +"You see, you never won a cup before. I won one once--runner-up in the +fifth flight over at San Gabriel. Nice cup, silver and all that, but +you've got to have a magnifying glass to _see_ it. Now this Hemmingway +Cup, Henry, is a regular old he cup. You can't put it where your +visitors won't find it. You can be proud of it, old son, and we're proud +of you." + +"Same here," said Peter Miller, and his face twisted into something +remotely resembling a smile. "Did my heart good to see the old boy +laying those tee shots out in the middle every time. We're all proud of +you, Henry." + +"Proud!" exclaimed Sam Totten. "I'm so proud I'm all out of shape!" + +Peacock didn't have much to say. He sat there smiling his tight little +smile and looking at the silver cup. I believe that even then the idea +of desertion had entered into his little two-by-four soul. There was a +thoughtful look in his eyes, and he didn't respond to Totten's hilarity +with any great degree of enthusiasm. + +"What was it the admiral said at Santiago?" asked Sam. "'There's glory +enough for us all!' Wasn't that it?" + +"Mph!" grunted Waddles. "Since you're getting into famous remarks of +history, what was it the governor of North Carolina----" + +"I think I'll take my bath now," interrupted Henry Peacock, rising. + +"You will not!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm going to buy. Jumbo here is going +to buy. Pete is going to buy. Where do you get that bath stuff? We don't +win a cup every day, Henry. Sit down!" + +An hour later Waddles emerged from the shower room, looking very much +like an overgrown cupid in his abbreviated underwear. Henry Peacock had +been waiting for him. The Hemmingway Cup, in its green felt bag, dangled +from his wrist. My locker is directly across the alley from Waddles', +and I overheard the entire conversation. + +"I--I just wanted to say," began Henry, "that any cut you might want to +make in my handicap will be all right with me." + +Waddles growled. He has never yet found it necessary to consult a victim +before operating on his handicap. There was a silence and then Henry +tried again. + +"I really think my handicap ought to be cut," said he. + +"Oh, it'll be _cut_ all right!" said Waddles cheerfully. "Don't you +worry about that. Any old stiff who brings in a net of sixty-four has a +cut coming to him. Leave it to me!" + +"Well," said Henry, "I just wanted you to know how I felt about it. I--I +want to be quite frank with you. Of course, I probably won't shoot an +eighty-two every time out"--here Waddles gasped and plumped down on the +bench outside his locker--"but when a man brings in a net score that is +twelve strokes under the par of the course I think some notice should be +taken of it." + +"Oh, you do, do you? Listen, Henry! Since we're going to be frank with +each other, what do you think your new handicap ought to be?" Waddles +was stringing him of course, but Henry didn't realise it. + +"I think ten would be about right," said he calmly. + +"Ten!" barked Waddles. "The suffering Moses! Ten! Henry, are you sure +you're quite well--not overexcited or anything?" + +"All I had was four lemonades." + +"Ah!" said Waddles. "Four lemonades--and Sam Totten winked at the bar +boy every time. Why, if I cut you from eighteen to ten that'll put you +in Class A!" + +"I think that's where I belong." + +"I'll have to talk with the head bar boy," said Waddles. "He shouldn't +be so reckless with that gin. It costs money these days. Listen to me, +Henry. Take hold of your head with both hands and try to get what I say. +You went out to-day and shot your fool head off. You played the best +round of golf in your long and sinful career. You made an eighty-two. +You'll never make an eighty-two again as long as you live. It would be a +crime to handicap you on to-day's game, Henry. It would be manslaughter +to put you in Class A. You don't belong there. If you want me to cut you +I'll put you down to sixteen, and even then you won't play to that mark +unless you're lucky." + +"I think I belong at ten," said Peacock. I began to appreciate that +line about the terrible insistence of the meek. + +"Get out of here!" ordered Waddles, suddenly losing his patience. "Go +home and pray for humility, Henry. Lay off the lemonade when Sam Totten +is in the crowd. Lemonade is bad for you. It curdles the intelligence +and warps the reasoning faculties. Shoo! Scat! Mush on! Vamose! Beat it! +Hurry up! _Wiki-wiki!_ Chop-chop! _Schnell!_" + +"Then you won't cut me to ten?" + +"I--will--not!" + +Henry sighed and started for the door. He turned with his hand on the +knob. + +"I still think I belong there," was his parting shot. + +"Might as well settle this thing right now," said Waddles to himself. +Then he lifted up his voice in a howl that made the electric lights +quiver. "Send Tom in here!" + +The head bar boy appeared, grinning from ear to ear. + +"Tom," said Waddles, "don't you know you oughtn't to slip a shot of gin +into an old man's lemonade?" + +"Ain't nobody gits gin in his lemonade, suh, 'less he awdeh it +thataway." + +"What did Mr. Peacock have?" + +"Plain lemonade, suh." + +"No kick in it at all?" + +"Not even a wiggle, suh." + +"That'll do," said Waddles; and Tom went back to his work. There was a +long silence. By his laboured breathing I judged that Waddles was lacing +his shoes. Once more he thought aloud. + +"Tom wouldn't lie to me, so it wasn't gin. Now, I wonder.... I wonder if +that old coot has got what they call 'delusions of grandeur'?" + + +III + +On the Monday following the contest for the Hemmingway Cup I met the +Bish at the country club. We arrived there between nine and ten in the +morning, and the first man we saw was Mr. Henry Peacock. He was out on +the eighteenth fairway practising approach shots, and the putting green +was speckled with balls. + +"Hello!" said the Bish. "Look who's here! Practising too. You don't +suppose that old chump is going to try to make a golfer of himself, this +late along?" + +I said that it appeared that way. + +"One-club practise is all right for a beginner," said the Bish, "because +he hasn't any bad habits to overcome, but this poor nut didn't take up +the game till he was forty, and when he learned it he learned it all +wrong. He can practise till he's black in the face and it won't do him +any good. Don't you think we'd better page Doc Osler and have him put +out of his misery?" + +It was then that I told the Bish about Henry's desire to break into +Class A, and he whistled. + +"It got him quick, didn't it?" said he. "Well, there's no fool like an +old fool." + +Half an hour later this was made quite plain to us. Henry came into the +clubhouse to get a drink of water. Now I did not know him very well, and +the Bish had only a nodding acquaintance with him, but he greeted us as +long-lost brothers. I did not understand his cordiality at first, but +the reason for it was soon apparent. Henry wanted to know whether we had +a match up for the afternoon. + +"Sorry," lied the Bish; "we're already hooked up with a foursome." + +Henry said he was sorry too; and moreover he looked it. + +"I was thinking I might get in with you," said he. "What I need is +the--er--opportunity to study better players--er--get some real +competition. Somebody that will make me do my best all the time. Don't +you think that will help my game?" + +"Doubtless," said the Bish in his deepest tone; "but at the same time +you shouldn't get too far out of your class. There is a difference +between being spurred on by competition and being discouraged by it." + +"I shot an eighty-two last Saturday," said Henry quickly. + +"So I hear. So I hear. And how many brassy shots did you hole out?" + +"Not one. It--it wasn't luck. It was good steady play." + +"He admits it," murmured the Bish, but Henry didn't even hear him. + +"Good steady play," he repeated. "What a man does once he can do again. +Eighty-two. Six strokes above the par of the course. My net was twelve +strokes below it--due, of course, to a ridiculously high handicap: I--I +intend to have that altered. Eighty-two is Class-A golf." + +"Or an accident," said the Bish rather coldly. + +"Steady golf is never an accident," argued Henry. "I have thought it all +out and come to the conclusion that what I need now is keener +competition--er--better men to play with; and"--this with a trace of +stubbornness in his tone--"I mean to find them." + +The Bish kicked my foot under the table. + +"That's all very well," said he, "but--how about the Old Guard?" + +The wretched renegade squirmed in his chair. + +"That," said he, "will adjust itself later." + +"You mean that you'll break away?" + +"I didn't say so, did I?" + +"No, but you've been talking about keener competition." + +Henry was not pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. He rose +to go. + +"Woodson and Totten and Miller are fine fellows," said he. "Personally I +hold them in the highest esteem, but you must admit that they are poor +golfers. Not one of them ever shot an eighty-five. I--I have my own +game to consider.... You're quite sure you won't have a vacancy this +afternoon?" + +"Oh, quite," said the Bish, and Henry toddled back to his practise. It +was well that he left us, for the Bish was on the point of an explosion. + +"Well!" said he. "The conceited, ungrateful old scoundrel! Got his own +game to consider--did you hear that? Just one fair-to-middling score in +his whole worthless life, and now he's too swelled up to associate with +the fellows who have played with him all these years, stood for his +little meannesses, covered up his faults and overlooked his +shortcomings! Keener competition, eh? Pah! Would you play with him?" + +"Not on a bet!" said I. + +On the following Wednesday the Old Guard counted noses and found itself +short the star member. Lacking the courage or the decency to inform his +friends of his change of programme, Peacock took the line of least +resistance and elected to escape them by a late arrival. Sam Totten made +several flying trips into the locker room in search of his partner, but +he gave up at last, and at one-thirty the Old Guard drove off, a +threesome. + +At one-thirty-two Henry sneaked into the clubhouse and announced that he +was without a match. The news did not create any great furore. All the +Class-A foursomes were made up, and, to make matters worse, the Bish +had been doing a little quiet but effective missionary work. Henry's +advances brought him smack up against a stone wall of polite but +definite refusal. The cup winner was left out in the cold. + +He finally picked up Uncle George Sawyer, it being a matter of Uncle +George or nobody. Uncle George is a twenty-four-handicap man, but only +when he is at the very top of his game, and he is deaf as a post, left +handed and a confirmed slicer. In addition to these misfortunes Uncle +George is blessed with the disposition of a dyspeptic wildcat, and I +imagine that Mr. Peacock did not have a pleasant afternoon. The Old +Guard pounced on him when he came into the lounging room at five +o'clock. + +"Hey! Why didn't you say that you'd be late?" demanded Sam Totten. "We'd +have waited for you." + +"Well, I'll tell you," said Henry--and he looked like a sheep-killing +dog surprised with the wool in his teeth--"I'll tell you. The fact of +the matter is I--I didn't know just how late I was going to be, and I +didn't think it would be fair to you----" + +"Apology's accepted," said Jumbo, "but don't let it happen again. And +you went and picked on poor old Sawyer too. You--a cup winner--picking +on a cripple like that! Henry, where do you expect to go when you die? +Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" + +"We've got it all fixed up to play at San Gabriel next Saturday," put in +Peter Miller. "You'll go, of course?" + +"I'll ring up and let you know," said Henry, and slipped away to the +shower room. + +I do not know what lies he told over the telephone or how he managed to +squirm out of the San Gabriel trip, but I do know that he turned up at +the country club at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning and spent two +hours panhandling everybody in sight for a match. The keen competition +fought very shy of Mr. Peacock, thanks to the Bish and his whispering +campaign. Everybody was scrupulously polite to him--some even expressed +regret--but nobody seemed to need a fourth man. + +"They're just as glad to see him as if he had smallpox," grinned the +Bish. "Well, I've got a heart that beats for my fellow man. I'd hate to +see Peacock left without any kind of a match. Old Sawyer is asleep on +the front porch. I'll go and tell him that Peacock is here looking for +him." + +It has been years since any one sought Uncle George's company, and the +old chap was delighted, but if Henry was pleased he managed to conceal +his happiness. I learned later that their twosome wound up in a jawing +match on the sixteenth green, in which Uncle George had all the better +of it because he couldn't hear any of the things that Henry called him. +They came to grief over a question of the rules; and Waddles, when +appealed to, decided that they were both wrong--and a couple of fussy +old hens, to boot. + +"Just what I told him!" mumbled Uncle George, who hadn't heard a word +that Waddles said. "The ball nearest the hole----" + +"No such thing!" interrupted Henry, and they went away still squabbling. +Waddles shook his head. + +"He's a fine twelve-handicap man!" said he with scorn. "Doesn't even +know the rules of the game!" + +"Twelve!" said I. "You don't mean----" + +"Yes, I cut him to twelve. Ever since he won that cup he's been hounding +me--by letter, by telephone and by word of mouth. He's like Tom Sawyer's +cat and the pain killer. He kept asking for it, and now he's got it. He +thinks a low handicap will make him play better--stubborn old fool!" + +"And that's not all," said the Bish. "He's left the Old Guard, flat." + +"No!" + +"He has, I tell you." + +"I don't believe it," said Waddles. "He may be all kinds of a chump, but +he wouldn't do that." + +The Old Guard didn't believe it either. It must have been all of three +weeks before Totten and Woodson and Miller realised that Peacock was a +deserter, that he was deliberately avoiding them. At first they accepted +his lame excuses at face value, and when doubt began to creep in they +said the thing couldn't be possible. One day they waited for him and +brought matters to a showdown. Henry wriggled and twisted and squirmed, +and finally blurted out that he had made other arrangements. That +settled it, of course; and then instead of being angry or disgusted with +Henry they seemed to pity him, and from the beginning to the end I am +quite certain that not one of them ever took the renegade to task for +his conduct. Worse than everything else they actually missed him. It was +Frank Woodson, acting as spokesman for the others, who explained the +situation to me. + +"Oh, about Henry? Well, it's this way: We've all got our little +peculiarities--Lord knows I've a few of my own. I never would have +thought this could happen, but it just goes to show how a man gets a +notion crossways in his head and jams up the machinery. Henry is all +right at heart. His head is a little out of line at present, but his +heart is O. K. You see, he won that cup and it gave him a wrong idea. He +really thinks that under certain conditions he can play back to that +eighty-two. I know he can't. We all know he can't; but let him go ahead +and try it. He'll get over this little spell and be a good dog again." + +The Bish, who was present, suggested that the Old Guard should elect a +new member and forget the deserter. + +"No-o," said Frank thoughtfully; "that wouldn't be right. We've talked +it over, the three of us, and we'll keep his place open for him. +Confound it, man! You don't realise that we've been playing together for +more than fifteen years! We understand each other, and we used to have +more fun than anybody, just dubbing round the course. The game doesn't +seem quite the same, with Henry out of it; and I don't think he's having +a very good time, hanging on the fringe of Class A and trying to butt in +where he isn't wanted. No; he'll come back pretty soon, and everything +will be just the same again. We've all got our little peculiarities, +Bish. You've got some. I've got some. The best thing is to be charitable +and overlook as much as you can, hoping that folks will treat you the +same way." + +"And that," said Bish after Jumbo had gone away, "proves the statement +that a friend is 'a fellow who knows all about you and still stands for +you.' How long do you suppose they'll have to wait before that old +imbecile regains his senses?" + +They waited for at least five months, during which time H. Peacock, +Esquire, enrolled himself as the prize pest of the golfing world. The +Class-B men, resenting his treatment of the Old Guard, were determined +not to let him break into one of their foursomes, and the Class-A men +wouldn't have him at any price. The game of pussy-wants-a-corner is all +right for children, but Henry, playing it alone, did not seem to find +it entertaining. He picked up a stranger now and then, but it wasn't the +season for visitors, and even Uncle George Sawyer shied when he saw +Henry coming. The stubbornness which led him to insist that his handicap +be cut would not permit him to hoist the white flag and return to the +fold, and altogether he had a wretched time of it--almost as bad a time +as he deserved. Left to himself he became every known variety of a +golfing nut. He saved his score cards, entering them on some sort of a +comparative chart which he kept in his locker--one of those +see-it-at-a-glance things. He took lessons of the poor professional; he +bought new clubs and discovered that they were not as good as his old +ones; he experimented with every ball on the market; and his game was +neither better nor worse than it was before the Hemmingway Cup poured +its poison into the shrivelled receptacle which passed for Henry +Peacock's soul. + + +IV + +One week ago last Saturday, Sam Totten staged his annual show. Totten +Day is ringed with red on all calendars belonging to Class-B golfers. It +is the day when men win cups who never won cups before. All Class-A men +are barred; it is strictly a Class-B party. Those with handicaps from +twelve to twenty-four are eligible, and there are cups for all sorts of +things--the best gross, the best first nine, the best second nine, the +best score with one hole out, the best score with two holes out, and so +on. Sam always buys the big cup himself--the one for the best gross +score--and he sandbags his friends into contributing at least a dozen +smaller trophies. The big cup is placed on exhibition before play +begins, but the others, as well as the conditions of award, remain under +cover, thus introducing the element of the unexpected. The conditions +are made known as the cups are awarded and the ceremony of presentation +is worth going a long way to see and a longer way to hear. + +On Totten Day three of us were looking for a fourth man, and we +encountered Henry Peacock, in his chronic state of loneliness. The Bish +is sometimes a very secretive person, but he might have spared my +feelings by giving me a hint of his intentions. Henry advanced on us, +expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, but convinced that there was no +harm in the asking. He used the threadbare formula: + +"Any vacancy this afternoon, gentlemen?" + +"Why, yes!" said the Bish. "Yes, we're one man short. Want to go round +with us?" + +Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell all +over himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time would +suit him--just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he would +be at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of the +players, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was a +twelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not. +Yes, anything would suit him--and he scuttled away toward the +dining-room. + +I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listened +without so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip. + +"All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. I +took him in with us because this is Totten Day." + +"What's that got to do with it?" + +"Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. If +he tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. I +want to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts and +has his card turned in." + +"But you don't want that old stiff to win a cup, do you?" + +"I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it. +That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is a +frightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kicking +about? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, and +you can have Dale." + +When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple of +subdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken into +Class-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten, +Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Sam +was acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodson +who came forward and patted Henry on the back. + +"Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get another +eighty-two!" + +"I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"--here he +addressed Henry--"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we go +along. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can." + +"I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I need +pointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated." + +"That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back and +almost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount to +anything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!" + +Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one of +his justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made room +for Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interest +shown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henry +change his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ball +entirely, topping it into the bunker. + +"Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, taking +Henry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot." + +Arriving at the bunker Henry armed himself with his niblick. + +"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can't +you play your jigger at all?" + +"My jigger!" exclaimed Henry. "But--it's a niblick shot, isn't it?" + +"That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a good +lie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it up +clean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball." + +Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get away +with it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dub +like Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting under +instructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit the +sand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely. + +"Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-class +excavating. Scoop her out with the niblick." + +Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassy +wall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged. + +"Now your wood," said he. + +"But I play a cleek better." + +"Nonsense! Take a good hard poke at it with the brassy!" + +And poke it he did--a nasty slice into rough grass. + +"I could have kept it straight with an iron," said Henry reproachfully. + +"Well, of course," said the Bish, "if you don't want me to advise +you----" + +"But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine +how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!" + +"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels. +By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that +first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he +could do better than that. + +"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you, +Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn +there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny." + +"Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now." + +"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get +something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen +competition--and advice." + +Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and the +advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone +with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself, +nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots. +If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If +he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in +nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all +putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the +extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum. + +"He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?" + +I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing out +of that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the first +time since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of the +scores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head--and when +you find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's score +would have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and double +figures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottom +of the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots he +amassed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleated +plaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised him +to put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on his +shots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone, +but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrate +on anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the last +hole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades. + +"You'll be all right, Peacock, if you just remember what I've told you. +The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendency +to underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of getting +too much distance." + +"I--I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all you +gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you again +soon--er--quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything you +can tell me----" + +Henry continued to babble and the Bish drew me aside. + +"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talk +to him about his game--anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep him +there!" + +Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard him +demanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail. + + * * * * * + +The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usual +ceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms, +escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selecting +an obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but when +the jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke of +needing a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my good +fairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup. +Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famous +victory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice of +clubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh hole +when Totten made his last speech. + +"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashie +and not quite far enough for the----" + +There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over the +sea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a large +green felt bag under his arm. + +"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen--if you are gentlemen!