THE CLICKING OF CUTHBERT

by P. G. Wodehouse

1922

DEDICATION

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OFJOHN HENRIE AND PAT ROGIEWHO AT EDINBURGH IN THE YEAR 1593 A. D. WERE IMPRISONED FOR"PLAYING OF THE GOWFF ON THE LINKS OF LEITHEVERY SABBATH THE TIME OF THE SERMONSES", ALSO OF ROBERT ROBERTSON WHO GOT IT IN THE NECKIN 1604 A. D. FOR THE SAME REASON

FORE!

This book marks an epoch in my literary career. It is written inblood. It is the outpouring of a soul as deeply seared by Fate'sunkindness as the pretty on the dog-leg hole of the second nine wasever seared by my iron. It is the work of a very nearly desperate man, an eighteen-handicap man who has got to look extremely slippy if hedoesn't want to find himself in the twenties again. 

As a writer of light fiction, I have always till now been handicappedby the fact that my disposition was cheerful, my heart intact, and mylife unsoured. Handicapped, I say, because the public likes to feelthat a writer of farcical stories is piquantly miserable in his privatelife, and that, if he turns out anything amusing, he does it simply inorder to obtain relief from the almost insupportable weight of anexistence which he has long since realized to be a wash-out. Well, today I am just like that. 

Two years ago, I admit, I was a shallow _farceur_. My work lackeddepth. I wrote flippantly simply because I was having a thoroughly goodtime. Then I took up golf, and now I can smile through the tears andlaugh, like Figaro, that I may not weep, and generally hold my head upand feel that I am entitled to respect. 

If you find anything in this volume that amuses you, kindly bear inmind that it was probably written on my return home after losing threeballs in the gorse or breaking the head off a favourite driver: and, with a murmured "Brave fellow! Brave fellow!" recall the story of theclown jesting while his child lay dying at home. That is all. Thank youfor your sympathy. It means more to me than I can say. Do you thinkthat if I tried the square stance for a bit.... But, after all, thiscannot interest you. Leave me to my misery. 

POSTSCRIPT. --In the second chapter I allude to Stout Cortez staring atthe Pacific. Shortly after the appearance of this narrative in serialform in America, I received an anonymous letter containing the words, "You big stiff, it wasn't Cortez, it was Balboa. " This, I believe, ishistorically accurate. On the other hand, if Cortez was good enough forKeats, he is good enough for me. Besides, even if it _was_ Balboa, the Pacific was open for being stared at about that time, and I see noreason why Cortez should not have had a look at it as well. 

 P. G. WODEHOUSE. 

CONTENTS

FORE!

CHAPTER

I. THE CLICKING OF CUTHBERT

II. A WOMAN IS ONLY A WOMAN

III. A MIXED THREESOME

IV. SUNDERED HEARTS

V. THE SALVATION OF GEORGE MACKINTOSH

VI. ORDEAL BY GOLF

VII. THE LONG HOLE

VIII. THE HEEL OF ACHILLES

IX. THE ROUGH STUFF

X. THE COMING OF GOWF

1

_The Clicking of Cuthbert_

The young man came into the smoking-room of the clubhouse, and flunghis bag with a clatter on the floor. He sank moodily into an arm-chairand pressed the bell. 

"Waiter!"

"Sir?"

The young man pointed at the bag with every evidence of distaste. 

"You may have these clubs, " he said. "Take them away. If you don't wantthem yourself, give them to one of the caddies. "

Across the room the Oldest Member gazed at him with a grave sadnessthrough the smoke of his pipe. His eye was deep and dreamy--the eye ofa man who, as the poet says, has seen Golf steadily and seen it whole. 

"You are giving up golf?" he said. 

He was not altogether unprepared for such an attitude on the youngman's part: for from his eyrie on the terrace above the ninth green hehad observed him start out on the afternoon's round and had seen himlose a couple of balls in the lake at the second hole after takingseven strokes at the first. 

"Yes!" cried the young man fiercely. "For ever, dammit! Footling game!Blanked infernal fat-headed silly ass of a game! Nothing but a waste oftime. "

The Sage winced. 

"Don't say that, my boy. "

"But I do say it. What earthly good is golf? Life is stern and life isearnest. We live in a practical age. All round us we see foreigncompetition making itself unpleasant. And we spend our time playinggolf! What do we get out of it? Is golf any _use_? That's what I'masking you. Can you name me a single case where devotion to thispestilential pastime has done a man any practical good?"

The Sage smiled gently. 