--I crave your +indulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an added +trophy--a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!" + +He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by cries +of "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprised +expression on his face told me that this part of the programme was not +of his making. + +"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awarded +for a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me that +this is manifestly one-sided and unfair." + +"Hear! Hear!" cried a voice. + +"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cup +which I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever made +by a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America." + +Henry Peacock jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laid +my hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door. + +"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar had +subsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a double +distinction. He is the holder of two records--one for the lowest net +score on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peacock shot +the course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes.... +Bring the gentleman forward, please!" + +There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of the +confusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surrounded +him, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to the +table, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him and +surged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over and +placed the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lip +was trembling with rage. + +"Open it up! Come on, let's see it!" + +Mr. Peacock cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged his +hand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but it +was a cup, sure enough--a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feeble +imitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents. +And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was the +record of Mr. Peacock's activities for the afternoon, in gross and +detail, as follows: + + HOLES PAR PEACOCK + + 1 4 11 + 2 4 9 + 3 4 8 + 4 5 8 + 5 3 7 + 6 6 15 + 7 5 9 + 8 4 8 + 9 4 12 + 10 5 12 + 11 3 7 + 12 4 8 + 13 4 9 + 14 3 7 + 15 4 8 + 16 4 9 + 17 5 11 + 18 5 9 + -- --- + Total 76 167 + +As Henry gazed at this work of art a shout came from the back of the +room. Waddles had come to life. + +"Winner buys, Henry! Winner always buys! It's a rule of the club!" + +"The club be damned!" cried Henry Peacock as he fought his way to the +door. + +"Bish," said Frank Woodson, "that was a rotten trick to play on anybody. +You shouldn't have done it." + +"A rotten case," replied the Bish, "requires a rotten remedy. It's kill +or cure; even money and take your pick." + + * * * * * + +As it turned out it was a cure. + +Henry Peacock is once more a member of the Old Guard, in good standing +and entitled to all privileges. Totten, Woodson and Miller received him +with open arms, and they actually treat the old reprobate as if nothing +had happened. I believe it will be a long time before he reminds them +that he once shot an eighty-two, and a longer time before he breaks a +ninety. + + + + +A CURE FOR LUMBAGO + + +I + +Colonel Jimmy threatens to resign from the club. He says it was sharp +practice. Archie MacBride says it wasn't half as sharp as the lumbago +trick which the Colonel worked on him as well as several of the other +young members. Colonel Jimmy Norman is one of the charter members of our +golf club. He is about as old as Methuselah and he looks it. That is +what fools people. It doesn't fool the handicap committee, though. +They've got the Colonel down to 8 now and he hasn't entered a club +competition since for fear they'll cut him to 6. Respect for age is a +fine thing, I admit, but anybody who can step out and tear off 79's and +80's on the Meadowmead course--72 par and a tough 72 at that--isn't +entitled to much the best of it because he can remember the Civil War +and cast his first vote for Tilden. + +Mind you, I don't say that Colonel Jimmy shoots 79's every day, but he +shoots 'em when he needs 79's to win, and that's the mark of a real +golfer. And bet? The old pirate will bet anything from a repainted golf +ball to a government bond. He has never been known to take his clubs out +of the locker without a gamble of some sort. The new members pay all the +expenses of Colonel Jimmy's golfing, as well as the upkeep of his +limousine--the old members are shy of him--and the way he can nurse a +victim along for months without letting him win a single bet is nothing +short of miraculous. I ought to know, for I am one of Colonel Jimmy's +graduates, and, while I never beat him in my life, he always left me +with the impression that I would surely rook him the next time--if I had +any luck. Somehow I never had the luck. + +Colonel Jimmy has the gentle art of coin separation down to an exact +science. Perhaps this is because he made his money in Wall Street and +applies Wall Street methods to his golf. After every match he waits +around until he collects. He always apologises for taking the money and +says that he hopes you'll be on your game the next time. + +The Colonel is a shrewd judge of how far he can go in shearing a lamb, +and when he sees signs that the victim is getting bare in spots and is +about ready to stop betting with him, he cleans up all the spare fleece +with the lumbago trick. I'll never forget how he worked it on me. I had +been betting him five and ten dollars a match and winning nothing but +sympathy and advice and I was about ready to quit the Colonel as a poor +investment. + +The next time I went out to the club I found Colonel Jimmy sitting on +the porch in the sun and I heard him groan even before I saw him. +Naturally I asked what was the matter. + +"Oh, it's this cursed lumbago again! I must have caught cold after my +shower the other night and--ouch!--just when I'd been looking forward to +a nice little game this afternoon, too! It's a real pleasure to play +with a young man like you who--ouch! O-o-o!" + +After a while he began to wonder whether light exercise would do him any +good. I thought it might and he let me persuade him. If I would give him +my arm as far as his locker--ouch! + +All the time he was dressing he grunted and groaned and rubbed his back +and cursed the lumbago bitterly. He said it was the one thing the devil +didn't try on Job because it would have fetched him if he had. He +worried some because he would have to drive with an iron, not being able +to take a full swing with a wooden club. Then when he had me all ribbed +up properly, he dropped a hint where I couldn't help but stumble over +it. + +"You have always named the bet," said Colonel Jimmy. "Don't take +advantage of my condition to raise it beyond reason." + +Up to that time the idea of making a bet with a cripple hadn't occurred +to me. It wouldn't have seemed fair. I got to thinking about the fives +and the tens that the old rascal had taken away from me when the +advantage was all on his side and-- + +"I suppose I shouldn't expect mercy," said Colonel Jimmy, fitting his +remarks to my thought like a mind reader. "I have been quite fortunate +in winning from you, William, when you were not playing your best. This +seems an excellent opportunity for you to take revenge. This cursed +lumbago----" + +The match was finally made at five dollars a hole, and if I hadn't been +ashamed of taking advantage of a cripple I would have said ten. + +Colonel Jimmy whined a little and said that in his condition it was +almost a shame for me to raise the bet to five dollars a hole and that +he couldn't possibly allow me any more than five strokes where before he +had been giving me eight and ten. He said he probably wouldn't get any +distance off the tees on account of not being able to take a full swing, +and I agreed on the basis of five strokes, one each on the five longest +holes. + +I went out to the professional's shop to buy some new balls. David +Cameron is a good club maker, but a disappointing conversationalist. He +says just so much, and then he stops and rubs his left ear. I told David +that I had caught Colonel Jimmy out of line at last and would bring him +home at least six or seven down. + +"Ay," said David. "He'll be havin' one of his attacks of the lumba-ago +again, I'm thinkin'. Ye've raised the bet?" + +I admitted that the bet had been pressed a little. "Ye're not gettin' as +many str-rokes as usual?" + +I explained about the Colonel's not being able to take a full swing with +his wooden clubs. + +"Ay," said David, beginning to polish his left ear. + +"I wish you'd tell me what you think," said I. + +"I'm thinkin'," said David, "that ye'll not have noticed that the +climate hereabouts is varra benefeecial to certain for-rms o' disease. +I've known it to cure the worst case o' lumba-ago between the clubhouse +an' the fir-rst tee. The day o' meeracles is not past by ony means," +concluded David, rubbing his ear hard. + +I suspected then that I had a bad bet. I was sure of it when I saw +Colonel Jimmy pulling his driver out of the bag on the first tee. + +"I thought you said you'd have to drive with an iron." I reminded him of +it anyway. + +"I might as well try the wood," said Colonel Jimmy. "I'll have to +shorten up my swing some and I suppose I'll top the ball." + +He groaned and he grunted when he took his practice swing, and said that +he was really afraid he'd have to call the bet off, but when he hit the +ball he followed through like a sixteen-year-old, and it went sailing +down the middle of the course, a good 200 yards--which is as far as +Colonel Jimmy ever drives. + +"Well, I'll declare!" he crowed. "Look at that ball go! I had no idea I +could do it! And with this lumbago too!" + +There's no use in prolonging the agony with a detailed account of the +match. The old shark was out for the fag end of the fleece crop so far +as I was concerned, and he surely gave me a close clip. He made a 79 +that day and I had to hand him my check for forty dollars. It might not +have been so much, only on every tee the Colonel whined about his +lumbago and got me in such a state of mind that I couldn't keep my eye +on the ball to save my life. + +When we got back to the clubhouse, David Cameron was sitting in the door +of his shop, rubbing his left ear thoughtfully. He knew it wouldn't have +been safe for him to ask about the match. Colonel Jimmy, confound him, +blatted right along, apologising to me for playing "better than he knew +how" and all that sort of rot. He said he hoped we could have another +match soon, and perhaps I was a little crusty with him. At any rate he +was satisfied that my forty-dollar check was the last contribution he +would ever get from me, and he took up with Archie MacBride, who had +just joined the club and was learning the game. + +Archie hails from out West somewhere and he has the Eastern agency for a +lot of stuff manufactured in Chicago. In the beginning he didn't know +any of the younger members at Meadowmead and that made it easy for the +Colonel to take him under his wing. The old rascal has rather a pleasant +manner--in the clubhouse at least--and he talked Chicago to Archie--what +a wonderful city it is and all that stuff. He talked the same way to me +about Cincinnati. + +I watched the shearing proceed to the lumbago stage, but I didn't +interfere. In the first place, it wasn't any of my business. In the +second, I hadn't been introduced to MacBride. And, besides, I had a sort +of curiosity to know how he would act when he was stung. He looked more +like a goat than a lamb to me. + +One day I was sitting on the porch and MacBride came out of the locker +room and sat down beside me. Colonel Jimmy was over on the extra green, +practicing sidehill putts. Somehow we drifted into conversation. + +"Did you ever play with that old fellow over there?" said he. + +"A few times." + +"Ever beat him?" + +"No-o. Nor anybody else. His methods are--well, peculiar." + +"Darned peculiar! I don't know but that the grand jury ought to +investigate 'em. If you shoot 110 at him, he's just good enough to win. +If you make a 90, he's still good enough to win. He's always good enough +to win. The other day I came out here and found him all doubled up +with----" + +"Lumbago, wasn't it?" + +MacBride held out his hand immediately. + +"Both members of the same lodge!" said he. "I feel better now. He nicked +me for an even hundred. What did he get you for?" + +Nothing cements a friendship like a common grievance. We had both been +rooked by the lumbago trick and we fell to discussing the Colonel and +his petty larceny system of picking on the new members. + +"Far be it that I should squeal," said Archie. "I hope I'm a good loser +as far as the money goes, but I hate to be bunkoed. I handed over one +hundred big iron dollars to that hoary old pirate--and I smiled when I +did it. It hurt me worse to smile than it did to part with the +frog-skins, but I wanted the Colonel to think that I didn't suspect him. +I want him to regard me as a soft proposition and an easy mark because +some day I am going to leave a chunk of bait lying around where that old +coyote can see it. If he gobbles it--good night. Yes, sir, I'm going to +slip one over on him that he'll remember even when they begin giving him +the oxygen." + +"He'll never be trimmed on a golf course," said I. + +"He'll never be trimmed anywhere else. It's the only game he plays. If +he sticks around this club, I'll introduce him to the Chicago method of +taking the bristles off a hog. I'm not sure, but I think it's done with +a hoe." + +"It can't be done with a set of golf clubs," said I. + +"Don't be too sure of that. By the way, my name's MacBride. What's +yours?... If you don't mind, I'll call you Bill for short. We will now +visit the nineteenth tee and pour a libation on the altar of friendship. +We will drink success to the Chicago method of shearing a hog. Simple, +effective, and oh, so painful!" + + +II + +Colonel Jimmy picked up a new pupil after Archie quit him and Archie +paired off with me. We played two or three times a week and often ran +into the Colonel on the porch or in the locker room. The old reprobate +was always cordial in his cat-and-canary way--infernally cordial. I +couldn't resist the temptation to inquire after his lumbago +occasionally, but it was next to impossible to hurt his feelings. The +old fellow's hide was bullet proof and even the broadest sort of hint +was lost on him. Archie was more tactful. He used to joke the Colonel +about a return match, but he was never able to fix a date. The Colonel +was busy anyway. His latest victim was a chinless youth from +Poughkeepsie with money to burn and no fear of matches. + +One afternoon Archie brought a friend out to the club with him--an +immense big chap with hands and feet like hams. Everything about him +was beyond the limit. He was too beefy to begin with, though I suppose +that wasn't his fault. He wore a red tie and a yellow vest. He talked +too much and too loud. Archie introduced him to me as Mr. Small of +Chicago. + +"Small but not little!" said Small. "Haw!" + +"Mr. Small is an old friend of mine," said Archie. "He is taking a short +vacation and I am putting him up at the club for a week or ten days. He +doesn't look it, but his doctor says he needs exercise." + +"Yeh," said Small, "and while I'm resting I think I'll learn this fool +game of golf. Think of a big fellow like me, whaling a poor little pill +all over the country! I suppose all there is to it is to hit the blamed +thing." + +Colonel Jimmy was sitting over by the reading table and I saw him prick +up his ears at this remark. He always manages to scrape an acquaintance +with all the beginners. + +Small went booming along. + +"I can remember," said he, "when people who played golf were supposed to +be a little queer upstairs. Cow-pasture pool, we used to call it. It's a +good deal like shinny-on-your-own-side, ain't it?" + +Archie took him out to David to get him outfitted with clubs and things, +left Small in the shop, and came back to explain matters to me. + +"You mustn't mind Small's manner," said he. "He's really one of the best +fellows in the world, but he's--well, a trifle crude in spots. He's +never had time to acquire a polish; he's been too busy making money." + +"Excuse me"--Colonel Jimmy had been listening--"but is he in any way +related to the Caspar Smalls of Chicago and Denver?" + +"Not that I know of, Colonel," said Archie. + +"You spoke of money," said I. "Has he so much of it, then?" + +"Barrels, my dear boy, barrels. Crude oil is his line at present. And +only thirty-five years of age too. He's a self-made man, Small is." + +I couldn't think of anything to say except that he must have had a deuce +of a lot of raw material to start with--and if I put the accent on the +raw it was unintentional. + +"Well," said Archie, "his heart is in the right place anyway." + +When you can't think of anything else to say for a man, you can always +say that his heart is in the right place. It sounds well, but it doesn't +mean anything. Archie proposed that we should let Small go around with +us that afternoon. I didn't like the idea, but, of course, I kept mum; +the man was Archie's guest. + +Small got in bad on the first tee. I knew he would when I saw who was +ahead of us--Colonel Jimmy and the chinless boy. Like most elderly +mechanical golfers, the Colonel is a stickler for the etiquette of the +game--absolute silence and all that sort of thing. + +Archie introduced Small to the Colonel and the Colonel introduced us to +the chinless boy, who said he was charmed, stepped up on the tee and +whacked his ball into the rough. + +While the Colonel was teeing up, Small kept moving around and talking in +that megaphone voice of his. Colonel Jimmy looked at him rather +eloquently a couple of times and finally Small hushed up. The Colonel +took his stance, tramped around awhile to get a firm footing, addressed +the ball three times, and drew his club back for the swing. Just as it +started downward, Small sneezed--one of those sneezes with an Indian war +whoop on the end of it--"Aa-chew!" Naturally Colonel Jimmy jumped, took +his eye off the ball and topped it into the long grass in front of the +tee. + +"Take it over," said the chinless boy, who was a sport if nothing else. + +"I certainly intend to!" snapped the Colonel, glaring at Small. +"You--you spoiled my swing, sir!" + +"Quit your kidding, Colonel!" said Small. "How could I spoil your +swing?" + +"You sneezed behind me!" + +Small laughed at the top of his voice. "Haw! Haw! That's rich! Why, I've +seen Heinie Zimmerman hit a baseball a mile with thirty thousand people +yelling their heads off at him!" + +"Yes," said Archie, "but that was baseball. This is golf. There's a +difference." + +"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "when you are through with your +discussion, I would really like to drive." + + +III + +I played with Small all the afternoon without yielding to an impulse to +slay him with a niblick, which speaks volumes for my good disposition. +It was a harrowing experience. Small proceeded on the usual theory of +the beginner, which is to hit the ball as hard as possible and trust to +luck. The most I can say for his day's play is that I never expect to +see golf balls hit any harder. His wooden club shots hooked and sliced +into the woods on either side of the course--he bought a dozen balls to +begin with and was borrowing from us at the finish--he dug up great +patches of turf on the fair greens, he nearly destroyed three bunkers +and after every shot he yelled like a Comanche. + +We caught up with Colonel Jimmy at the eighteenth tee. The Colonel was +in a better humour and was offering to give the chinless boy a stroke +and play him double or quits on the last hole--sure proof that he had +him badly licked. The chinless boy took the bet. + +"Now, there's some sense to that!" said Small. "I never could play any +game for fun. Make it worth while, that's what I say! Archie, I'll bet +you a hundred that I beat you this hole!" + +Colonel Jimmy was picking up a handful of sand from a tee. He dropped +it and began to clean his ball. + +"I'd be ashamed to take the money," said Archie. "You wouldn't have a +chance." + +"You mean you're afraid to take one. Be a sport!" + +"I _am_ a sport. That's why I won't bet on a cinch." + +They had quite a jawing match and finally Archie said that he would bet +Small ten dollars. + +"Huh!" said Small. "I wouldn't exert myself for a measly ten spot. Make +it twenty-five!" + +"Well, if you insist," said Archie, "and I'll give you two strokes." + +"You'll give me nothing!" said Small. "What do you think I am? I'll play +you even and lick you." And he was so nasty about it that Archie had to +agree. + +The Colonel turned around after he played his second shot to watch us +drive. Small took a tremendous swing and hooked the ball over the fence +and out of bounds. He borrowed another and sliced that one into the +woods. When he finally sunk his putt--he took 17 for the hole and that +wasn't counting the ones he missed--he dug up a wallet stuffed with +currency and insisted on paying Archie on the spot. + +"I don't feel right about taking this," said Archie. + +"You won it, didn't you?" said Small. "If you had lost, would you have +paid?" + +"Ye-es," said Archie, "but----" + +"But nothing! Take it and shut up!" + +Colonel Jimmy, waiting on the porch, was an interested witness. In less +than five minutes by the watch the chinless boy was sitting over in a +corner, alone with a lemonade, and the Colonel had Small by the +buttonhole, talking Chicago to him. I have always claimed that Colonel +Jimmy has all the instincts of a wolf, but perhaps it is only his Wall +Street training that makes him so keen when a lamb is in sight. + +"Yes, Chicago is a live town all right," said Small, "but about this +golf proposition, now: I'm getting the hang of the thing, Colonel. If I +didn't lose so many balls----" + +"You have a fine, natural swing," said the Colonel in a tone soft as +corn silk. "A trifle less power, my friend, and you will get better +direction." + +Well, it was too much for me. I didn't care much for Small, but I hated +to see him walk into ambush with his eyes open. I left him and the +Colonel hobnobbing over their highballs, and went into the locker room, +where I found Archie. + +"Look here!" I said. "That old pirate is after your friend. Colonel +Jimmy heard Small make that fool bet on the eighteenth tee, and you know +what a leech he is when soft money is in sight. He's after him." + +"So soon?" said Archie. "Quick work." + +"Well, don't you think Small ought to be warned?" + +Archie laughed. + +"Warned about what?" + +"Don't be more of an ass than usual, Archie. The Colonel has got him out +there, telling him about Chicago. You know what that means, and a fellow +that bets as recklessly as Small does----" + +"I can't do anything," said Archie. "Small is of age." + +"But you wouldn't let him go up against a cinch?" + +"Small has been up against cinches all his life. That's how he made his +money." + +"That's how he'll lose it, too. I'll put a flea in his ear if you +don't." + +"Bill," said Archie, "I've made it a rule never to open my mouth in any +gambling game unless my money was on the table. Understand? Then, +whatever happens, there's no come-back at me. Think it over." + +"But the man is your guest!" + +"Exactly. He's my guest. If you see fit to warn him----" Archie shrugged +his shoulders. + +Well, what could I say after that? I took my shower bath and dressed. +Then I went into the lounging room. Small was, if anything, a trifle +noisier than ever. + +"Any game that I can bet on is the game for me," said he, "but I hate a +piker. Don't you hate a piker, Colonel?" + +"A man," said Colonel Jimmy, "should never bet more than he can afford +to lose--cheerfully." + +"Cheerfully. That's the ticket! You're a sport, Colonel. I can see it in +your eye. You don't holler when you lose. Now, Colonel, what would you +consider a good stiff bet, eh? How high would you go? This kindergarten +business wouldn't appeal to either one of us, would it? You wait till I +go around this course a few times and I'll make you a _real_ bet--one +that will be worth playing for, eh? What's the most you ever played for, +Colonel?" It was like casting pearls before swine and he wasn't my +guest, but I did what I could for him. + +"Mr. Small," said I, "if you're going in to town there's room in my car +for you." + +"Thanks. I'm stopping here at the club. Archie fixed me up with a room. +The Colonel is going to stay and have dinner with me, ain't you, +Colonel? Surest thing you know! He's met a lot of friends of mine out +West. Small world, ain't it? Going, eh? Well, behave yourself!... Now +then, Colonel, gimme a few more days of this cow-pasture pool and I'll +show you what a real bet looks like!" + +I left the wolf and the lamb together, and I don't mind admitting that I +liked one as well as the other. + +Business took me out of town for ten days, and when I returned home I +was told that Archie had been telephoning me all the morning. I rang him +at his office. + +"Oh, hello, Bill! You're back just in time for the big show.... Eh? Oh, +Colonel Jimmy is due for another attack of lumbago this afternoon.... +Small telephoned me last night that he was complaining a little.... The +goat? Why, Small, of course! The chinless boy is playing alone these +days; better pickings elsewhere.... Yes, you oughtn't to miss it. See +you later. 'Bye." + + +IV + +Now, very little happens at Meadowmead, in the clubhouse or on the +links, without David Cameron's knowledge. The waiters talk, the steward +gossips, the locker-room boys repeat conversations which they overhear, +and the caddies are worse than magpies. David, listening patiently and +rubbing his ear, comes by a great deal of interesting information. I +felt certain that he would have a true line on the wool market. I found +him sitting in front of his shop. He was wearing a collar and tie, which +is always a sign that he is at liberty for the afternoon. "You're +dressed up to-day, David," said I. + +"Ay," said he, "I'm thinkin' I'll be a gallery." + +"Is there a match?" + +"Ay, a money match. The ter-rms were agreed on at eleven this mornin'. +The Cur-rnel is gruntin' an' groanin' with the lumba-ago again. Muster +Small has taken a cruel advan-take of the auld man. A cruel advantage." + +"What are they playing for?" I asked. + +David rolled his eyes full upon me and regarded me steadily without +blinking. + +"A thousan' dollars a side," said he quietly. + +"_What?_" + +"Ay. Posted in the safe. Muster Small wanted to make it for two. It was +a compr-romise." + +"But, man, it's highway robbery! One thousand dollars!" + +David continued to look at me fixedly. + +"Do ye ken, Muster Bell," said he at last, "that's precisely what I'm +thinkin' it is mysel'--juist highway robbery." + +"What handicap is he giving Small?" + +"None. Muster Small wouldna listen to it. He said the Cur-rnel was +a'ready handicapped wi' auld age, lumba-ago, an' cauld feet. His remarks +were quite personal, ye'll understand, an' he counted down the notes on +the table an' blethered an' howled an' reminded the Cur-rnel that he had +lost three hunder to him the last week. The auld gentleman was fair +be-damned an' bullied into makin' the match, an' he was in such a +towerin' rage he could scarce write a check.... Ay, I'm thinkin' it will +be a divertin' match to watch." + +Archie arrived just as Small and Colonel Jimmy started for the first +tee. We formed the gallery, with David Cameron trailing along +unobtrusively in the rear, sucking reflectively on a briar pipe. The +Colonel gave us one look, which said very plainly that he hoped we would +choke, but thought better of it and dropped back to shake hands and +explain his position in the matter. + +"Pretty stiff money match, isn't it, Colonel?" asked Archie. + +"And surely you're not playing him _even_!" said I. "No handicap?" + +Colonel Jimmy had the grace to blush; I wouldn't have believed he knew +how. I suppose if you should catch a wolf in a sheepfold the wolf would +blush too--not because he felt that he was doing anything wrong by his +own standards, but because of the inferences that might be drawn from +the wool in his teeth. The Colonel didn't in the least mind preying on +lambs, but he hated to have a gallery catch him at it. He hastened to +explain that it was all the lamb's fault. + +He said that he found himself in an unfortunate situation because he had +allowed his temper to get away from him and had "answered a fool +according to his folly." He blamed Small for forcing him into a position +where he might falsely be accused of taking an unfair advantage. He +whined pitifully about his lumbago--the worst attack he remembered--and +earnestly hoped that "the facts would not be misrepresented in any way." +He also said that he regretted the entire incident and had offered to +call off the match, but had been grossly insulted and accused of having +cold feet. + +"It isn't that I want the man's money," said he, "but I feel that he +should have a lesson in politeness!" + +On the whole, it was a very poor face for a wolf to wear. He groaned +some more about his lumbago, which he said was killing him by inches, +and went forward to join Small on the tee. + +"The old pirate!" said Archie. "He wasn't counting on any witnesses, and +our being here is going to complicate matters. Did you get what he said +about hoping the facts would not be misrepresented? He's wondering what +we'll tell the other members, and for the looks of the thing he won't +dare rook Small too badly. Our being here will force him to make the +match as close as he can." + +"Yes," said I, "there ought to be some pretty fair comedy." + +Small came over to us while the Colonel was teeing his ball. He looked +bigger and rawer than ever in white flannel, and he didn't seem in the +least worried about his bet. He was just as offensive as ever, and I +could appreciate the Colonel's point about giving him a lesson in +politeness. + +As early as the first hole it became evident--painfully so--that Colonel +Jimmy was out to make the match a close one at any cost. It would never +do to give Small the impression that his pockets had been picked. In +order to make him think that he had had a run for his money, the Colonel +had to play as bad golf as Small--and he did it, shades of Tom Morris +and other departed golfers, he did it! + +Bad golf is a depressing spectacle to watch, but deliberately bad golf, +cold-blooded, premeditated and studied out in advance, is a crime, and +that is the only word which fits Colonel Jimmy's shameless exhibition. +His only excuse was that it needed criminally bad golf to make the match +seem close. The old fellow's driving was atrocious, he slopped and +flubbed his iron shots in a disgusting manner, and his putting would +have disgraced a blind man. Lumbago was his alibi, and he worked it +overtime for our benefit. After every shot he would drop his club, clap +his hands on his back, and groan like an entire hospital ward. + +The only noticeable improvement in Small's playing was that he managed +somehow or other to keep his ball on the course, though the lopsided, +thumb-handed, clubfooted way he went at his shots was enough to make +angels weep. Then, too, he didn't have so much to say and didn't yell +after he hit the ball. + +Thirteen holes they played, and I venture the statement that nothing +like that match has ever been seen since the time when golf balls were +stuffed with feathers. By playing just as badly as he knew how, getting +into all the bunkers, and putting everywhere but straight at the cup, +Colonel Jimmy arrived on the fourteenth tee all square with Small. They +had each won two holes; the others had been halved in scandalous +figures. + +I could tell by the way the Colonel messed the fourteenth hole that he +wanted to halve that too. He certainly didn't try to win it. Small's +fifth shot was in the long grass just off the edge and to the right of +the putting green. Colonel Jimmy laid his sixth within three feet of the +cup. + +"Boy, give me that shovel!" said Small, and the caddie handed him a +niblick. It wasn't really a bad lie, but the ball had to be chopped out +of three inches of grass. + +"In a case of this kind," said Small, "I guess you trust to luck, what?" +He played a short chop shot and the ball went hopping toward the pin, +hit the back of the cup with a plunk, and dropped for a six. Of course +it was a pure accident. + +"Fluke!" said Colonel Jimmy, rather annoyed. + +"Sure!" said Small. "But it wins the hole just the same!" + +I knew then that the comedy was over for the day. Four holes remained to +be played, and the Colonel was one down. It was never his policy to +leave anything to chance. He would run the string out at top speed. +David Cameron came up from the rear. + +"They'll play golf from here in," he whispered. + +"They!" said I. "One of 'em will!" + +"Do ye really think so?" said David. + +Our Number Fifteen is 278 yards long, over perfectly level ground. There +are bunkers to the right and left of the putting green and a deep sand +trap behind it. It is a short hole, but the sort of one which needs +straight shooting and an accurate pitch. Of all the holes on the course, +I think it is the Colonel's favourite. + +"My honour, eh?" said Small. "That being the case, I guess I'll just rap +it out of the lot!" + +He didn't bother to measure the distance or take a practice swing. He +didn't even address the ball. He walked up to it and swung his driver +exactly as a man would swing a baseball bat--tremendous power but no +form whatever--and the wonder is that he hit it clean. A white speck +went sailing up the course, rising higher and higher in the air. When +the ball stopped rolling it was 260 yards from the tee and on a direct +line with the pin. + +"Beat that!" said Small. + +Colonel Jimmy didn't say anything, but he grunted whole volumes. It +takes more than a long drive to rattle that old reprobate. He whipped +his ball 200 yards down the course and stepped off the tee so well +satisfied with himself that he forgot to groan and put his hands on his +back. Small laughed. + +"Lumbago not so bad now, eh?" said he. + +"I--I may be limbering up a bit," said the Colonel. "The long drive +isn't everything, you know; it's the second shot that counts!" + +"All right," said Small. "Let's see one!" + +Colonel Jimmy studied his lie for some time and went through all the +motions, but when the shot came it was a beauty--a mashie pitch which +landed his ball five feet from the cup. + +"Beat that one!" said he. + +"I'll just do that thing!" said Small. And he did. Of course he had a +short approach, as approaches go, but even so I was not prepared to see +him play a push shot and rim the cup, leaving his ball stone dead for a +three. Colonel Jimmy was not prepared to see it either, and I have +reason to believe that the push shot jarred the old rascal from his +rubber heels upward. He went about the sinking of that five-foot putt +with as much deliberation as if his thousand dollars depended on it. He +sucked in his breath and got down on all fours--a man with lumbago +couldn't have done it on a bet--and he studied the roll of the turf for +a full minute--studied it to some purpose, for when he tapped the ball +it ran straight and true into the cup, halving the hole. + +"You're getting better every minute!" said Small. "I'm some little +lumbago specialist, believe me!" + +Colonel Jimmy didn't answer, but he looked thoughtful and just the least +mite worried. One down and three to go for a thousand dollars--it's a +situation that will worry the best of 'em. + +Number Sixteen was where the light dawned on me. It is a long, tricky +hole--bogey 6, par 5--and if the Colonel hadn't made another phenomenal +approach, laying his ball dead from fifty yards off the green, Small +would have won that too. They halved in fives, but it was Small's second +shot that opened my eyes. He used a cleek where most players would try a +brassie, and he sent the ball screaming toward the flag--220 yards--and +at no time was it more than ten feet from the ground. I was behind him +when he played, and I can swear that there wasn't an inch of hook or +slice on that ball. The cleek is no club for a novice. I remembered the +niblick shot on the fourteenth. That was surely a fluke, but how about +the push shot on fifteen? English professionals have written whole books +about the push shot, but mighty few men have ever learned to play it. +Putting that and the cleek shot together, the light broke in on me--and +my first impulse was to kick Archie MacBride. + +I don't know who Colonel Jimmy wanted to kick, but he looked as if he +would relish kicking somebody. He had been performing sums in mental +addition, too, and he got the answer about the same time that I did. + +"It's queer about that lumbago," said Small again. + +"Yes," snapped the old man, "but it's a lot queerer the way you've +picked up this game in the last two holes!" + +"Well," and Small laughed, "you remember that I warned you I never could +play for piker money, Colonel--that is, not very _well_." + +Colonel Jimmy gave him a look that was all wolf--and cornered wolf at +that. He answered Small with a nasty sneer. + +"So you can't play well unless big money is bet, eh? That is exactly +what I'm beginning to think, sir!" + +"At any rate," said Small, "I've cured your lumbago for you, Colonel. +You can charge that thousand to doctor bills!" + +Colonel Jimmy gulped a few times, his neck swelled and his face turned +purple. There wasn't a single thing he could find to say in answer to +that remark. He started for the seventeenth tee, snarling to himself. I +couldn't stand it any longer. I drew Archie aside. + +"I think you might have told me," I said. + +"Told you what?" + +"Why, about Small--if that's his name. What have you done? Rung in a +professional on the old man?" + +"Professional, your grandmother!" said Archie. "Small is an amateur in +good standing. Darned good standing. If the Colonel knew as much about +the Middle West as he pretends to know, he'd have heard of Small. +Wonder how the old boy likes the Chicago method of shearing a pig?" + +The old boy didn't like it at all, but the seventeenth hole put the +crown on his rage and mortification. Small drove another long straight +ball, and after the Colonel had got through sneering about that he +topped his own drive, slopped his second into a bunker, and reached the +green in five when he should have been there in two. I thought the agony +was over, but I didn't give Small credit for cat-and-mouse tendencies. + +"In order to get all the good out of this lumbago treatment," said he, +"it ought to go the full eighteen holes." Then, with a deliberation that +was actually insulting, he played his second shot straight into a deep +sand trap. I heard a queer clucking, choking noise behind me, but it was +only David Cameron doing his best to keep from laughing out loud. + +"Muster Small is puttin' the shoe on the other foot!" said David. "Ay, +it's his turn to waste a few now." + +"Cheer up, Colonel!" said Small. "You fooled away a lot of shots early +in the match--on account of your lumbago, of course. I'm just as +generous as you are when it comes to halving holes with an easy mark." +To prove it Small missed a niblick shot a foot, but pitched out on his +fourth, and, by putting all over the green, finally halved the hole. + +When Small stood up on the eighteenth tee for his last drive he looked +over at the Colonel and nodded his head. "Colonel?" said he. + +Colonel Jimmy grunted--rather a profane grunt, I thought. + +"Dormie!" said Small. + +"Confound it, sir! You talk too much!" + +"So I've heard," said Small. "I'll make you a business proposition, +Colonel. Double or quits on the last hole? I understand that's what you +do when you're sure you can win. Two thousand or nothing?... No? Oh, all +right! No harm done, I suppose?" + +Colonel Jimmy had a burglar's chance to halve the match by winning the +last hole, and he fought for it like a cornered wolf. They were both on +the green in threes, Small ten feet from the cup and the Colonel at +least fifteen. If he could sink his putt and Small should miss his, the +match would be square again. + +The old man examined every blade of grass between his ball and the hole. +Three times he set himself to make the putt, and then got down to take +another look at the roll of the green--proof that his nerve was breaking +at last. When he finally hit the ball it was a weak, fluttering stroke, +and though the ball rolled true enough, it stopped four feet short of +the cup. + +"Never up, never in!" said Small. "Well, here goes for the +thousand-dollar doctor bill! Lumbago is a very painful ailment, Colonel. +It's worth something to be cured of it." Colonel Jimmy didn't say a +word. He looked at Small and then he turned and looked at MacBride. All +his smooth and oily politeness had deserted him; his little tricks and +hypocrisies had dropped away and left the wolf exposed--snarling and +showing his teeth. I thought that he was going to throw his putter at +Archie, but he turned and threw it into the lake instead--into the +middle, where the water is deep. Then he marched into the clubhouse, +stiff as a ramrod, and so he missed seeing Small sink his ten-foot putt. + +"An' ye were really surprised?" said David Cameron to me. + +"I was," said I. "When did you find it out, David?" + +"Come out to the shop," said the professional. He showed me a list of +the players rated by the Western Golf Association. A man by the name of +Small was very close to the top--very close indeed. + +We don't know whether the Colonel is going to lay the case before the +committee or not. If he does, we shall have to explain why he has not +had an attack of lumbago since. + + + + +THE MAN WHO QUIT + + +I + +Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes squinted along the line of his short putt, +breathed hard through his prominent and highly decorative nose, +concentrated his mighty intellect upon the task before him, and tapped +the small white ball ever so lightly. It rolled toward the cup, wavered +from the line, returned to it again, seemed about to stop short of its +destination, hovered for one breathless instant on the very lip, and at +last fell into the hole. + +Mr. Parkes, who had been hopping up and down on one leg, urging the ball +forward with inarticulate commands and violent contortions of his body, +and behaving generally in the manner of a baseball fan or a financially +interested spectator at a horse race, suddenly relaxed with a deep grunt +of relief. He glanced at his opponent--a tall, solemn-looking +gentleman--who was regarding Mr. Parkes with an unblinking stare in +which disgust, chagrin and fathomless melancholy were mingled. + +"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announced +Parkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time. +"Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and I +licked you"--here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "I +licked you on an even game! An even game--d'you get that, Bob? Didn't +have to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on an +even game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I had +it in me, did you?" + +The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr. +Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victor +became aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream of +self-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. There +was a short, painful silence. + +"I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically; +"but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn't +think I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicap +man before----" + +"Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of one +who brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off--I +don't care. Give yourself a _loud_ cheer while you're at it. I'm not +paying any attention to you." + +Mr. Parkes was not exactly pleased with the permission thus handsomely +granted. + +"No need for you to get sore about it," was the sulky comment. + +The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitter +undertone in his mirth. + +"Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like you +handed me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?" + +"Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'd +better haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and you +look as if you'd lost your last friend." + +"I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost my +game. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any game +to lose. It's awful--awful!" + +"Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while." + +"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I +was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was +working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong--my shots left me. +I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the +course--couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game +would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some +improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows any +more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself +do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've +changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my +life--and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a +battle!" + +"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worry +too much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's a +sport--a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but I +never worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten; +to-day----" + +"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I suppose +you call that good--eh?" + +"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind! +Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on, +take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. The +match is over, so you won't have that to worry about." + +"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golfer +yourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not being +beaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and then +falling down on the execution--that's what breaks my heart! If ever you +get so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and your +game leaves you overnight--steps right out from under you and leaves you +flat--then you'll know how I feel." + +"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a bad +player--oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. And +just to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in--no +handicap--not even a bisque. What say?" + +"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time tee +shots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!" + + * * * * * + +Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward the +clubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. He +grinned from ear to ear and illustrated an animated discourse with +sweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him, +kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders sagged +listlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on +the ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of his +drooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himself +heavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out of +the window but seeing nothing. + +"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated before +the stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-lustre +eyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand. + +"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with this +double-dash-blanked game." + +Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a full +heart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne's +friends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement was +received with calmness--not to say a certain amount of levity. + +"We've all been there!" chuckled one of the listeners. + +"Many's the time!" supplemented another. + +"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'd +been slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the damned shaft. Did me +a lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual, +and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that has +been annoying you. Try it some time." + +"Humph!" grunted Mr. Coyne. "I'd have to break 'em all!" + +"Maybe you don't drink enough," hazarded another. + +"Cheer up!" said the first speaker. "You'll be all right this +afternoon." + +The afflicted one lifted his head again and gazed mournfully at his +friends. + +"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong. +I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks--not one. I--I don't +know what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you." + +"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like an +April zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-bad +golfer--ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to my +ball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-foot +putt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine trimming +this morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three and +two without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn't +make him like it. What do you think of that, eh?" + +"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?" +Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window. + +"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight. +Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just to +put some life into him and stir up his--er--cupidity. I guess that's the +word. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do? +Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up his +ball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of Hell's +Half Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!" + +"He has cause--if you beat him," said one of the older members. + +"I wish I could win from a _well_ man once in a while," complained +Parkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on an +invalid." + +"Oh, shut up and let Bob alone!" + +"Yes; quit riding him." + +"Don't rub it in!" + +Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him, +and the general conversation languished until the devil himself prompted +one of the veteran golfers to offer advice: + +"I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Bob. You're overgolfed. You've +been playing too much lately." + +"You've gone stale," said another. + +"Nonsense!" argued a third. "You don't go stale at golf; you simply get +off your game. Now what Bob ought to do is to take one club and a dozen +balls and stay with that club until he gets his shots back." + +"That's no good," said a fourth. "If his wood has gone bad on him he +ought to leave his driver in his bag and use an iron off the tee. Chick +Evans does that." + +"An iron off the tee," said the veteran, "is a confession of weakness." + +"Bob, why don't you get the 'pro' to give you a lesson or two? He might +be able to straighten you out." + +"Oh, what does a professional know about the theory of golf? All he can +do is to tell you to watch him and do the way he does. Now what Bob +needs----" + +Every man who plays golf, no matter how badly, feels himself competent +to offer advice. For a long ten minutes the air was heavy with +well-meant suggestions. Coming at the wrong time, nothing is more +galling than sympathetic counsel. Bob Coyne, six-handicap man and +expert in the theory of golf, hunched his shoulders and endured it all +without comment or protest. Somewhere in his head an idea was taking +definite shape. Slowly but surely he was being urged to the point where +decision merges into action. + +"I tell you," said the veteran with the calm insistence of age, "Bob +ought to take a lay-off. He ought to forget golf for a while." + +Coyne rose and moved toward the door. As his hand touched the knob the +irrepressible Parkes hurled the last straw athwart a heavy burden. + +"If ever I get so that I can't enjoy this game any more," said he, "I +hope I'll have strength of character enough to quit playing it." + +"Oh, you do, do you?" demanded Coyne with the cold rage of a quiet man, +goaded beyond the limit of his endurance. "Well, don't flatter yourself. +You haven't--and you won't!" + +The door closed behind this rather cryptic remark, and the listeners +looked at each other and shook their heads. + +"Never knew Bob to act like this before," said one. + +"Anything can happen when a man's game is in a slump," said the veteran. +"Take a steady, brainy player--a first-class golfer; let him lose his +shots for a week and there's no telling what he'll do. Nothing to +it--this is the most interesting and the most exasperating outdoor +sport in the world. + +"Just when you think you've learned all there is to learn about +it--bang! And there you are, flat!" + +"He's been wolfing at me all morning," said Parkes. "Kind of silly to +let a game get on your nerves, eh?" + +"You'll never know how a real golfer feels when his shots go bad on +him," was the consoling response. "There he goes with his bag of clubs. +Practice won't help him any. What he needs is a lay-off." + +"He's headed for the caddie shed," said Parkes. "I'd hate to carry his +bag this afternoon. Be afraid he'd bite me, or something.... Say, have +you fellows heard about the two Scotchmen, playing in the finals for a +cup? It seems that MacNabb lost his ball on the last hole, and MacGregor +was helping him look for it----" + +"I always did like that yarn," interrupted the veteran. "It's just as +good now as it was twenty years ago. Shoot!" + + * * * * * + +A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested they +listened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carrying +profession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the name +of Butch: + +"And you oughta seen him at the finish--all he needed was an undertaker! +You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time. +The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag--darned if it wasn't +pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the +last hole----" + +"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the +clubhouse. "Here he comes now!" + +Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free +discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of +expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first +thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances +turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was +unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in +the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what +brought him into their midst. + +"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced +cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which +one would you take?" + +"If I had a _what_?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement. + +"Which one of these clubs do you like the best?" + +"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's +hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!" + +Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag. + +"It's yours," said he briefly. + +"Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You--you ain't _giving_ it to me, are you?" +Coyne nodded. "But--but what's the idea? You can't get along without +that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!" + +"Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf." + +"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the +privileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get so +old they can't walk!" + +"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of +these other boys----" + +"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you +meant it at first. I----" + +"Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?" + +"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This +ain't Injun givin'? Because--me, I had my eye on that brassy for some +time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, +mister! Gee! What do think of that--hey? Some club!" + +At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager +youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So +far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing +history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later +for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the +getting was good. + +"Please, can I have that driver?" + +"Aw, mister, you know me!" + +"The mashie would be my pick!" + +"Who ast _you_ to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old brass putter +there, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a brass putter." + +"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's a +mighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!" + +In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entire +collection of golfing instruments, representing the careful and +discriminating accumulation of years, passed into new hands. Everybody +knows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite, +once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possesses +something more than proper weight and balance; it has personality and +is, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver, +the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, the +scarred old niblick, the two putters--everything was swept away in one +wild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these old +friends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all," +said he at length. + +"Mr. Coyne," said Butch, who had been practising imaginary approach +shots with the light mid-iron, "you wouldn't care if I had about an inch +taken off this shaft, would you? It's a little too long for me." + +"Cut a foot off it if you like." + +"I just wanted to know," said Butch apologetically. "Lots of people say +they're going to quit; but----" + +"It isn't a case of going to quit with me," said Coyne. "I _have_ quit! +You can make kindling wood out of that shaft if you like." + +Then, with the empty bag under his arm, and his bridges aflame behind +him, he marched back to the clubhouse, his chin a bit higher in the air +than was absolutely necessary. + +Later his voice was heard in the shower room, loud and clear above the +sound of running water. It suited him to sing and the ditty of his +choice was a cheerful one; but the rollicking words failed to carry +conviction. An expert listener might have detected a tone smacking +strongly of defiance and suspected that Mr. Coyne was singing to keep up +his courage. + +When next seen he was clothed, presumably in his right mind, and +rummaging deep in his locker. On the floor was a pile of miscellaneous +garments--underwear, sweaters, shirts, jackets, knickerbockers and +stockings. To his assistance came Jasper, for twenty years a fixture in +the locker room and as much a part of the club as the sun porch or the +front door. + +"Gettin' yo' laundry out, suh? Lemme give you a hand." + +Now Jasper was what is known as a character; and, moreover, he was a +privileged one. He was on intimate terms with every member of the +Country Club and entitled to speak his mind at all times. He had made a +close study of the male golfing animal in all his varying moods; he knew +when to sympathise with a loser, when to congratulate a winner, and when +to remain silent. Jasper was that rare thing known as the perfect locker +room servant. + +"This isn't laundry," explained Coyne. "I'm just cleaning house--that's +all.... Think you can use these rubber-soled golf shoes?" + +"Misteh Coyne, suh," said Jasper, "them shoes is as good as new. Whut +you want to give 'em away faw?" + +"Because I won't be wearing 'em any more." + +"H-m-m! Too small, maybe?" + +"No; they fit all right. Fact of the matter is, Jasper, I'm sick of this +game and I'm going to quit it." + +Jasper's eyes oscillated rapidly. + +"Aw, no, Misteh Coyne!" said he in the tone one uses when soothing a +peevish child. "You jus' _think_ you goin' to quit--tha's all!" + +"You never heard me say I was going to quit before, did you?" demanded +Coyne. + +"No, suh; no." + +"Well, when I say I'm going to quit, you can bet I mean it!" Jasper +reflected on this statement. + +"Yes, suh," said he gently. "Betteh let me put them things back, Misteh +Coyne. They in the way here." + +"What's the use of putting 'em back in the locker? They're no good to +me. Make a bundle of 'em and give 'em to the poor." + +"Mph! Po' folks ain't wearin' them shawt pants much--not this season, +nohow!" + +"I don't care what you do with 'em! Throw 'em away--burn 'em up--pitch +'em out. I don't care!" + +"Yes, suh. All right, suh. Jus' as you say." Jasper rolled the heap into +a bundle and began tying it with the sleeves of a shirt. "I'll look +afteh 'em, suh." + +"Never mind looking after 'em. Get rid of the stuff. I'm through, I tell +you--done--finished--quit!" + +"Yes, suh. I heard you the firs' time you said it." + +The negro was on his knees fumbling with the knot. Something in his tone +irritated Coyne--caused him to feel that he was not being taken +seriously. + +"I suppose a lot of members quit--eh?" said he. + +"Yes, suh," replied Jasper with a flash of ivory. "Some of 'em quits +oncet a month, reg'leh." + +"But you never heard of a case where a player gave all his clubs away, +did you?" demanded Coyne. + +"Some of 'em _breaks_ clubs," said Jasper; "but they always gits new +shafts put in. Some of 'em th'ow 'em in the lake; but they fish 'em out +ag'in. But--give 'em away? No, suh! They don' neveh do that." + +"Well," said Coyne, "when I make up my mind to do a thing I do it right. +I've given away every club I owned." + +Jasper lifted his head and stared upward, mouth open and eyelids +fluttering rapidly. + +"You--you given yo' clubs away!" he ejaculated. "Who'd you give 'em to, +suh?" + +"Oh, to the caddies," was the airy response. "Made a sort of general +distribution. One club to each kid." + +"Misteh Coyne," said Jasper earnestly, "tha's foolishness--jus' plain +foolishness. S'pose you ain' been playin' yo' reg'leh game +lately--s'pose you had a lot o' bad luck--that ain' no reason faw you to +do a thing like that. Givin' all them expensible clubs to them +pin-headed li'l' boys! Lawd! Lawd! They don't know how to treat 'em! +They'll be splittin' the shafts, an' crackin' the heads, an' nickin' up +the irons, an'----" + +"Well," interrupted Coyne, "what of it? I hope they do break 'em!" + +Jasper shook his head sorrowfully and returned to the bundle. While +studying golfers he had come to know the value placed on golfing tools. + +"O' course," said he slowly, "yo' own business is yo' own business, +Misteh Coyne. Only, suh, it seem like a awful shame to me. Seem like +bustin' up housekeepin' afteh you been married a long time.... Why not +wait a few days an' see how you feel then?" + +"No! I'm through." + +Jasper jerked his head in the direction of the lounging room. + +"You tol' the otheh gen'lemen whut you goin' to do?" he asked. + +"What's the use? They'd only laugh. They wouldn't believe me. Let 'em +find it out for themselves. And, by the way--there's my empty bag in the +corner. Dispose of it somehow. Give it away--sell it. You can have +whatever you get for it." + +"Thank you, suh. You comin' back to see us once in a while?" + +"Oh, I suppose so. With the wife and the kids. Well, take care of +yourself." + +Jasper followed him to the door and watched until the little runabout +disappeared down the driveway. + +"All foolishness--tha's whut it is!" soliloquised the negro. + +"This golf game--she's sutny a goat getteh when she ain' goin' right. +Me, I ratheh play this Af'ican golf with two dice. That's some goat +getteh, too, an' lots of people quits it; but I notice they always +comes back. Yes, suh; they always comes back." + + +II + +As the runabout coughed and sputtered along the county road the man at +the wheel had time to think over the whole matter. Everything +considered, he decided that he had acted wisely. + +"Been playing too much golf, anyway," he told himself. "Wednesday and +Saturday afternoons, Sundays and holidays--too much!... And then +worrying about my game in between. It'll be off my mind now.... One +thing sure--Mary'll be glad to hear the news. That old joke of hers +about being a golf widow won't go any more. Yes, she'll have to dig up a +new one.... Maybe I have been a little selfish and neglectful. I'll make +up for it now, though. Sundays we can take the big car and go on +picnics. The kids'll like that." + +He pursued this train of thought until he felt almost virtuous. He could +see himself entering the house; he could picture his wife's amazement +and pleasure; he could hear himself saying something like this: + +"Well, my dear, you've got your wish at last. After thinking it all over +I've decided to cut out the golf and devote myself to the family. Yes; +I'm through!" + +In this highly commendable spirit he arrived at home, only to find the +shades drawn and the front door locked. As Coyne felt for his key ring +he remembered that his wife had said something about taking the children +to spend the day with her mother. It was also the servant's afternoon +off and the house was empty. Coyne was conscious of a slight +disappointment; he was the bearer of glad tidings, but he had no +audience. + +"Oh, well," he thought; "it's been a long time since I had a quiet +Sunday afternoon at home. Do me good. Guess I'll read a while and then +run over to mother's for supper. I don't read as much as I used to. Man +ought to keep up to date." + +Then, because he was a creature of habit and the most methodical of men, +he must have his pipe and slippers before sitting down with his book. +Mary Coyne was a good wife and a faithful mother, but she abominated a +pipe in the living room; and she tolerated slippers only when they were +of her own choosing. + +Now there are things which every woman knows; but there is one thing +which no woman has ever known and no woman will ever know--namely, that +she is not competent to select slippers for her lord and master. Bob +Coyne was a patient man, but he loathed slippers his wife picked out for +him. He was pledged to a worn and disreputable pair of the pattern known +as Romeos--relics of his bachelor days. They were run down at the heel +and thin of sole; but they were dear to his heart and he clung to them +obstinately in spite of their shabby appearance. After the honeymoon it +had been necessary to speak sternly with his wife on the subject of the +Romeos, else she would have thrown them on the ash heap. Since that +interview Mrs. Coyne--obedient soul!--had spent a great portion of her +married life in finding safe hiding places for those wretched slippers; +but no matter where she put them, they seemed certain of a triumphant +resurrection. + +Coyne went on a still hunt for the Romeos, and found them at last, +tucked away in the clothes closet of the spare room upstairs. This +closet was a sort of catchall, as the closets of spare rooms are apt to +be; and as Coyne stooped to pick up the slippers he knocked down +something which had been standing in a dark corner. It fell with a heavy +thump, and there on the floor at his feet was a rusty old mid-iron--the +first golf club Coyne had ever owned. + +He had not seen that mid-iron in years, but he remembered it well. He +picked it up, sighted along the shaft, found it still reasonably +straight and unwarped, balanced the club in his hands, waggled it once +as if to make a shot; then he replaced it hastily, seized the slippers, +and hurried downstairs. + +The book of his selection was one highly recommended by press and +pulpit, hence an ideal tale for a Sunday afternoon; so he dragged an +easy-chair to the front window, lighted his pipe, put his worn Romeos +on a taboret, and settled down to solid comfort. In spite of the fact +that the book was said to be gripping, and entertaining from cover to +cover, Coyne encountered some difficulty in getting into the thing. He +skimmed through the first chapter, yawned and looked at his watch. + +"They're just getting away for the afternoon round," said he; and then, +with the air of one who has caught himself in a fault, he attacked +Chapter Two. It proved even worse than the first. He told himself that +the characters were out of drawing, the situations impossible, and the +humour strained or stale. + +At the end of Chapter Three he pitched the book across the room and +closed his eyes. Five minutes later he rose, knocked the ashes from his +pipe, and went slowly upstairs. He assured himself he was not in search +of anything; but his aimless wanderings brought him at last to the spare +room, where he seated himself on the edge of the bed. He remained there +for twenty minutes, motionless, staring into space. Then he rose, +crossed the room and disappeared in the clothes closet. When he came out +the rusty mid-iron came with him. Was this a sign of weakness, of +deterioration in the moral fibre, an indication of regret! Perish the +thought! The explanation Mr. Coyne offered himself was perfectly +satisfactory. He merely wished to examine the ten-year-old shaft and +ascertain whether it was cracked or not. He carried the venerable +souvenir to the window and scrutinised it closely; the shaft was sound. + +"A good club yet," he muttered. + +As he stood there, holding the old mid-iron in his hands, ten years +slipped away from him. He remembered that club very well--almost as well +as a man remembers his first sweetheart. He remembered other things +too--remembered that, as a youth, he had never had the time or the +inclination to play at games of any sort. He had been too busy getting +his start, as the saying goes. Then, at thirty, married and well on his +way to business success, he had felt the need of open air and exercise. +He had mentioned this to a friend and the friend had suggested golf. + +"But that's an old man's game!" Yes; he had said that very thing. His +ears burned at the recollection of his folly. + +"Think so? Tackle it and see." + +He had been persuaded to spend one afternoon at the Country Club. Is +there a golfer in all the world who needs to be told what happened to +Mr. Robert Coyne? He had hit one long, straight tee shot; he had holed +one difficult putt; and the whole course of his serious, methodical +existence had been changed. The man who does not learn to play any game +until he is thirty years of age is quite capable of going daft over +tiddledywinks or dominoes. If he takes up the best and most interesting +of all outdoor sports his family may count itself fortunate if he does +not become violent. + +Never the sort of person who could be content to do anything badly, Bob +Coyne had applied himself to the Royal and Ancient Pastime with all the +simple earnestness and dogged determination of a silent, self-centred +man. He had taken lessons from the professional. He had brought his +driver home and practised with it in the back yard. He had read books on +the subject. He had studied the methods and styles of the best players. +He had formed theories of his own as to stance and swing. He had even +talked golf to his wife--which is the last stage of incurable golfitis. + +As he stood at the window, turning the rusty mid-iron in his hands, he +recalled the first compliment ever paid him by a good player--the more +pleasing because he had not been intended to hear it. It came after he +had fought himself out of the duffer class and had reached the point +where he was too good for the bad ones, but not considered good enough +for the topnotchers. + +One day Corkrane had invited him into a foursome--Coyne had been the +only man in sight--and Corkrane had taken him as a partner against such +redoubtable opponents as Millar and Duffy. Coyne had halved four holes +and won two, defeating Millar and Duffy on the home green. Nothing had +been said at the time; but later on, while polishing himself with a +towel in the shower room, Coyne had heard Corkrane's voice: + +"Hey, Millar!" + +"Well?" + +"That fellow Coyne--he's not so bad." + +"I believe you, Corky. He won the match for you." + +"Thought I'd have to carry him on my back; but he was right there all +the way round. Yep; Coyne's a comer, sure as you live!" + +And the subject of this kindly comment had blushed pink out of sheer +gratification. + +A pretty good bunch, those fellows out at the club! If it had done +nothing else for him, Coyne reflected, golf had widened his circle of +friends. Suddenly there came to him the realisation that he would have a +great deal of spare time on his hands in the future. Wednesdays and +Saturdays would be long days now; and Sundays----Coyne sighed deeply and +swung the rusty mid-iron back and forth as if in the act of studying a +difficult approach. + +"But what's the use?" he asked himself. "I haven't got a shot left--not +a single shot!" + +He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mid-iron between his knees and +his head in his hands. At the end of twenty minutes he rose and began to +prowl about the house, looking into corners, behind doors, and +underneath beds and bureaus. + +"Seems to me I saw it only the other day," said he. "Of course Bobby +might have been playing with it and lost it." + +It was in the children's playroom that he came upon the thing, which he +told himself he found by accident. It was much the worse for wear; +nearly all the paint had been worn off it and its surface was covered +with tiny dents. Bob Junior had been teaching his dog to fetch and carry +and the dents were the prints of sharp puppy teeth. + +"Well, what do you think of that!" ejaculated Mr. Coyne, pretending to +be surprised. "As I live--a golf ball! Yes; a golf ball!" + +He stood looking at it for some time; but at last he picked it up. With +the rusty mid-iron in one hand and the ball in the other, he went +downstairs, passed through the house, unlocked the back door and went +into the yard. Behind the garage was a smooth stretch of lawn, fifty +feet in diameter, carefully mowed and rolled. In the centre of this +emerald carpet was a hole, and in the hole was a flag. This was Mr. +Coyne's private putting green. + +"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. All +confounded foolishness!" + +So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his works +dropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The lie +did not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted his +disreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron a +few times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attempted +that most difficult of all performances--the chip shot. The ball hopped +across the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolled +straight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from the +hole. + +"Heavens above!" gasped Mr. Coyne, rubbing his eyes. "Look at that, will +you? I hit the pin, by golly--_hit the pin_!" + + * * * * * + +At dusk Mrs. Coyne returned. The first thing she noticed was that a +large rug was missing from the dining room. Having had experience, she +knew exactly where to look for it. On the back porch she paused, her +hands on her hips. The missing rug was hanging over the clothesline, and +her lord and master, in shirtsleeves and the unspeakable Romeos, was +driving a single golf ball against it. + +Whish-h-h! Click! Thud! + +"And I guess that's getting my weight into the swing!" babbled Mr. +Coyne. "I've found out what I've been doing that was wrong. Watch me hit +this one, Mary." + +Mrs. Coyne was everything that a good wife should be, but she sniffed +audibly. + +"I've told you a dozen times that I didn't want you knocking holes in +that rug!" said she. + +"Why, there isn't a hole in it, my dear." + +"Well, there will be if you keep on. It seems to me, Bob, that you might +get enough golf out at the club. Then you won't scandalise the +neighbours by practising in the back yard on Sunday afternoons. What do +you suppose they'll think of you?" + +"They'll think I'm crazy," was the cheerful response; "but, just between +you and me, my dear, I'm not near so crazy right now as I have been!" + + +III + +Jasper was cleaning up the locker room--his regular Monday-morning job. +As he worked he crooned the words of an old negro melody: + + "_Ole bline hawss, come outen the wilderness, + Outen the wilderness, outen the wilderness; + Ole bline hawss_----" + +The side door opened and Jasper dropped his mop. + +"Who's that?" he asked. "This early in the mawnin'?" But when he +recognised the caller he did not show the faintest symptoms of surprise. +Jasper was more than a perfect servant; he was also a diplomat. "Good +mawnin', Misteh Coyne." + +The caller seemed embarrassed. He attempted to assume a cheerful +expression, but succeeded in producing a silly grin. + +"Jasper," said he, "I was a little bit sore yesterday----" + +"Yes, suh; an' nobody could blame you," said the negro, coming +gallantly to the rescue. + +"And you know how it is with a man when he's sore." + +"Yes, suh. Man don' always mean whut he say--that is, he mean it all +right at the _time_. Yes, suh. At--the--time. 