"I could name a thousand. "

"One will do. "

"I will select, " said the Sage, "from the innumerable memories thatrush to my mind, the story of Cuthbert Banks. "

"Never heard of him. "

"Be of good cheer, " said the Oldest Member. "You are going to hear ofhim now. "

 * * * * *

It was in the picturesque little settlement of Wood Hills (said theOldest Member) that the incidents occurred which I am about to relate. Even if you have never been in Wood Hills, that suburban paradise isprobably familiar to you by name. Situated at a convenient distancefrom the city, it combines in a notable manner the advantages of townlife with the pleasant surroundings and healthful air of the country. Its inhabitants live in commodious houses, standing in their owngrounds, and enjoy so many luxuries--such as gravel soil, maindrainage, electric light, telephone, baths (h. And c. ), and company'sown water, that you might be pardoned for imagining life to be so idealfor them that no possible improvement could be added to their lot. Mrs. Willoughby Smethurst was under no such delusion. What Wood Hills neededto make it perfect, she realized, was Culture. Material comforts areall very well, but, if the _summum bonum_ is to be achieved, theSoul also demands a look in, and it was Mrs. Smethurst's unfalteringresolve that never while she had her strength should the Soul be handedthe loser's end. It was her intention to make Wood Hills a centre ofall that was most cultivated and refined, and, golly! how she hadsucceeded. Under her presidency the Wood Hills Literary and DebatingSociety had tripled its membership. 

But there is always a fly in the ointment, a caterpillar in the salad. The local golf club, an institution to which Mrs. Smethurst stronglyobjected, had also tripled its membership; and the division of thecommunity into two rival camps, the Golfers and the Cultured, hadbecome more marked than ever. This division, always acute, had attainednow to the dimensions of a Schism. The rival sects treated one anotherwith a cold hostility. 

Unfortunate episodes came to widen the breach. Mrs. Smethurst's houseadjoined the links, standing to the right of the fourth tee: and, asthe Literary Society was in the habit of entertaining visitinglecturers, many a golfer had foozled his drive owing to sudden loudoutbursts of applause coinciding with his down-swing. And not longbefore this story opens a sliced ball, whizzing in at the open window, had come within an ace of incapacitating Raymond Parsloe Devine, therising young novelist (who rose at that moment a clear foot and a half)from any further exercise of his art. Two inches, indeed, to the rightand Raymond must inevitably have handed in his dinner-pail. 

To make matters worse, a ring at the front-door bell followed almostimmediately, and the maid ushered in a young man of pleasing appearancein a sweater and baggy knickerbockers who apologetically but firmlyinsisted on playing his ball where it lay, and, what with the shock ofthe lecturer's narrow escape and the spectacle of the intruder standingon the table and working away with a niblick, the afternoon's sessionhad to be classed as a complete frost. Mr. Devine's determination, fromwhich no argument could swerve him, to deliver the rest of his lecturein the coal-cellar gave the meeting a jolt from which it neverrecovered. 

I have dwelt upon this incident, because it was the means ofintroducing Cuthbert Banks to Mrs. Smethurst's niece, Adeline. AsCuthbert, for it was he who had so nearly reduced the muster-roll ofrising novelists by one, hopped down from the table after his stroke, he was suddenly aware that a beautiful girl was looking at himintently. As a matter of fact, everyone in the room was looking at himintently, none more so than Raymond Parsloe Devine, but none of theothers were beautiful girls. Long as the members of Wood Hills LiterarySociety were on brain, they were short on looks, and, to Cuthbert'sexcited eye, Adeline Smethurst stood out like a jewel in a pile ofcoke. 

He had never seen her before, for she had only arrived at her aunt'shouse on the previous day, but he was perfectly certain that life, evenwhen lived in the midst of gravel soil, main drainage, and company'sown water, was going to be a pretty poor affair if he did not see heragain. Yes, Cuthbert was in love: and it is interesting to record, asshowing the effect of the tender emotion on a man's game, that twentyminutes after he had met Adeline he did the short eleventh in one, andas near as a toucher got a three on the four-hundred-yard twelfth. 

I will skip lightly over the intermediate stages of Cuthbert'scourtship and come to the moment when--at the annual ball in aid of thelocal Cottage Hospital, the only occasion during the year on which thelion, so to speak, lay down with the lamb, and the Golfers and theCultured met on terms of easy comradeship, their differencestemporarily laid aside--he proposed to Adeline and was badly stymied. 

That fair, soulful girl could not see him with a spy-glass. 

"Mr. Banks, " she said, "I will speak frankly. "

"Charge right ahead, " assented Cuthbert. 

"Deeply sensible as I am of----"

"I know. Of the honour and the compliment and all that. But, passinglightly over all that guff, what seems to be the trouble? I love you todistraction----"

"Love is not everything. "

"You're wrong, " said Cuthbert, earnestly. "You're right off it. Love----" And he was about to dilate on the theme when she interruptedhim. 

"I am a girl of ambition. "

"And very nice, too, " said Cuthbert. 

"I am a girl of ambition, " repeated Adeline, "and I realize that thefulfilment of my ambitions must come through my husband. I am veryordinary myself----"

"What!" cried Cuthbert. "You ordinary? Why, you are a pearl amongwomen, the queen of your sex. You can't have been looking in a glasslately. You stand alone. Simply alone. You make the rest look likebattered repaints. "

"Well, " said Adeline, softening a trifle, "I believe I am fairlygood-looking----"

"Anybody who was content to call you fairly good-looking would describethe Taj Mahal as a pretty nifty tomb. "

"But that is not the point. What I mean is, if I marry a nonentity Ishall be a nonentity myself for ever. And I would sooner die than be anonentity. "

"And, if I follow your reasoning, you think that that lets _me_out?"