'N'en ag'in, he might +_change_." + +"That's it exactly!" said Coyne, and floundered to a full stop. + +Jasper's face was grave, but he found it necessary to fix his eyes on +the opposite wall. + +"Yes, suh," said he. "Las' month I swo' off too." + +"Swore off on what?" + +"Craps, Misteh Coyne. Whut Bu't Williams calls Af'ican golf. Yes, suh, I +swo' off; but las' night--well, I kind o' fell f'um grace. I fell, suh; +but I wasn't damaged so much as some o' them boys in the game." Jasper +chuckled to himself. "Yes, suh; I sutny sewed 'em up propeh! Look like I +come back in my ole-time fawm!" + +"That's it!" Coyne agreed eagerly. "I've got my chip shot back, Jasper. +Last night, at home, I was hitting 'em as clean as a whistle. I--I ran +out here this morning to have a little talk with you. You remember about +those clubs?" Jasper nodded. "That was a foolish thing to do----" began +Coyne. + +"No, suh!" interrupted Jasper positively. "No, suh! When a man git good +an' sore he do a lot o' things whut awdinarily he wouldn't think o' +doin'! Las' month I th'owed away the best paih o' crap dice you eveh +saw. You givin' away yo' clubs is exackly the same thing." + +"That was what I wanted to see you about," said Coyne with a shamefaced +grin. "I was wondering if there wouldn't be some way to get those clubs +back--buying 'em from the boys. You could explain----" + +Jasper cackled and slapped his knees. + +"Same thing all oveh ag'in!" said he. "I th'owed them dice away, Misteh +Coyne; but I th'owed 'em kind o' _easy_, an' I knowed where to look. So, +when you tol' me 'bout them clubs I--well, suh, I ain' been c'nected +with this club twenty yeahs faw nothin'. If I was you, suh, I think I'd +look in my lockeh." + +Coyne drew the bolt and opened the door. His clothes were hanging on the +hooks; his shoes were resting on the steel floor; his golf bag was +leaning in the corner, and it was full of clubs--the clubs he had given +away the day before! Coyne tried to speak, but the words would not come. + +"You see, Misteh Coyne," explained Jasper, "I knowed them fool boys +would bust them clubs or somethin', an' I kind of s'pected you'd be +wantin' 'em back ag'in; so I didn't take no chances. Afteh you left +yestiddy I kind o' took mattehs in my own hands. I tol' them caddies you +was only foolin'. The younges' ones, they was open to conviction; but +them oldeh boys--they had to be showed. Now that light mid-iron--I had +to give Butch a dollah an' twenty cents faw it. That brassy was a dollah +an' a half----" + +Ten minutes later the incomparable Jasper was alone in the locker room, +examining a very fine sample of the work turned out by the Bureau of +Engraving and Printing at Washington, D. C. Across the bottom of this +specimen were two words in large black type: Twenty Dollars. + +"Haw!" chuckled Jasper. "I wisht some mo' of these membehs would quit +playin' golf!" + + + + +THE OOLEY-COW + + +I + +After the explosion, and before Uncle Billy Poindexter and Old Man +Sprott had been able to decide just what had hit them, Little Doc Ellis +had the nerve to tell me that he had seen the fuse burning for months +and months. Little Doc is my friend and I like him, but he resembles +many other members of his profession in that he is usually wisest after +the post mortem, when it is a wee bit late for the high contracting +party. + +And at all times Little Doc is full of vintage bromides and figures of +speech. + +"You have heard the old saw," said he. "A worm will turn if you keep +picking on him, and so will a straight road if you ride it long enough. +A camel is a wonderful burden bearer, but even a double-humped ship of +the desert will sink on your hands if you pile the load on him a bale of +hay at a time." + +"A worm, a straight road, a camel and a sinking ship," said I. "Whither +are we drifting?" + +Little Doc did not pay any attention to me. It is a way he has. + +"Think," said he, "how much longer a camel will stand up under +punishment if he gets his load straw by straw, as it were. The Ooley-cow +was a good thing, but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott did not use any +judgment. They piled it on him too thick." + +"Meaning," I asked, "to compare the Ooley-cow with a camel?" + +"Merely a figure of speech," said Little Doc; "but yes, such was my +intention." + +"Well," said I, "your figures of speech need careful auditing. A camel +can go eight days without a drink----" + +Little Doc made impatient motions at me with both hands. He has no sense +of humour, and his mind is a one-way track, totally devoid of spurs and +derailing switches. Once started, he must go straight through to his +destination. + +"What I am trying to make plain to your limited mentality," said he, "is +that Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott needed a lesson in conservation, and +they got it. The Ooley-cow was the easiest, softest picking that ever +strayed from the home pasture. With care and decent treatment he would +have lasted a long time and yielded an enormous quantity of nourishment, +but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were too greedy. They tried to corner +the milk market, and now they will have to sign tags for their drinks +and their golf balls the same as the rest of us. They have killed the +goose that laid the golden eggs." + +"A minute ago," said I, "the Ooley-cow was a camel. Now he is a goose--a +dead goose, to be exact. Are you all done figuring with your speech!" + +"Practically so, yes." + +"Then," said I, "I will plaster up the cracks in your argument with the +cement of information. I can use figures of speech myself. You are +barking up the wrong tree. You are away off your base. It wasn't the +loss of a few dollars that made Mr. Perkins run wild in our midst. It +was the manner in which he lost them. Let us now dismiss the worm, the +camel, the goose and all the rest of the menagerie, retaining only the +Ooley-cow. What do you know about cows, if anything?" + +"A little," answered my medical friend. + +"A mighty little. You know that a cow has hoofs, horns and a tail. The +same description would apply to many creatures, including Satan himself. +Your knowledge of cows is largely academic. Now me, I was raised on a +farm, and there were cows in my curriculum. I took a seven-year course +in the gentle art of acquiring the lacteal fluid. Cow is my specialty, +my long suit, my best hold. Believe it or not, when we christened old +Perkins the Ooley-cow we builded better than we knew." + +"I follow you at a great distance," said little Doc. "Proceed with the +rat killing. Why did we build better than we knew when we did not know +anything!" + +"Because," I explained, "Perkins not only looks like a cow and walks +like a cow and plays golf like a cow, but he has the predominant +characteristic of a cow. He has the one distinguishing trait which all +country cows have in common. If you had studied that noble domestic +animal as closely as I have, you would not need to be told what moved +Mr. Perkins to strew the entire golf course with the mangled remains of +the two old pirates before mentioned. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott +were milking him, yes, and it is quite likely that the Ooley-cow knew +that he was being milked, but that knowledge was not the prime cause of +the late unpleasantness." + +"I still follow you," said Little Doc plaintively, "but I am losing +ground every minute." + +"Listen carefully," said I. "Pin back your ears and give me your +undivided attention. There are many ways of milking a cow without +exciting the animal to violence. I speak now of the old-fashioned +cow--the country cow--from Iowa, let us say." + +"The Ooley-cow is from Iowa," murmured Little Doc. + +"Exactly. A city cow may be milked by machinery, and in a dozen +different ways, but the country cow does not know anything about new +fangled methods. There is one thing--and one thing only--which will make +the gentlest old mooley in Iowa kick over the bucket, upset the milker, +jump a four-barred fence and join the wild bunch on the range. Do you +know what that one thing is?" + +"I haven't even a suspicion," confessed Little Doc. + +Then I told him. I told him in words of one syllable, and after a time +he was able to grasp the significance of my remarks. If I could make +Little Doc see the point I can make you see it too. We go from here. + + * * * * * + +Wesley J. Perkins hailed from Dubuque, but he did not hail from there +until he had gathered up all the loose change in Northeastern Iowa. When +he arrived in sunny Southern California he was fifty-five years of age, +and at least fifty of those years had been spent in putting aside +something for a rainy day. Judging by the diameter of his bankroll, he +must have feared the sort of a deluge which caused the early settlers to +lay the ground plans for the Tower of Babel. + +Now it seldom rains in Southern California--that is to say, it seldom +rains hard enough to produce a flood--and as soon as Mr. Perkins became +acquainted with climatic conditions he began to jettison his ark. He +joined an exclusive downtown club, took up quarters there and spent his +afternoons playing dominoes with some other members of the I've-got-mine +Association. Aside from his habit of swelling up whenever he mentioned +his home town, and insisting on referring to it as "the Heidelberg of +America," there was nothing about Mr. Perkins to provoke comment, +unfavourable or otherwise. He was just one more Iowan in a country where +Iowans are no novelty. + +In person he was the mildest-mannered man that ever foreclosed a +short-term mortgage and put a family out in the street. His eyes were +large and bovine, his mouth drooped perpetually and so did his jowls, +and he moved with the slow, uncertain gait of a venerable milch cow. He +had a habit of lowering his head and staring vacantly into space, and +all these things earned for him the unhandsome nickname by which he is +now known. + +"But why the Ooley-cow?" some one asked one day. "It doesn't mean +anything at all!" + +"Well," was the reply, "neither does Perkins." + +But this was an error, as we shall see later. + +It was an increasing waistline that caused the Ooley-cow to look about +him for some form of gentle exercise. His physician suggested golf, and +that very week the board of directors of the Country Club was asked to +consider his application for membership. There were no ringing cheers, +but he passed the censors. + +I will say for Perkins that when he decided to commit golf he went about +it in a very thorough manner. He had himself surveyed for three +knickerbocker suits, he laid in a stock of soft shirts, imported +stockings and spiked shoes, and he gave our professional _carte +blanche_ in the matter of field equipment. It is not a safe thing to +give a Scotchman permission to dip his hand in your change pocket, and +MacPherson certainly availed himself of the opportunity to finger some +of the Dubuque money. He took one look at the novice and unloaded on him +something less than a hundredweight of dead stock. He also gave him a +lesson or two, and sent him forth armed to the teeth with wood, iron and +aluminum. + +Almost immediately Perkins found himself in the hands of Poindexter and +Sprott, two extremely hard-boiled old gentlemen who have never been +known to take any interest in a financial proposition assaying less than +seven per cent, and that fully guaranteed. Both are retired capitalists, +but when they climbed out of the trenches and retreated into the realm +of sport they took all their business instincts with them. + +Uncle Billy can play to a twelve handicap when it suits him to do so, +and his partner in crime is only a couple of strokes behind him; but +they seldom uncover their true form, preferring to pose as doddering and +infirm invalids, childish old men, who only think they can play the game +of golf, easy marks for the rising generation. New members are their +victims; beginners are just the same as manna from heaven to them. They +instruct the novice humbly and apologetically, but always with a small +side bet, and no matter how fast the novice improves he makes the +astounding discovery that his two feeble old tutors are able to keep +pace with him. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott are experts at nursing a +betting proposition along, and they seldom win any sort of a match by a +margin of more than two up and one to go. Taking into account the +natural limitations of age they play golf very well, but they play a +cinch even better--and harder. It is common scandal that Uncle Billy has +not bought a golf ball in ten years. Old Man Sprott bought one in 1915, +but it was under the mellowing influence of the third toddy and, +therefore, should not count against him. + +The Ooley-cow was a cinch. When he turned up, innocent and guileless and +eager to learn the game, Uncle Billy and his running mate were quick to +realise that Fate had sent them a downy bird for plucking, and in no +time at all the air was full of feathers. + +They played the Ooley-cow for golf balls, they played him for caddy +hire, they played him for drinks and cigars, they played him for +luncheons and they played him for a sucker--played him for everything, +in fact, but the locker rent and the club dues. How they came to +overlook these items is more than I know. The Ooley-cow would have stood +for it; he stood for everything. He signed all the tags with a loose and +vapid grin, and if he suffered from writer's cramp he never mentioned +the fact. His monthly bill must have been a thing to shudder at, but +possibly he regarded this extra outlay as part of his tuition. + +Once in a while he was allowed to win, for Poindexter and Sprott +followed the system practised by other confidence men; but they never +forgot to take his winnings away from him the next day, charging him +interest at the rate of fifty per cent for twenty-four hours. The +Ooley-cow was so very easy that they took liberties with him, so +good-natured about his losses that they presumed upon that good nature +and ridiculed him openly; but the old saw sometimes loses a tooth, the +worm turns, the straight road bends at last, so does the camel's back, +and the prize cow kicks the milker into the middle of next week. And, as +I remarked before, the cow usually has a reason. + + +II + +One morning I dropped into the downtown club which Perkins calls his +home. I found him sitting in the reception room, juggling a newspaper +and watching the door. He seemed somewhat disturbed. + +"Good morning," said I. + +"It is not a good morning," said he. "It's a bad morning. Look at this." + +He handed me the paper, with his thumb at the head of the Lost-and-Found +column, and I read as follows: + +"LOST--A black leather wallet, containing private papers and a sum of +money. A suitable reward will be paid for the return of same, and no +questions asked. Apply to W. J. P., Argonaut Club, City." + +"Tough luck," said I. "Did you lose much?" + +"Quite a sum," replied the Ooley-cow. "Enough to make it an object. In +large bills mostly." + +"Too bad. The wallet had your cards in it?" + +"And some papers of a private nature." + +"Have you any idea where you might have dropped it? Or do you think it +was stolen?" + +"I don't know what to think. I had it last night at the Country Club +just before I left. I know I had it then, because I took it out in the +lounging room to pay a small bet to Mr. Poindexter--a matter of two +dollars. Then I put the wallet back in my inside pocket and came +straight here--alone in a closed car. I missed it just before going to +bed. I telephoned to the Country Club. No sign of it there. I went to +the garage myself. It was not in the car. Of course it may have been +there earlier in the evening, but I think my driver is honest, and----" + +At this point we were interrupted by a clean-cut looking youngster of +perhaps seventeen years. + +"Your initials are W. J. P., sir?" he asked politely. + +"They are." + +"This is your 'ad' in the paper?" + +"It is." + +The boy reached in his pocket and brought out a black leather wallet. "I +have returned your property," said he, and waited while the Ooley-cow +thumbed a roll of yellow-backed bills. + +"All here," said Perkins with a sigh of relief. Then he looked up at the +boy, and his large bovine eyes turned hard as moss agates. "Where did +you get this?" he demanded abruptly. "How did you come by it?" + +The boy smiled and shook his head, but his eyes never left Perkins' +face. "No questions were to be asked, sir," said he. + +"Right!" grunted the Ooley-cow. "Quite right. A bargain's a bargain. +I--I beg your pardon, young man.... Still, I'd like to know.... Just +curiosity, eh?... No?... Very well then. That being the case"--he +stripped a fifty-dollar note from the roll and passed it over--"would +you consider this a suitable reward?" + +"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir." + +"Good day," said Perkins, and put the wallet into his pocket. He stared +at the boy until he disappeared through the street door. + +"Something mighty queer about this," mused the Ooley-cow thoughtfully. +"Mighty queer. That boy--he looked honest. He had good eyes and he +wasn't afraid of me. I couldn't scare him worth a cent. Couldn't bluff +him.... Yet if he found it somewhere, there wasn't any reason why he +shouldn't have told me. He didn't steal it--I'll bet on that. Maybe he +got it from some one who did. Oh, well, the main thing is that he +brought it back.... Going out to the Country Club this afternoon?" + +I said that I expected to play golf that day. + +"Come out with me then," said the Ooley-cow. "Poindexter and Sprott will +be there too. Yesterday afternoon I played Poindexter for the lunches +to-day. Holed a long putt on the seventeenth green, and stuck him. Come +along, and we'll make Poindexter give a party--for once." + +"It can't be done," said I. "Uncle Billy doesn't give parties." + +"We'll make him give one," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "We'll insist on it." + +"Insist if you want to," said I, "but you'll never get away with it." + +"Meet me here at noon," said the Ooley-cow. "If Poindexter doesn't give +the party I will." + +I wasn't exactly keen for the Ooley-cow's society, but I accepted his +invitation to ride out to the club in his car. He regaled me with a +dreary monologue, descriptive of the Heidelberg of America, and solemnly +assured me that the pretty girls one sees in Chicago are all from +Dubuque. + +It was twelve-thirty when we arrived at the Country Club, and Uncle +Billy and Old Man Sprott were there ahead of us. + +"Poindexter," said Perkins, "you are giving a party to-day, and I have +invited our friend here to join us." + +Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott, and both laughed uproariously. +Right there was where I should have detected the unmistakable odour of a +rodent. It was surprise number one. + +"Dee-lighted!" cackled Uncle Billy. "Glad to have another guest, ain't +we, Sprott?" + +Sprott grinned and rubbed his hands. "You bet! Tell you what let's do, +Billy. Let's invite everybody in the place--make it a regular party +while you're at it!" + +"Great idea!" exclaimed Uncle Billy. "The more the merrier!" This was +surprise number two. The first man invited was Henry Bauer, who has +known Uncle Billy for many years. He sat down quite overcome. + +"You shouldn't do a thing like that, Billy," said he querulously. "I +have a weak heart, and any sudden shock----" + +"Nonsense! You'll join us?" + +"Novelty always appealed to me," said Bauer. "I'm forever trying things +that nobody has ever tried before. Yes, I'll break bread with you, +but--why the celebration? What's it all about?" + +That was what everybody wanted to know and what nobody found out, but +the luncheon was a brilliant success in spite of the dazed and mystified +condition of the guests, and the only limit was the limit of individual +capacity. Eighteen of us sat down at the big round table, and +sandwich-and-milk orders were sternly countermanded by Uncle Billy, who +proved an amazing host, recommending this and that and actually ordering +Rhine-wine cup for all hands. I could not have been more surprised if +the bronze statue in the corner of the grill had hopped down from its +pedestal to fill our glasses. Uncle Billy collected a great pile of tags +beside his plate, but the presence of so much bad news waiting at his +elbow did not seem to affect his appetite in the least. When the party +was over he called the head waiter. "Mark these tags paid," said Uncle +Billy, capping the collection with a yellow-backed bill, "and hand the +change to Mr. Perkins." + +"Yes sir," said the head waiter, and disappeared. + +I looked at the Ooley-cow, and was just in time to see the light of +intelligence dawn in his big soft eyes. He was staring at Uncle Billy, +and his lower lip was flopping convulsively. Everybody began asking +questions at once. + +"One moment, gentlemen," mooed the Ooley-cow, pounding on the table. +"One moment!" + +"Now don't get excited, Perkins," said Old Man Sprott. "You got your +wallet back, didn't you? Cost you fifty, but you got it back. Next time +you won't be so careless." + +"Yes," chimed in Uncle Billy, "you oughtn't to go dropping your money +round loose that way. It'll teach you a lesson." + +"It will indeed." The Ooley-cow lowered his head and glared first at one +old pirate and then at the other. His soft eyes hardened and the +moss-agate look came into them. He seemed about to bellow, paw up the +dirt and charge. + +"The laugh is on you," cackled Poindexter, "and I'll leave it to the +boys here. Last night our genial host dropped his wallet on the floor +out in the lounging room. I kicked it across under the table to Sprott +and Sprott put his foot on it. We intended to give it back to him +to-day, but this morning there was an 'ad' in the paper--reward and no +questions asked--so we sent a nice bright boy over to the Argonaut Club +with the wallet. Perkins gave the boy a fifty-dollar note--very liberal, +I call it--and the boy gave it to me. Perfectly legitimate transaction. +Our friend here has had a lesson, we've had a delightful luncheon party, +and the joke is on him." + +"And a pretty good joke, too!" laughed Old Man Sprott. + +"Yes," said the Ooley-cow at last, "a pretty good joke. Ha, ha! A mighty +good joke." And place it to his credit that he managed a very fair +imitation of a fat man laughing, even to the shaking of the stomach and +the wrinkles round the eyes. He looked down at the tray in front of him +and fingered the few bills and some loose silver. + +"A mighty good joke," he repeated thoughtfully, "but what I can't +understand is this--why didn't you two jokers keep the change? It would +have been just that much funnier." + + +III + +The Ooley-cow's party was generally discussed during the next ten days, +the consensus of club opinion being that some one ought to teach +Poindexter and Sprott the difference between humour and petty larceny. +Most of the playing members were disgusted with the two old skinflints, +and one effect of this sentiment manifested itself in the number of +invitations that Perkins received to play golf with real people. He +declined them all, much to our surprise, and continued to wallop his way +round the course with Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott, apparently on as +cordial terms as ever. + +"What are you going to do with such a besotted old fool as that?" asked +Henry Bauer. "Here I've invited him into three foursomes this week--all +white men, too--and he's turned me down cold. It's not that we want to +play with him, for as a golfer he's a terrible thing. It's not that +we're crazy about him personally, for socially he's my notion of zero +minus; but he took his stinging like a dead-game sport and he's entitled +to better treatment than he's getting. But if he hasn't any better sense +than to pass his plate for more, what are you going to do about it?" + +"'Ephraim is joined to idols,'" quoted Little Doc Ellis. "'Let him +alone.'" + +"No, it's the other way round," argued Bauer. "His idols are joined to +him--fastened on like leeches. The question naturally arises, how did +such a man ever accumulate a fortune? Who forced it on him, and when, +and where, and why?" + +That very afternoon the Ooley-cow turned up with his guest, a large, +loud person, also from the Heidelberg of America, who addressed Perkins +as "Wesley," and lost no time in informing us that Southern California +would have starved to death but for Iowa capital. His name was +Cottle--Calvin D. Cottle--and he gave each one of us his card as he was +introduced. There was no need. Nobody could have forgotten him. Some +people make an impression at first sight--Calvin D. Cottle made a deep +dent. His age was perhaps forty-five, but he spoke as one crowned with +Methuselah's years and Solomon's wisdom, and after each windy statement +he turned to the Ooley-cow for confirmation. + +"Ain't that so, Wesley? Old Wes knows, you bet your life! He's from my +home town!" + +It was as good as a circus to watch Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott +sizing up this fresh victim. It reminded me of two wary old dogs +circling for position, manoeuvring for a safe hold. They wanted to +know something about his golf game--what was his handicap, for +instance? + +"Handicap?" repeated Cottle. "Is that a California idea? Something new, +ain't it?" + +Uncle Billy explained the handicapping theory. + +"Oh!" said Cottle. "You mean what do I go round in--how many strokes. +Well, sometimes I cut under a hundred; sometimes I don't. It just +depends. Some days I can hit 'em, some days I can't. That's all there is +to it." + +"My case exactly," purred Old Man Sprott. "Suppose we dispense with the +handicap?" + +"That's the stuff!" agreed Cottle heartily. "I don't want to have to +give anybody anything; I don't want anybody to give me anything. I like +an even fight, and what I say is, may the best man win! Am I right, +gentlemen?" + +"Absolutely!" chirped Uncle Billy. "May the best man win!" + +"You bet I'm right!" boomed Cottle. "Ask old Wes here about me. Raised +right in the same town with him, from a kid knee-high to a grasshopper! +I never took any the best of it in my life, did I, Wes? No, you bet not! +Remember that time I got skinned out of ten thousand bucks on the land +deal? A lot of fellows would have squealed, wouldn't they? A lot of +fellows would have hollered for the police; but I just laughed and gave +'em credit for being smarter than I was. I'm the same way in sport as I +am in business. I believe in giving everybody credit. I win if I can, +but if I can't--well, there's never any hard feelings. That's me all +over. You may be able to _lick_ me at this golf thing--likely you will; +but you'll never _scare_ me, that's a cinch. Probably you gentlemen play +a better game than I do--been at it longer; but then I'm a lot younger +than you are. Got more strength. Hit a longer ball when I do manage to +land on one right. So it all evens up in the long run." + +Mr. Cottle was still modestly cheering his many admirable qualities when +the Perkins party went in to luncheon, and the only pause he made was on +the first tee. With his usual caution Uncle Billy had arranged it so +that Dubuque was opposed to Southern California, and he had also +carefully neglected to name any sort of a bet until after he had seen +the stranger drive. + +Cottle teed his ball and stood over it, gripping his driver until his +knuckles showed white under the tan. "Get ready to ride!" said he. +"You're about to leave this place!" + +The club head whistled through the air, and I can truthfully say that I +never saw a man of his size swing any harder at a golf ball--or come +nearer cutting one completely in two. + +"Topped it, by gum!" ejaculated Mr. Cottle, watching the maimed ball +until it disappeared in a bunker. "Topped it! Well, better luck next +time! By the way, what are we playing for? Balls, or money, or what?" + +"Whatever you like," said Uncle Billy promptly. "You name it." + +"Good! That's the way I like to hear a man talk. Old Wes here is my +partner, so I can't bet with him, but I'll have a side match with each +of you gentlemen--say, ten great, big, smiling Iowa dollars. Always like +to bet what I've got the most of. Satisfactory?" + +Uncle Billy glanced at Old Man Sprott, and for an instant the old +rascals hesitated. The situation was made to order for them, but they +would have preferred a smaller wager to start with, being petty +larcenists at heart. + +"Better cut that down to five," said Perkins to Cottle in a low tone. +"They play a strong game." + +"Humph!" grunted his guest. "Did you ever know me to pike in my life? I +ain't going to begin now. Ten dollars or nothing!" + +"I've got you," said Old Man Sprott. + +"This once," said Uncle Billy. "It's against my principles to play for +money; but yes, this once." + +And then those two old sharks insisted on a foursome bet as well. + +"Ball, ball, ball," said the Ooley-cow briefly, and proceeded to follow +his partner into the bunker. Poindexter and Sprott popped conservatively +down the middle of the course and the battle was on. + +Battle, did I say! It was a massacre of the innocents, a slaughter of +babes and sucklings. Our foursome trailed along behind, and took note of +Mr. Cottle, of Dubuque, in his fruitless efforts to tear the cover off +the ball. He swung hard enough to knock down a lamp-post, but he seldom +made proper connections, and when he did the ball landed so far off the +course that it took him a dozen shots to get back again. He was +hopelessly bad, so bad that there was no chance to make the side matches +close ones. On the tenth tee Cottle demanded another bet--to give him a +chance to get even, he said. Poindexter and Sprott each bet him another +ten dollar note on the last nine, and this time Uncle Billy did not say +anything about his principles. + +After it was all over Cottle poured a few mint toddies into his system +and floated an alibi to the surface. + +"It was those confounded sand greens that did it," said he. "I'm used to +grass, and I can't putt on anything else. Bet I could take you to +Dubuque and flail the everlasting daylights out of you!" + +"Shouldn't be surprised," said Uncle Billy. "You did a lot better on the +last nine--sort of got into your stride. Any time you think you want +revenge----" + +"You can have it," finished Old Man Sprott, as he folded a crisp +twenty-dollar note. "We believe in giving a man a chance--eh, Billy?" + +"That's the spirit!" cried Cottle enthusiastically. "Give a man a +chance; it's what I say, and if he does anything, give him credit. You +beat me to-day, but I never saw this course before. Tell you what we'll +do: Let's make a day of it to-morrow. Morning and afternoon both. +Satisfactory! Good! You've got forty dollars of my dough and I want it +back. Nobody ever made me quit betting yet, if I figure to have a +chance. What's money? Shucks! My country is full of it! Now then, +Wesley, if you'll come out on the practise green and give me some +pointers on this sand thing, I'll be obliged to you. Ball won't run on +sand like it will on grass--have to get used to it. Have to hit 'em a +little harder. Soon as I get the hang of the thing we'll give these +Native Sons a battle yet! Native Sons? Native Grandfathers! Come on!" +Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott and Old Man Sprott looked at Uncle +Billy, but they did not begin to laugh until the Ooley-cow and his guest +were out of earshot. Then they clucked and cackled and choked like a +couple of hysterical old hens. + +"His putting!" gurgled Uncle Billy. "Did he have a putt to win a hole +all the way round?" + +"Not unless he missed count of his shots. Say, Billy!" + +"Well?" + +"We made a mistake locating so far West. We should have stopped in Iowa. +By now we'd have owned the entire state!" + + +IV + +I dropped Mr. Calvin D. Cottle entirely out of my thoughts; but when I +entered the locker room shortly after noon the next day something +reminded me of him. Possibly it was the sound of his voice. + +"Boy! Can't we have 'nother toddy here? What's the matter with some +service? How 'bout you, Wes? Oh, I forgot--you never take anything till +after five o 'clock. Think of all the fun you're missing. When I get to +be an old fossil like you maybe I'll do the same. Good rule.... You +gentlemen having anything? No? Kind of careful, ain't you? Safety first, +hey?... Just one toddy, boy, and if that mint ain't fresh, I'll .... +Yep, you're cagey birds, you are, but I give you credit just the same. +And some cash. Don't forget that. Rather have cash than credit any time, +hey? I bet you would! But I don't mind a little thing like that. I'm a +good sport. You ask Wes here if I ain't. If I ain't a good sport I ain't +anything.... Still, I'll be darned if I see how you fellows do it! +You're both old enough to have sons in the Soldiers' Home over yonder, +but you take me out and lick me again--lick me and make me like it! A +couple of dried-up mummies with one foot in the grave, and I'm right in +the prime of life! Only a kid yet! It's humiliating, that's what it is, +humiliating! Forty dollars apiece you're into me--and a flock of golf +balls on the side! Boy! Where's that mint toddy? Let's have a little +service here!" + +I peeped through the door leading to the lounging room. The +Dubuque-California foursome was grouped at a table in a corner. The +Ooley-cow looked calm and placid as usual, but his guest was sweating +profusely, and as he talked he mopped his brow with the sleeve of his +shirt. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were listening politely, but the +speculative light in their eyes told me that they were wondering how far +they dared go with this outlander from the Middle West. + +"Why," boomed Cottle, "I can hit a ball twice as far as either one of +you! 'Course I don't always know where it's going, but the main thing is +I got the _strength_. I can throw a golf ball farther than you old +fossils can hit one with a wooden club, yet you lick me easy as breaking +sticks. Can't understand it at all.... Twice as strong as you are.... +Why, say, I bet I can take one hand and outdrive you! _One hand!_" + +"Easy, Calvin," said the Ooley-cow reprovingly. "Don't make wild +statements." + +"Well, I'll bet I can do it," repeated Cottle stubbornly. "If a man's +willing to bet his money to back up a wild statement, that shows he's +got the right kind of a heart anyway. + +"I ought to be able to stick my left hand in my pocket and go out there +and trim two men of your age. I ought to, and I'll be damned if I don't +think I can!" + +"Tut, tut!" warned the Ooley-cow. "That's foolishness." + +"Think so?" Cottle dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out a +thick roll of bills. "Well, this stuff here says I can do it--at least I +can _try_--and I ain't afraid to back my judgment." + +"Put your money away," said Perkins. "Don't be a fool!" + +Cottle laughed uproariously and slapped the Ooley-cow on the back. + +"Good old Wes!" he cried. "Ain't changed a bit. Conservative! Always +conservative! Got rich at it, but me I got rich taking chances. What's a +little wad of bills to me, hey? Nothing but chicken-feed! I'll bet any +part of this roll--I'll bet _all_ of it--and I'll play these sun-dried +old sports with one hand. Now's the time to show whether they've got any +sporting blood or not. What do you say, gentlemen?" + +Uncle Billy looked at the money and moistened his lips with the tip of +his tongue. + +"Couldn't think of it," he croaked at length. + +"Pshaw!" sneered Cottle. "I showed you too much--I scared you!" + +"He ain't scared," put in Old Man Sprott. "It would be too much like +stealing it." + +"I'm the one to worry about that," announced Cottle. "It's my money, +ain't it? I made it, didn't I? And I can do what I damn please with +it--spend it, bet it, burn it up, throw it away. When you've worried +about everything else in the world it'll be time for you to begin +worrying about young Mr. Cottle's money! This slim little roll--bah! +Chicken-feed! Come get it if you want it!" He tossed the money on the +table with a gesture which was an insult in itself. "There it is--cover +it! Put up or shut up!" + +"Oh, forget it!" said the Ooley-cow wearily. "Come in and have a bite to +eat and forget it!" + +"Don't want anything to eat!" was the stubborn response. "Seldom eat in +the middle of the day. But I'll have 'nother mint toddy.... Wait a +second, Wes. Don't be in such a rush. Lemme understand this thing. +These--these gentlemen here, these two friends of yours, these dead-game +old Native Sons have got eighty dollars of my money--not that it makes +any difference to me, understand, but they've got it--eighty dollars +that they won from me playing golf. Now I may have a drink or two in me +and I may not, understand, but anyhow I know what I'm about. I make +these--gentlemen a sporting proposition. I give 'em a chance to pick up +a couple of hundred apiece, and they want to run out on me because it'll +be like stealing it. What kind of a deal is that, hey? Is it +sportsmanship? Is it what they call giving a man a chance? Is it----" + +"But they know you wouldn't have a chance," interrupted the Ooley-cow +soothingly. "They don't want a sure thing." + +"They've had one so far, haven't they?" howled Cottle. "What are they +scared of now? 'Fraid I'll squeal if I lose? Tell 'em about me, Wes. +Tell 'em I never squealed in my life! I win if I can, but if I +can't--'s all right. No kick coming. There never was a piker in the +Cottle family, was there, Wes? No, you bet not! We're sports, every one +of us. Takes more than one slim little roll to send us up a tree! If +there's anything that makes me sick, it's a cold-footed, penny-pinching, +nickel-nursing, sure-thing player!" + +"Your money does not frighten me," said Uncle Billy, who was slightly +nettled by this time. "It is against my principles to play for a cash +bet----" + +"But you and your pussy-footed old side-partner got into me for eighty +dollars just the same!" scoffed Cottle. "You and your principles be +damned!" + +Uncle Billy swallowed this without blinking, but he did not look at +Cottle. He was looking at the roll of bills on the table. + +"If you are really in earnest----" began Poindexter, and glanced at Old +Man Sprott. + +"Go ahead, Billy," croaked that aged reprobate. "Teach him a lesson. He +needs it." + +"Never mind the lesson," snapped Cottle. "I got out of school a long +time ago. The bet is that I can leave my left arm in the clubhouse +safe--stick it in my pocket--and trim you birds with one hand." + +"We wouldn't insist on that," said Old Man Sprott. "Play with both hands +if you want to." + +"Think I'm a welsher?" demanded Cottle. "The original proposition goes. +'Course I wouldn't really cut the arm off and leave it in the safe, but +what I mean is, if I use two arms in making a shot, right there is where +I lose. Satisfactory?" + +"Perkins," said Uncle Billy, solemnly wagging his head, "you are a +witness that this thing has been forced on me. I have been bullied and +browbeaten and insulted into making this bet----" + +"And so have I," chimed in Old Man Sprott. "I'm almost ashamed----" + +The Ooley-cow shrugged his shoulders. + +"I am a witness," said he quietly. "Calvin, these gentlemen have stated +the case correctly. You have forced them to accept your proposition----" + +"And he can't blame anybody if he loses," finished Uncle Billy as he +reached for the roll of bills. + +"You bet!" ejaculated Old Man Sprott. "He was looking for trouble, and +now he's found it. Count it, Billy, and we'll each take half." + +"That goes, does it?" asked Cottle. + +"Sir?" cried Uncle Billy. + +"Oh, I just wanted to put you on record," said Cottle, with a grin. +"Wesley, you're my witness too. I mislaid a five-hundred-dollar note the +other day, and it may have got into my change pocket. Might as well see +if a big bet will put these safety-first players off their game! Anyhow, +I'm betting whatever's there. I ain't sure how much it is." + +"I am," said Uncle Billy in a changed voice. He had come to the +five-hundred-dollar bill, sandwiched in between two twenties. He looked +at Old Man Sprott, and for the first time I saw doubt in his eyes. + +"Oh, it's there, is it!" asked Cottle carelessly. "Well, let it all +ride. I never backed up on a gambling proposition in my life--never +pinched a bet after the ball started to roll. Shoot the entire works--'s +all right with me!" + +Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott exchanged significant glances, but after +a short argument and some more abuse from Cottle they toddled over to +the desk and filled out two blank checks--for five hundred and eighty +dollars apiece. + +"Make 'em payable to cash," suggested Cottle. "You'll probably tear 'em +up after the game. Now the next thing is a stakeholder----" + +"Is that--necessary?" asked Old Man Sprott. + +"Sure!" said Cottle. "I might run out on you. Let's have everything +according to Hoyle--stakeholder and all the other trimmings. Anybody'll +be satisfactory to me; that young fellow getting an earful at the door; +he'll do." + +So I became the stakeholder--the custodian of eleven hundred and sixty +dollars in coin and two checks representing a like amount. I thought I +detected a slight nervousness in the signatures, and no wonder. It was +the biggest bet those old petty larcenists had ever made in their lives. +They went in to luncheon--at the invitation of the Ooley-cow, of +course--but I noticed that they did not eat much. Cottle wandered out +to the practise green, putter in hand, forgetting all about the mint +toddy which, by the way, had never been ordered. + + +V + +"You drive first, sir," said Uncle Billy to Cottle, pursuing his usual +system. "We'll follow you." + +"Think you'll feel easier if I should hit one over into the eucalyptus +trees yonder?" asked the man from Dubuque. "Little nervous, eh? Does a +big bet scare you? I was counting on that.... Oh, very well, I'll take +the honour." + +"Just a second," said Old Man Sprott, who had been prowling about in the +background and fidgeting with his driver. "Does the stakeholder +understand the terms of the bet? Mr. Cottle is playing a match with each +of us individually----" + +"Separately and side by each," added Cottle. + +"Using only one arm," said Old Man Sprott. + +"If he uses both arms in making a shot," put in Uncle Billy, "he +forfeits both matches. Is that correct, Mr. Cottle?" + +"Correct as hell! Watch me closely, young man. I have no moustache to +deceive you--nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Watch me +closely!" + +He teed his ball, dropped his left arm at his side, grasped the driver +firmly in his right hand and swung the club a couple of times in +tentative fashion. The head of the driver described a perfect arc, +barely grazing the top of the tee. His two-armed swing had been a thing +of violence--a baseball wallop, constricted, bound up, without +follow-through or timing, a combination of brute strength and +awkwardness. Uncle Billy's chin sagged as he watched the easy, natural +sweep of that wooden club--the wrist-snap applied at the proper time, +and the long graceful follow-through which gives distance as well as +direction. Old Man Sprott also seemed to be struggling with an entirely +new and not altogether pleasant idea. + +"Watch me closely, stakeholder," repeated Cottle, addressing the ball. +"Nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Would you gentlemen like to +have me roll up my sleeve before I start?" + +"Drive!" grunted Uncle Billy. + +"I'll do that little thing," said Cottle, and this time he put the power +into the swing. The ball, caught squarely in the middle of the +club-face, went whistling toward the distant green, a perfect screamer +of a drive without a suspicion of hook or slice. It cleared the +cross-bunker by ten feet, carried at least a hundred and eighty yards +before it touched grass, and then bounded ahead like a scared rabbit, +coming to rest at least two hundred and twenty-five yards away. "You +like that?" asked Cottle, moving off the tee. "I didn't step into it +very hard or I might have had more distance. Satisfactory, +stakeholder?" And he winked at me openly and deliberately. + +"Wha--what sort of a game is this?" gulped Old Man Sprott, finding his +voice with an effort. + +"Why," said Cottle, smiling cheerfully, "I wouldn't like to say off-hand +and so early in the game, but you might call it golf. Yes, call it golf, +and let it go at that." + +At this point I wish to go on record as denying the rumour that our two +old reprobates showed the white feather. That first tee shot, and the +manner in which it was made, was enough to inform them that they were up +against a sickening surprise party; but, though startled and shaken, +they did not weaken. They pulled themselves together and drove the best +they knew how, and I realised that for once I was to see their true +golfing form uncovered. + +Cottle tucked his wooden club under his arm and started down the course, +and from that time on he had very little to say. Uncle Billy and Old Man +Sprott followed him, their heads together at a confidential angle, and I +brought up the rear with the Ooley-cow, who had elected himself a +gallery of one. + +The first hole is a long par four. Poindexter and Sprott usually make it +in five, seldom getting home with their seconds unless they have a wind +behind them. Both used brassies and both were short of the green. Then +they watched Cottle as he went forward to his ball. + +"That drive might have been a freak shot," quavered Uncle Billy. + +"Lucky fluke, that's all," said Old Man Sprott, but I knew and they knew +that they only hoped they were telling the truth. + +Cottle paused over his ball for an instant, examined the lie and drew a +wooden spoon from his bag. Then he set himself, and the next instant the +ball was on its way, a long, high shot, dead on the pin. + +"And maybe that was a fluke!" muttered the Ooley-cow under his breath. +"Look! He's got the green with it!" + +From the same distance I would have played a full mid-iron and trusted +in Providence, but Cottle had used his wood, and I may say that never +have I seen a ball better placed. It carried to the little rise of turf +in front of the putting green, hopped once, and trickled onto the sand. +I was not the only one who appreciated that spoon shot. + +"Say," yapped Old Man Sprott, turning to Perkins, "what are we up +against here? Miracles?" + +"Yes, what have you framed up on us?" demanded Uncle Billy vindictively. + +"Something easy, gentlemen," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "A soft thing from +my home town. Probably he's only lucky." + +The two members of the Sure-Thing Society went after their customary +fives and got them, but Cottle laid his approach putt stone dead at the +cup and holed out in four. He missed a three by the matter of half an +inch. I could stand the suspense no longer. I took Perkins aside while +the contestants were walking to the second tee. + +"You might tell a friend," I suggested. "In strict confidence, what are +they up against?" + +"Something easy," repeated the Ooley-cow, regarding me with his soft, +innocent eyes. "They wanted it and now they've got it." + +"But yesterday, when he played with both arms----" I began. + +"That was yesterday," said Perkins. "You'll notice that they didn't have +the decency to offer him a handicap, even when they felt morally certain +that he had made a fool bet. Not that he would have accepted it--but +they didn't offer it. They're wolves, clear to the bone, but once in a +while a wolf bites off more than he can chew." And he walked away from +me. Right there I began reconstructing my opinion of the Ooley-cow. + +In my official capacity as stakeholder I saw every shot that was played +that afternoon. I still preserve the original score card of that amazing +round of golf. There are times when I think I will have it framed and +present it to the club, with red-ink crosses against the thirteenth and +fourteenth holes. I might even set a red-ink star against the difficult +sixth hole, where Cottle sent another tremendous spoon shot down the +wind, and took a four where most of our Class-A men are content with a +five. I might make a notation against the tricky ninth, where he played +a marvellous shot out of a sand trap to halve a hole which I would have +given up as lost. I might make a footnote calling attention to his +deadly work with his short irons. I say I think of all these things, but +perhaps I shall never frame that card. The two men most interested will +never forget the figures. It is enough to say that Old Man Sprott, +playing such golf as I had never seen him play before, succumbed at the +thirteenth hole, six down and five to go. Uncle Billy gave up the ghost +on the fourteenth green, five and four, and I handed the money and the +checks to Mr. Calvin D. Cottle, of Dubuque. He pocketed the loot with a +grin. + +"Shall we play the bye-holes for something?" he asked. "A drink--or a +ball, maybe?" And then the storm broke. I do not pretend to quote the +exact language of the losers. I merely state that I was surprised, yes, +shocked at Uncle Billy Poindexter. I had no idea that a member of the +Episcopal church--but let that pass. He was not himself. He was the +biter bitten, the milker milked. It makes a difference. Old Man Sprott +also erupted in an astounding manner. It was the Ooley-cow who took the +centre of the stage. + +"Just a minute, gentlemen," said he. "Do not say anything which you +might afterward regret. Remember the stakeholder is still with us. My +friend here is not, as you intimate, a crook. Neither is he a +sure-thing player. We have some sure-thing players with us, but he is +not one of them. He is merely the one-armed golf champion of +Dubuque--and the Middle West." + +Imagine an interlude here for fireworks, followed by pertinent +questions. + +"Yes, yes, I know," said Perkins soothingly. "He can't play a lick with +two arms. He never could. Matter of fact, he never learned. He fell off +a haystack in Iowa--how many years ago was it, Cal?" + +"Twelve," said Mr. Cottle. "Twelve next July." + +"And he broke his left arm rather badly," explained the Ooley-cow. +"Didn't have the use of it for--how many years, Cal?" + +"Oh, about six, I should say." + +"Six years. A determined man can accomplish much in that length of time. +Cottle learned to play golf with his right arm--fairly well, as you must +admit. Finally he got the left arm fixed up--they took a piece of bone +out of his shin and grafted it in--newfangled idea. Decided there was no +sense in spoiling a one-armed star to make a dub two-armed golfer. +Country full of 'em already. That's the whole story. You picked him for +an easy mark, a good thing. You thought he had a bad bet and you had a +good one. Don't take the trouble to deny it. Gentlemen, allow me to +present the champion one-armed golfer of Iowa and the Middle West!" + +"Yes," said Cottle modestly, "when a man does anything, give him credit +for it. Personally I'd rather have the cash!" + +"How do you feel about it now?" asked the Ooley-cow. + +Judging by their comments, they felt warm--very warm. Hot, in fact. The +Ooley-cow made just one more statement, but to me that statement +contained the gist of the whole matter. + +"This," said he, "squares us on the wallet proposition. I didn't say +anything about it at the time, but that struck me as a scaly trick. So I +invited Cal to come out and pay me a visit.... Shall we go back to the +clubhouse?" + + * * * * * + +I made Little Doc Ellis see the point; perhaps I can make you see it +now. + +Returning to the original simile, the Ooley-cow was willing to be milked +for golf balls and luncheons and caddie hire. That was legitimate +milking, and he did not resent it. He would have continued to give down +in great abundance, but when they took fifty dollars from him, in the +form of a bogus reward, he kicked over the bucket, injured the milkers +and jumped the fence. + +Why? I'm almost ashamed to tell you, but did you ever hear of a country +cow--an Iowa cow--that would stand for being milked from the wrong side? + +I think this will be all, except that I anticipate a hard winter for the +golfing beginners at our club. + + + + +ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND + + +I + +Now that Winthrop Watson Wilkins has taken his clubs away and cleaned +out his locker some of the fellows are ready enough to admit that he +wasn't half bad. On this point I agree with them. He was not. He was +two-thirds bad, and the remainder was pure, abysmal, impenetrable +ignorance. + +Windy Wilkins may have meant well--perhaps he did--but when a fellow +doesn't know, and doesn't know that he doesn't know and won't let +anybody tell him that he doesn't know, he becomes impossible and out of +place in any respectable and exclusive golf club. I suppose his +apologists feel kindly toward him for eliminating Adolphus Kitts and +squaring about a thousand old scores with that person, but I claim it +was a case of dog eat dog and neither dog a thoroughbred. I for one am +not mourning the departure of Windy Winkins, and if I never see him +again, I will manage to bear it somehow. + +They say that every golf club has one member who slips in while the +membership committee is looking the other way. In Windy's case the +committee had no possible excuse. There was an excuse for Adolphus +Kitts. Adolphus got in when our club absorbed the Crystal Springs +Country Club, and out of courtesy we did not scrutinise the Crystal +Springs membership list, but Windy's name was proposed in the regular +manner. All that was known of him was that he was a stranger in the +community who had presumably never been in jail and who had money. The +club didn't need his initiation fee and wasn't after new members, but +for some reason or other the bars were down and Windy got in. The first +thing we knew he landed in our midst with a terrific splash and began +slapping total strangers on the back and trying to sign all the +tags and otherwise making an ass of himself. He didn't wait for +introductions--just butted in and took things for granted. + +"You see, boys," he explained, "I've always been more or less of an +ath-a-lete and I've tried every game but this one. Now that I'm gettin' +to the time of life when I can't stand rough exercise any more, I +thought I'd kind of like to take up golf. I would have done it when I +lived in Chicago, but my friends laughed me out of it--said it was silly +to get out and whale a little white pill around the country--but I guess +anything that makes a man sweat is healthy, hey? And then my wife +thought it would be a good thing socially, you know, and--no, waiter, +this round is on me. Oh, but I insist! My card, gentlemen. That's right; +keep 'em. I get 'em engraved by the thousand. Waiter! Bring some cigars +here--perfectos, cigarettes--anything the gentlemen'll have, and let it +be the best in the house! I don't smoke cigarettes myself, but my +friends tell me that's the next step after takin' up golf! Ho, ho! No +offence to any of you boys; order cigarettes if you want 'em. Everybody +smokes on the new member!" + +Well, that was Windy's tactful method of introducing himself. Is it any +wonder that we asked questions of the membership committee? No +out-and-out complaints, you understand. We just wanted to know where +Windy came from and how he got in and who was to blame for it. Most of +the information was furnished by Cupid Cutts. + +Cupid is pretty nearly the whole thing at our club. In every golf club +there is one man who does the lion's share of the work and gets nothing +but abuse and criticism for it, and Cupid is our golfing wheel horse, as +you might say. He is a member of the board of directors, a member of the +house committee, chairman of the greens committee, and the Big Stick on +the membership committee. He is also the official handicapper, which is +a mighty good thing to bear in mind when you play against him. I have +known Cupid to cut a man's handicap six strokes for beating him three +ways on a ball-ball-ball Nassau. + +Cutts is no Chick Evans, or anything like that, but, considering his +physical limitations, he is a remarkable golfer and steady as an +eight-day clock. He is so fat that he can't take a full-arm swing to +save his life, but his little half-shot pops the ball straight down the +middle of the course every time, and he plays to his handicap with a +persistency that has broken many a youngster's heart. Straight on the +pin all the time--that's his game, and whenever he's within a hundred +yards of the cup he's liable to lay his ball dead. + +There are lots of things I might tell you about Cupid Cutts--he's a sort +of social Who's Who in white flannels and an obesity belt, and an +authority on scandal and gossip, past and present--but the long and +short of it is that it would be hard to get on without him, even harder +than it is to get on with him. Well, we asked Cupid about Windy Wilkins, +and Cupid went to the bat immediately. + +"Absolutely all right, fellows, oh, absolutely! A little rough, perhaps, +a diamond in the rough, but a good heart. And all kinds of money. He +won't play often enough to bother anybody." + +That was where Cupid was wrong two ways. Windy played every day, rain or +shine, and he bothered everybody. He was just as noisy on the course as +he was in the locker room, and when he missed his putt on the +eighteenth green the fellows who were driving off at No. 1 had to wait +until he cooled down. And when he managed to hit his drive clean he +yelled like a Comanche and jumped up and down on the tee. He did all the +things that can't be done, and when we spoke to him kindly about golfing +etiquette he snorted and said he never had much use for red tape anyway +and thought it was out of place in sport. + +He tramped around on the greens and bothered people who wanted to putt. +He talked and laughed when others were driving. He played out of his +turn. He drove into foursomes whenever he was held up for a minute, just +to let the players know that he was behind 'em. + +He was absolutely impossible, socially and otherwise, but the most +astonishing thing was the way he picked up the game after the first +month or so. Windy was a tremendously big man and looked like the hind +end of an elephant in his knickers; but for all his size he developed a +powerful, easy swing and a reasonable amount of accuracy. As for form, +he didn't know the meaning of the word. His stance was never twice the +same, his grip was a relic of the dark ages, he handled his irons as a +labouring man handles a pick, he did everything that the books say you +mustn't do, and, in spite of it, his game improved amazingly. And he +called us moving-picture golfers! + +"Every move a picture!" he would say. "You have to plant your dear +little feet just so. Your tee has got to be just so high. Your grip must +be right to the fraction of an inch. You must waggle the club back and +forth seven times before you dare to swing it, and then chances are you +don't get anywhere! Step up and paste her on the nose the way I do! +Forget this Miss Nancy stuff and hit the ball!" + +When Windy got down around 90 he swelled all out of shape, and the next +step, of course, was to have some special clubs built by MacLeish, the +professional. They were such queer-looking implements that Cupid joked +him about them one Saturday noon in the locker room. It was then that we +got a real line on Windy, and Cupid found out that even a rough diamond +may have a cutting edge. + +"You're just like all beginners," said Cupid. "You make a few rotten +shots and then think the clubs must be wrong. The regular models aren't +good enough for you. You have to have some built to order, with bigger +faces and stiffer shafts. Get it into your head that the trouble is with +you, not with the club. The ball will go straight if you hit it right." + +"Clubs make a lot of difference," said Windy. "Ten strokes anyway." + +"Nonsense! A good, mechanical golfer can play with any clubs!" + +"I suppose you think you can do it?" + +"I know I can." + +"And you'd bet on it?" + +"Certainly." + +Windy didn't say anything for as much as two minutes. The rascal was +thinking. + +"_All_ right," said he at last. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll make you a +little proposition. You say you can play with any clubs. Give me the +privilege of pickin' 'em out for you, and I'll bet you fifty dollars +that I trim you on an even game--no handicap." + +"Yes, but where are you going to get these clubs for me to play with? +Off a scrap pile or something?" + +"Right out of MacLeish's shop! Brand-new stuff, selected from the +regular stock. And I'll go against you even, just to prove that you +don't know it all, even if you have been playin' golf for twenty years!" + +It was a flat, out-and-out challenge. Cupid looked Windy up and down +with a pitying smile--the same smile he uses when an 18-handicap man +asks to be raised to 24. + +"I'd be ashamed to rob you, Wilkins," said he. + +Windy didn't say anything, but he went into his locker and brought out a +roll of bills about the size of a young grindstone. He counted fifty +dollars off it, and you couldn't have told the difference. It looked +just as big as before. He handed the fifty to me. + +"It would be stealing it," said Cupid, but there was a hungry look in +his eye. + +"If you get away with it," said Windy, "I won't complain to the police. +Put up or shut up." + +Well, it looked like finding the money. We knew that Windy couldn't +break a 90 to save his life, and Cupid had done the course in an 84, +using nothing but a putting cleek. + +"How many clubs can I have?" asked Cupid with his usual caution in the +matter of bets. + +"Oh, six or eight," answered Windy. "Makes no difference to me." + +"I'll take eight," said Cupid briskly. "And if you don't mind, I'll post +a check. I'm not in the habit of carrying the entire cash balance in my +jeans." + +"Fair enough!" said Windy. "You boys are all witnesses to the terms of +this bet. I'm to pick out eight clubs--eight new ones--and Cutts here is +to play with 'em. Is that understood?" + +"Perfectly!" grinned Cupid. "It'll just cost you fifty fish to find out +that a mechanical golfer can lick you with strange weapons." + +Windy went out and Cupid promised us all a dinner on the proceeds of the +match. + +"I don't want the fellow's money," said he, "but Windy's entirely too +fresh for a new member. A beating will do him good and make him humble. +Eight clubs. If he brings me only two or three that I can use--a driver, +a mid-iron, and a putter--I'll hang his hide on the fence too easy. He's +made a bad bet." + +But it wasn't such a bad bet after all. Windy came back with eight +clubs in the crook of his arm, and when Cupid caught a glimpse of the +collection he howled himself purple in the face, and no wonder. Eight +nice, new, shiny, mashie niblicks! + +You see, nothing was said about the _sort_ of clubs Windy was to pick +out, and he had selected eight of the same pattern, no good on earth +except for digging out of bunkers or popping the ball straight up in the +air! Harry Vardon himself can't _drive_ with a mashie niblick! + +"What are you beefin' about?" asked Windy. "Eight clubs, you said, and +here they are. Play or pay." + +"Pay! Why, man alive, it's a catch bet--a cinch bet! It's not being done +this year at all! It's like stealing the money!" + +"And you thought you could steal mine," was the cool reply. "You thought +you had a cinch bet, didn't you? Be honest now. Eight clubs, by the +terms of the agreement, and you'll play with 'em or forfeit the fifty." + +Cupid looked at the mashie niblicks and then he looked at Windy. I +looked at him too and began to understand how he got his money. His face +was as hard as granite. "You'd collect that sort of a bet--from a +friend?" It was Cupid's last shot. + +"Just as quick as you would," said Windy. + +"I'll write you a check," and Cupid turned on his heel and started for +the office. + +Windy tried to turn it into a joke--after he got the check--but nobody +seemed to know where to laugh, and following that little incident he +found it a bit hard to get games. Whenever Windy was hunting a match the +foursomes were full and there was nothing doing. A sensitive man would +have suffered tortures, but Windy, with about as much delicacy as a +rhinoceros, continued to infest the course morning, noon, and night. +When he couldn't find any one weak-minded enough to play with him he +played with himself, and somehow managed to make just as much noise as +ever with only a caddie to talk to. + +This was the state of affairs when Adolphus Kitts returned from the +East, barely in time to shoot a 91 in the qualifying round of the Annual +Handicap. We had hoped that he would miss this tournament, but no; there +he was, large as life--which is pretty large--and ugly as ever. Grim and +silent and nasty, he stepped out on No. 1 tee, and Cupid Cutts groaned +as he watched him drive off. + +"That fellow," said Cupid, "would hang his harp on the walls of the New +Jerusalem and come back from the golden shore just to get into a +handicap event, where nobody wants him, nobody will speak to him, and +every one wishes him an ulcerated tooth! Why didn't he stay in the +East?" + +There were about four hundred and seventy-six reasons why Adolphus was +unpopular with us; a few will suffice. In the first place, he was a cup +hunter. He had an unholy passion for silver goblets and trophies with +the club emblem on them, and he preferred a small silver vase--worth not +to exceed three dollars, wholesale--to the respect and admiration of his +fellow golfers. Heaven knows why he wanted trophies! They are never any +good unless a man has friends to show them to! + +In the second place, Adolphus didn't care how he won a cup, and, as +Cupid used to say, the best club in his bag was the book of rules. + +If you don't know it already, I must tell you that golf is the most +strictly governed game in the world, and also the most ceremonious. It +is as full of "thou shalt nots" as the commandments. There are rules for +everything and everybody on the course, and the breaking of a rule +carries a penalty with it--the loss of a stroke or the loss of a hole, +as the case may be. Very few golfers play absolutely to the letter of +the law; even those who know the rules incur penalties through +carelessness, and in such a case it is not considered sporting to demand +the pound of flesh; but there was nothing sporting about Adolphus Kitts. + +He knew every obscure rule and insisted on every penalty. Question him, +and he fished out the book. That book of rules stiffened his match play +tremendously, besides making his opponents want to murder him. It was +rather a rotten system, but Kitts hadn't a drop of sporting blood in +his whole big body, and the element of sportsmanship didn't enter into +his calculations at all. He claimed strokes and holes even when not in +competition, and because of this he found it difficult to obtain +partners or opponents. + +"He's a golf lawyer, that's what he is--a technical lawyer!" said Cupid +one day. "And I wouldn't even play the nineteenth hole with him--I +wouldn't, on a bet!" + +Come to think of it, that is about the bitterest thing you can say of a +golfer. + + +II + +Our Annual Handicap is the blue-ribbon event of the year so far as most +of us are concerned. The star players turn up their noses at it a bit, +but that is only because they realise that they have a mighty slim +chance to carry off the cup. The high-handicap men usually eliminate the +crack performers, which is the way it should be. What's the good of a +handicap event if a scratch man is to win it every year? + +Sixty-four members qualify and are paired off into individual matches, +which are played on handicaps, the losers dropping out. The man who +"comes through" in the top half of the drawing meets the survivor of the +lower half in the final match for the cup, which is always a very +handsome and valuable trophy, calculated to rouse all the cupidity in a +cup hunter's nature. + +When the pairings were posted on the bulletin board Kitts was in the +upper half and Windy in the lower one. Kitts had a handicap of 8 +strokes, and was really entitled to 12, but Cupid wouldn't listen to his +wails of anguish. Windy was a 12 man, and nobody figured the two +renegades as dangerous until the sixty-four entrants had narrowed down +to eight survivors. Kitts had won his matches by close margins, but +Windy had simply smothered his opponents by lopsided scores, and there +they were, in the running and too close to the finals for comfort. + +We began to sit up and take notice. Cupid read the riot act to Dawson, +who was Windy's next opponent, and also had a talk with Aubrey, who was +to meet Kitts. "Wilkins and Kitts must be stopped!" raved Cupid. "We +don't want 'em to get as far as the semi-finals, and it's up to you +chaps to play your heads off and beat these rotters!" + +Dawson and Aubrey saw their duty to the club, but that was as far as +they got with it. Windy talked from one end of his match to the other +and made Dawson so nervous that any one could have beaten him, and Kitts +pulled the book of rules on Aubrey and literally read him out of the +contest. + +After this the interest in the tournament grew almost painful. +Overholzer and Watts were the other semifinalists, and we told them +plainly that they might as well resign from the club if they did not win +their matches. Overholzer spent a solid week practicing on his approach +shots, and Watts carried his putter home with him nights, but it wasn't +the slightest use. Windy tossed an 83 at Overholzer, along with a lot of +noisy conversation, and an 83 will beat Overholzer every time he starts. +Poor Watts went off his drive entirely and gave such a pitiful +exhibition that Kitts didn't need the rule book at all. + +And there we were, down to the finals for the beautiful handicap cup, +sixty-two good men and true eliminated, and a pair of bounders lined up +against each other for the trophy! + +"This," said Cupid Cutts, "is a most unfortunate situation. I can't root +for a sure-thing gambler and daylight highwayman like Wilkins, and as +for the other fellow I hope he falls into a bunker and breaks both his +hind legs off short! Think of one of those fellows carrying home that +lovely cup! Ain't it enough to make you sick?" + +It made us all sick, nevertheless quite a respectable gallery assembled +to watch Wilkins and Kitts play their match. + +"Looks like we're goin' to have a crowd for the main event!" said Windy, +who had put in the entire morning practicing tee shots. "In that case +I'll buy everybody a little drink, or sign a lunch card--whatever's +customary. Don't be bashful, boys. Might as well drink with the winner +before as well as after, you know!" + +At this point Adolphus came in from the locker room and there was an +embarrassed silence, broken at last by Windy. "Somebody introduce me to +my victim," said he. "We've never met." + +"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Cupid. "Of all the men in this club, I'd +think you fellows ought to know each other! Kitts, this is +Wilkins--shake hands and get together!" + +Among the other reasons for not liking him, Adolphus had a face. I'm +aware that a man cannot help his face, but he can make it easier to look +at by wearing a pleasant expression now and then. Kitts seldom used his +face to smile with. As he turned to shake hands with Windy I noticed +that his left hip pocket bulged a trifle, and I knew that Adolphus was +taking no chances. That's where he carries the book of rules. + +"How do," said Kitts, looking hard at Windy. "I'm ready if you are, +sir." + +"Oh, don't be in such a hurry!" said Wilkins. "We've got a lot of drinks +comin' here. Sit down and have one." + +"Thank you, I never drink," replied Adolphus. + +"Well, then, have a sandwich. Might as well load up; you've got a hard +afternoon ahead of you." + +"Thanks, I've had my lunch." + +"Then let's talk a little," urged Windy. "Let's get acquainted. This is +the first time I ever had a whack at a cup, and I don't know how to act. +I play golf by main strength and awkwardness, but I get there just the +same. They tell me you're a great man for rules." + +Windy paused, but Kitts didn't say anything, and Cupid stepped on my +foot under the table. + +"Now, I don't go very strong on the rules," continued Windy wheedlingly. +"I like to play a sporty game--count all my shots, of course--but damn +this technical stuff is what _I_ say. For instance, if you should +accidentally tap your ball when you was addressin' it, and it should +turn over, I wouldn't call a stroke on you. I'd be ashamed to do it. If +I win, I want to win on my _playin'_ and not on any technicalities. +Ain't that the way you feel about it, hey?" + +Kitts looked uncomfortable, but he wouldn't return a straight answer to +the question. He said something about hoping the best man would win, and +went out to get his clubs. + +"Cheerful kind of a party, ain't he?" said Windy. "I've told him where I +stand. _I_ ain't goin' to claim anything on him if his foot slips, and +he oughtn't to claim anything on _me_. If he's a real sport, he won't. +What do you boys think?" + +We thought a great deal, but nobody offered any advice. + +"Well," said Windy, getting up and stretching, "he's got to start me 2 +up, on handicap, and I'm drivin' like a fool. I should worry about his +technicalities!" + + +III + +Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player is +very well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot. +It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, rough +to the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guarding +the green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee. + +"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts. _I_ always drive best +when people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, they +say. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when I +address the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this: +'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! And +the little white devil certainly took a ride--long, low, and straight up +the middle of the course--the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it to +make it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixty +yards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pill +beside that one--if you think you can!" + +"You're a 12-handicap man--and you drive like that!" said Kitts, which +was, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot. + +"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. I +really play to a 6." + +Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversational +leads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberate +players who must make just so many motions before they pull off their +shots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he moved +up on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forth +over it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out a +nice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all, +he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker. + +"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot! +Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of a +contest----" + +"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windy +winked at the rest of us. + +"His goat is loose already!" said he in a stage whisper. "He can't stand +the gaff!" + +Adolphus got out of the tall grass on his third shot, but dropped his +fourth into a deep sand pit short of the green. + +"With a lot of luck," said Windy, reaching for his brassy, "you may get +an 8--but I doubt it. Pretty soft for me, pretty soft!" And with the +sole of his club he patted the turf behind his ball, smoothing it +down--three gentle little pats. "Pret-ty soft!" murmured Windy, and sent +the ball whistling straight on to the green for a sure 4. Then he turned +to Kitts. "D'you give up?" said he. "Might just as well; you haven't got +a burglar's chance!" + +"I claim the hole," said Adolphus calmly, fishing out the book of rules. + +"You--what?" + +"Rule No. 10," said Kitts, beginning to read. "'In playing through the +green, irregularities of surface which could in any way affect the +player's stroke shall not be removed nor pressed down by the player----' +You patted the grass behind your ball and improved the lie by smoothing +it down. I claim the hole." + +Windy went about the colour of a nice ripe Satsuma plum. His neck +swelled so much that his ears moved outward. "You don't mean to say that +you're goin' to call a thing like that on me when you're already licked +for the hole?" He spoke slowly, as if he found it hard to believe that +the situation was real. + +"I claim it," repeated Adolphus monotonously. "You can appeal to Mr. +Cutts, as chairman of the greens committee." + +"Hey, Fatty! All I did was pat the grass a few times with my club, and +this--this _gentleman_ here says he claims the hole." + +"You violated the rule," shortly answered Cupid, who may be fat but does +not like to be reminded of it so publicly. + +"And you're goin' to let him get away with that?" demanded Windy. "I'm +on the green in two, and he's neck-deep in the sand on his fourth----" + +"Makes no difference," said Cupid, turning away. "You ought to know the +rules by now. Kitts wins the hole." + +Well, Windy finally accepted the situation, but he was in a savage frame +of mind--so savage that he walked all the way to the second tee without +opening his mouth. There he stepped aside, with a low bow to Kitts. + +"Your _honour_, I believe," said he with nasty emphasis. + +No. 2 is a short hole--a drive and a pitch. Windy got a good ball, and +it rolled almost to the edge of the green. Kitts's drive was short but +straight, and he pitched his second to the green, some thirty feet from +the pin, and the advantage seemed to be with Windy until it was +discovered that his ball was lying in a cuppy depression of the turf. + +"That's lovely, ain't it?" growled Windy. "A fine drive--and look at +this for a lie! I was goin' to use a putter, but a putter won't get the +ball out of there. Hey, Fatty, had I better use a niblick here?" + +"I claim the hole," said Kitts, reaching for the book. + +"But I haven't done anything!" howled Windy. "How can you claim the hole +when I haven't played the shot?" + +"You asked advice," said Kitts, reading. "'A player may not ask for nor +willingly receive advice from any one except his own caddie, his +partner, or his partner's caddie.' This is not a foursome, so you have +no partner. Advice is defined as any suggestion which could influence a +player in determining the line of play, in the choice of a club, or in +the method of making a stroke. You asked whether you should use a +niblick--and you lose the hole." + +Windy, knocked speechless for once in his life, looked over at Cupid, +and Cupid nodded his head. + +"The match is now all square," said Kitts as he started for the third +tee. + +"And squared by a couple of petty larceny protests!" said Windy. "Hey, +Mister Bookworm, wait a minute! I want to tell you something for your +own good!" + +"Oh, play golf!" said Kitts, over his shoulder. + +Windy strode after him and took him by the arm. It wasn't a gentle grasp +either. + +"That's exactly what I want to say. _You_ play golf, Mr. Kitts! Play it +with your clubs, and forget that book in your hip pocket. If you pull it +on me again, I'll--I'll----" + +Adolphus tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort. + +"You can't intimidate me," said he. + +"Maybe not," said Windy, quite earnestly, "but I can lick you within an +inch of your life--and I will. Is there anything in the book about +that? If you read me out of this cup, you better make arrangements to +have it sent direct to the hospital. It'll make a nice flower holder--if +you've got any friends that think enough of you to send flowers!" + +"You gentlemen are witnesses to these threats," said Kitts, appealing to +the gallery. + +"We didn't hear a word," said Cupid. "Not a word. Go on and play your +match and stop squabbling. You act like a couple of fishwives!" + +The contestants walked off in the direction of the tee, with Windy still +rubbing it in. + +"A word to the wise. Keep that damn' book in your pocket, if you don't +want to eat it--cover and all!" + +"Suppose they do mix it?" said Cupid, mopping his brow. "Sweet little +golfing scandal, eh? Can't you see the headlines in the newspapers? +'Country Club finalists in fist fight on links!' And some of these +roughneck humourists will congratulate us on golf becoming one of the +vital, red-blooded sports! Oh, lovely!" + +"Bah!" said I. "There will be no fight. No man will fight who smiles +like a coyote when he is getting a call down." + +"But a coyote will fight if you put it up to him, don't make any mistake +about that. And Kitts will spring the book on Windy again, I feel it in +my bones, and if he does--choose your partners for the one-step! Oh, why +did we ever let these rotters into the club?" + + +IV + +I see no reason for inflicting upon you a detailed description of the +next fifteen holes of golfing frightfulness. Golf is a game which +requires mental calm, and the contestants were entirely out of calmness +after the second hole and could not concentrate on their shots. + +Windy began driving all over the shop, hooking and slicing tremendously, +and Kitts manhandled his irons in a manner fit to make a hardened +professional weep. Neither of them could have holed a five-foot putt in +a washtub, and they staggered along side by side, silent and nervous and +savage, and if Windy managed to win a hole Kitts would be sure to take +the next one and square the match. But he didn't take any holes with the +book. When Windy broke a rule--which he did every little while--Kitts +would sneer and pretend to look the other way. He tried to convey the +impression that it was pity and contempt that made him blind to Windy's +lapses, but he didn't fool me for a minute. It was fear of consequences. + +And so they came to the last hole, all square, and also all in. + +Our eighteenth has a vicious reputation among those golfing unfortunates +who slice their tee shots. The drive must carry a steep hill, the right +slope of which pitches away to a deep, narrow ravine--a ravine scarred +and marred by thousands of niblick shots, but otherwise as disgusted +Nature left it. We call it Hell's Half Acre, though the first part of +the name would be quite sufficient. + +The only improvements that have ever been made in this sinister locality +have been made by golf clubs, despairingly wielded. Hell's Half Acre is +full of stunted trees with roots half out of the ground, and thick brush +and matted weeds, and squarely in the middle of this desolation is a +deep sink, or pit, known as the Devil's Kitchen. Hell's Half Acre is bad +enough, believe one who knows, but the Devil's Kitchen is the last hard +word in hazards, and it is a crime to allow such a plague spot within a +mile of a golf course. + +At a respectful distance we watched the renegades drive from the +eighteenth tee. Kitts had the honour--if there is any honour in winning +a four hole in eight strokes--and messed about over his ball even longer +than usual. His drive developed a lovely curve to the right, and went +skipping and bounding down the hill toward the ravine. + +"And that'll be in the Kitchen unless something stops it!" said Cupid +with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid the blighters might halve this one +and need extra holes!" + +Now with Adolphus in the Devil's Kitchen all Windy needed was a straight +ball over the brow of the hill--in fact, a ball anywhere on the course +would be almost certain to win the hole and the match--but when he +walked out on the tee it was plain to be seen that he had lost +confidence in his wooden club. Any golfer knows what it means to lose +confidence in his wood, and Windy had reason to doubt his driver. His +tee shots had been fearfully off direction, and here was one that _had_ +to go straight. + +He teed his ball, swung his club a couple of times, and shook his head. +Then he yelled at his caddie. + +"Oh, boy! Bring me my cleek!" + +Now, a cleek is a wonderful club if a man knows how to use one, but it +produces a low tee shot, as a general thing. It produced one for +Windy--a screamer, flying with the speed of a rifle bullet. I thought at +first that it was barely going to clear the top of the hill, but I +misjudged it. Three feet higher and the ball would have been over, but +it struck the ground and kicked abruptly to the right, disappearing in +the direction of the Devil's Kitchen. We heard a crashing noise. It was +Windy splintering his cleek shaft over the tee box. + +"Both down!" ejaculated Cupid. "Suffering St. Andrew, what a finish!" + +We arrived on the rim of the Kitchen and peered into that wild +amphitheatre. Kitts had already found his ball, and was staring at it +with an expression of dumb anguish on his face. It was lying underneath +a tangle of sturdy oak roots, as safely protected as if an octopus was +trying to hatch something out of it. + +Windy was combing the weeds which grew on the abrupt sides of the pit, +too full of his own trouble to pay any attention to his opponent. + +"If it's a lost ball----" said Cupid. + +But it wasn't. Windy found it, half-way up the left slope, hidden in the +weeds, and not a particularly bad lie except for the fact that nothing +human could have taken a stance on that declivity. Having found his +ball, Windy took a look at Kitts's lie and then, for the first and only +time in his golfing career, Wilkins recognised the rules of the game. +"You're away, sir," said he to Kitts. "Play!" + +Adolphus took his niblick and attacked the octopus. His first three +strokes did not even jar the ball, but they damaged the oak roots beyond +repair. On his eighth attempt the ball popped out of its nest, and the +next shot was a very pretty one, sailing up and out to the fair green, +but there was no applause from the gallery. + +"Countin' the drive," said Windy, "that makes ten, eh?" + +A man may play nine strokes in a hazard, but he hates to admit it. +Adolphus grunted and withdrew to the other side of the pit, from which +point he watched Windy morosely. With victory in sight the latter became +cheerful again; conversation bubbled out of him. + +"Boy, slip me the niblick and get up yonder on the edge of the ravine +where you can watch this ball. I'm goin' to knock it a mile out of here. +Ten shots he's had. If it was me, I'd give up. How am I to get a +footin' on this infernal side hill? Spikes won't hold in that stuff. +Wish I was a goat. Aha! The very thing!" + +Suddenly he delivered a powerful blow at the slope some distance below +his ball and three or four feet to the left of it. Cupid gasped and +opened his mouth to say something, but I nudged him and he subsided, +clucking like a nervous hen. + +"What's the idea?" demanded Kitts. + +"To make little boys ask questions," was the calm reply. "I climbed the +Alps once. Had to dig holes for my feet. Guess I haven't forgotten how, +but diggin' with a blasted niblick is hard work." + +"Oh!" said Kitts. + +Windy continued to hack at the wall, the gallery looking on in tense +silence. Nobody would have offered a suggestion; we all felt that it was +their own affair, and on the knees of the gods, as the saying is. When +Windy had hacked out a place for his right foot he cut another one for +his left. The weeds were tough and the soil was hard, and he grunted as +he worked. + +"Yep--that Alps trip--taught me something. Comes in--handy now. Pretty +nifty--job, hey?" + +I suppose a mountain climber would have called it a nifty job. Cupid +began to mutter. + +"Be quiet!" said I. "Let's see if Kitts has nerve enough to call it on +him!" + +With the shaft of his niblick in his teeth, Windy swarmed up the side +of the wall, found the footholds and planted himself solidly. Grasping a +bush above his head with his left hand, he measured the distance with +his eye, steadied himself and swung the niblick with his powerful right +arm. It was a wonderful shot, even if Windy Wilkins did make it; the +ball went soaring skyward, far beyond all trouble. + +"_Some--out!_" he panted, looking over his shoulder at Kitts. "I guess +that'll clinch the match!" + +For just a second Adolphus hesitated; then he must have thought of the +cup. "I rather think it will," said he. "You're nicely out, Wilkins--in +forty-seven strokes." + +"Forty-seven devils!" shouted Windy. "I'm out _in two_!" + +"In a hazard," quoted Kitts, "the club shall not touch the ground, nor +shall anything be touched or moved before the player strikes at the +ball." At this point Adolphus made a serious mistake; he reached for the +book. "Under the rule," he continued, "I could claim the hole on you, +but I won't do that. I'll only count the strokes you took in chopping a +stance for yourself----" + +That was where Windy dropped the niblick and jumped at him, and Cupid +was correct about the coyote. Put him in a hole where he can't get out, +attack him hard enough, and he _will_ fight. + +Adolphus dropped the book and nailed Windy on the chin with a right +upper cut that jarred the whole Wilkins family. + +"Keep out of it, everybody!" yelled Cupid with a sudden flash of +inspiration. "It's an elimination contest! More power to both of +'em--and may they both lose!" + +Inside of two seconds the whole floor of the Devil's Kitchen was +littered up with fists and elbows and boots and knees. They fought into +clinches and battered their way out of them; they tripped over roots and +scrambled to their feet again; they tossed all rules to the winds except +the rule of self-preservation. The air was full of heartfelt grunts and +sounds as of some one beating a rag carpet, and the language which +floated to us was--well, elemental, to say the least. And through it all +the gallery looked down in decent silence; there was no favourite for +whom any one cared to cheer. + +When Windy came toiling up out of the pit alone, but one remark was +addressed to him. + +"Aren't you going to play it out?" asked Cupid. + +"Huh?" said Windy, pausing. His coat was torn off his back, his soiled +white trousers were out at the knees, his nose was bleeding freely, and +his mouth was lopsided. + +"Aren't you going to finish the match? You've only played 46. Kitts made +a mistake in the count." + +"Finish--hell!" snarled Windy. "You roosted up here like a lot of +buzzards and let me chop myself out of the contest! I feel like +finishin' the lot of you, and I'm through with any club that'll let a +swine like Kitts be a member!" + +Oddly enough, this last statement was substantially the same as the one +Adolphus made when he recovered consciousness. + +The wily Cupid, concealing from each the intentions of the other, and +becoming a bearer of pens, ink, and paper, managed to secure both their +resignations before they left the clubhouse that evening, and peace now +reigns at the Country Club. + +We have been given to understand that in the future the committee on +membership will require gilt-edged certificates of character and that no +rough diamonds need apply. + +Nobody won the handicap cup, and nobody knows what to do with it, though +there is some talk of having it engraved as follows: + +"Elimination Trophy--won by W. W. Wilkins, knockout, one round." + + + + +Other Fiction + + +ZANE GREY'S NOVELS + + _THE MAN OF THE FOREST_ + _THE DESERT OF WHEAT_ + _THE U. P. TRAIL_ + _WILDFIRE_ + _THE BORDER LEGION_ + _THE RAINBOW TRAIL_ + _THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT_ + _RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE_ + _THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS_ + _THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN_ + _THE LONE STAR RANGER_ + _DESERT GOLD_ + _BETTY ZANE_ + _LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS_ + The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody + Wetmore, with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey + + +_ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS_ + + _KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE_ + _THE YOUNG LION HUNTER_ + _THE YOUNG FORESTER_ + _THE YOUNG PITCHER_ + _THE SHORT STOP_ + _THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES_ + + * * * * * + +STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER + + +_MICHAEL O'HALLORAN._ Illustrated by Frances Rogers. + +Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and +onward. + + +_LADDIE._ Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. + +This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story +is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it +is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs +of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and +the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood +and about whose family there hangs a mystery. + + +_THE HARVESTER._ Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. + +"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had +nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. +But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance +of the rarest idyllic quality. + + +_FRECKLES._ Illustrated. + +Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he +takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great +Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to +the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The +Angel" are full of real sentiment. + + +_A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST._ Illustrated. + +The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of +the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness +towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of +her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and +unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. + + +_AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW._ Illustrations in colors. + +The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The +story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. +The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and +its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. + + +_THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL._ Profusely illustrated. + +A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and +humor. + + * * * * * + + +THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART + + +_DANGEROUS DAYS._ + +A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine purpose and +stirring appeal. + + +_THE AMAZING INTERLUDE._ + +Illustrations by The Kinneys. + +The story of a great love which cannot be pictured--an +interlude--amazing, romantic. + + +_LOVE STORIES._ + +This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love +affairs--sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness. + + +_"K."_ Illustrated. + +K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where +beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. The +joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympathetic +appreciation. + + +_THE MAN IN LOWER TEN._ Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. + +An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the +"Man in Lower Ten." + + +_WHEN A MAN MARRIES._ Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker. + +A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his +aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the family +income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man met +the situation is entertainingly told. + + +_THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE._ Illustrated by Lester Ralph. + +The occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong on +the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure is +announced. Around these two events is woven a plot oL absorbing +interest. + + +_THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS._ (Photoplay Edition.) + +Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly +realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitious +doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with +world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love and +slender means. + + * * * * * + + +BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS + + +_SEVENTEEN._ Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. + +No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young +people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the +time when the reader was Seventeen. + + +_PENROD._ Illustrated by Gordon Grant. + +This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a +finished, exquisite work. + + +_PENROD AND SAM._ Illustrated by Worth Brehm. + +Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases +of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness +that have ever been written. + + +_THE TURMOIL._ Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. + +Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his +father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a +fine girl turns Bibbs' life from failure to success. + + +_THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA._ Frontispiece. + +A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country +editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love +interest. + + +_THE FLIRT._ Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. + +The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement, +drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another +to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising +suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister. + + * * * * * + + +KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES + + +_SISTERS._ Frontispiece by Frank Street. + +The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful story +of sisterly devotion and sacrifice. + + +_POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY._ Frontispiece by George Gibbs. + +A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and +"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures. + + +_JOSSELYN'S WIFE._ Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. + +The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness +and love. + + +_MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED._ Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers. + +The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions. + + +_THE HEART OF RACHAEL._ Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers. + +An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a second +marriage. + + +_THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE._ Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert. + +A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure and +lonely, for the happiness of life. + + +_SATURDAY'S CHILD._ Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes. + +Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheer +determination to the better things for which her soul hungered? + + +_MOTHER._ Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. + +A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every +girl's life, and some dreams which came true. + + * * * * * + + +SEWELL FORD'S STORIES + + +_SHORTY McCABE._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, +sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. + + +_SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with human +nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for +"side-stepping with Shorty." + + +_SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to +the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," +and gives joy to all concerned. + + +_SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS._ Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. + +These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio for +physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at +swell yachting parties. + + +_TORCHY._ Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. + +A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the +youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of his +experiences. + + +_TRYING OUT TORCHY._ Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the +previous book. + + +_ON WITH TORCHY._ Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but +that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, +which brings about many hilariously funny situations. + + +_TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC._ Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. + +Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for +the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectious +American slang. + + +_WILT THOU TORCHY._ Illustrated by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown. + +Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast, +in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with his +friend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to place +an engagement ring on Vee's finger. + + * * * * * + + +ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS + + +_JUST DAVID_ + +The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the hearts +of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left. + + +_THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING_ + +A compelling romance of love and marriage. + + +_OH, MONEY! MONEY!_ + +Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of his +relatives, sends them each a check for $100,000, and then as plain John +Smith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment. + + +_SIX STAR RANCH_ + +A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer on Six Star +Ranch. + + +_DAWN_ + +The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf of +despair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to the +service of blind soldiers. + + +_ACROSS THE YEARS_ + +Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some of +the best writing Mrs. Porter has done. + + +_THE TANGLED THREADS_ + +In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of all +her other books. + + +_THE TIE THAT BINDS_ + +Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent for +warm and vivid character drawing. + + * * * * * + + +ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS + + +_THE LAMP IN THE DESERT_ + +The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lamp +of love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations to +final happiness. + + +_GREATHEART_ + +The story of a cripple whose deformed body conceals a noble soul. + + +_THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE_ + +A hero who worked to win even when there was only "a hundredth chance." + + +_THE SWINDLER_ + +The story of a "bad man's" soul revealed by a woman's faith. + + +_THE TIDAL WAVE_ + +Tales of love and of women who learned to know the true from the false. + + +_THE SAFETY CURTAIN_ + +A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four other +long stories of equal interest. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fore!, by Charles Emmett Van Loan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORE! *** + +***** This file should be named 36682.txt or 36682.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/6/8/36682/ + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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