"Well, really, Mr. Banks, _have_ you done anything, or are youlikely ever to do anything worth while?"

Cuthbert hesitated. 

"It's true, " he said, "I didn't finish in the first ten in the Open, and I was knocked out in the semi-final of the Amateur, but I won theFrench Open last year. "

"The--what?"

"The French Open Championship. Golf, you know. "

"Golf! You waste all your time playing golf. I admire a man who is morespiritual, more intellectual. "

A pang of jealousy rent Cuthbert's bosom. 

"Like What's-his-name Devine?" he said, sullenly. 

"Mr. Devine, " replied Adeline, blushing faintly, "is going to be agreat man. Already he has achieved much. The critics say that he ismore Russian than any other young English writer. "

"And is that good?"

"Of course it's good. "

"I should have thought the wheeze would be to be more English than anyother young English writer. "

"Nonsense! Who wants an English writer to be English? You've got to beRussian or Spanish or something to be a real success. The mantle of thegreat Russians has descended on Mr. Devine. "

"From what I've heard of Russians, I should hate to have that happen to_me_. "

"There is no danger of that, " said Adeline scornfully. 

"Oh! Well, let me tell you that there is a lot more in me than youthink. "

"That might easily be so. "

"You think I'm not spiritual and intellectual, " said Cuthbert, deeplymoved. "Very well. Tomorrow I join the Literary Society. "

Even as he spoke the words his leg was itching to kick himself forbeing such a chump, but the sudden expression of pleasure on Adeline'sface soothed him; and he went home that night with the feeling that hehad taken on something rather attractive. It was only in the cold, greylight of the morning that he realized what he had let himself in for. 

I do not know if you have had any experience of suburban literarysocieties, but the one that flourished under the eye of Mrs. WilloughbySmethurst at Wood Hills was rather more so than the average. With myfeeble powers of narrative, I cannot hope to make clear to you all thatCuthbert Banks endured in the next few weeks. And, even if I could, Idoubt if I should do so. It is all very well to excite pity and terror, as Aristotle recommends, but there are limits. In the ancient Greektragedies it was an ironclad rule that all the real rough stuff shouldtake place off-stage, and I shall follow this admirable principle. Itwill suffice if I say merely that J. Cuthbert Banks had a thin time. After attending eleven debates and fourteen lectures on _vers libre_Poetry, the Seventeenth-Century Essayists, the Neo-ScandinavianMovement in Portuguese Literature, and other subjects of a similarnature, he grew so enfeebled that, on the rare occasions when he hadtime for a visit to the links, he had to take a full iron for his mashieshots. 

It was not simply the oppressive nature of the debates and lecturesthat sapped his vitality. What really got right in amongst him was thetorture of seeing Adeline's adoration of Raymond Parsloe Devine. Theman seemed to have made the deepest possible impression upon herplastic emotions. When he spoke, she leaned forward with parted lipsand looked at him. When he was not speaking--which was seldom--sheleaned back and looked at him. And when he happened to take the nextseat to her, she leaned sideways and looked at him. One glance at Mr. Devine would have been more than enough for Cuthbert; but Adeline foundhim a spectacle that never palled. She could not have gazed at him witha more rapturous intensity if she had been a small child and he asaucer of ice-cream. All this Cuthbert had to witness while stillendeavouring to retain the possession of his faculties sufficiently toenable him to duck and back away if somebody suddenly asked him what hethought of the sombre realism of Vladimir Brusiloff. It is littlewonder that he tossed in bed, picking at the coverlet, throughsleepless nights, and had to have all his waistcoats taken in threeinches to keep them from sagging. 

This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russiannovelist, and, owing to the fact of his being in the country on alecturing tour at the moment, there had been something of a boom in hisworks. The Wood Hills Literary Society had been studying them forweeks, and never since his first entrance into intellectual circles hadCuthbert Banks come nearer to throwing in the towel. Vladimirspecialized in grey studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happenedtill page three hundred and eighty, when the moujik decided to commitsuicide. It was tough going for a man whose deepest reading hithertohad been Vardon on the Push-Shot, and there can be no greater proof ofthe magic of love than the fact that Cuthbert stuck it without a cry. But the strain was terrible and I am inclined to think that he musthave cracked, had it not been for the daily reports in the papers ofthe internecine strife which was proceeding so briskly in Russia. Cuthbert was an optimist at heart, and it seemed to him that, at therate at which the inhabitants of that interesting country weremurdering one another, the supply of Russian novelists must eventuallygive out. 

One morning, as he tottered down the road for the short walk which wasnow almost the only exercise to which he was equal, Cuthbert metAdeline. A spasm of anguish flitted through all his nerve-centres as hesaw that she was accompanied by Raymond Parsloe Devine. 

"Good morning, Mr. Banks, " said Adeline. 

"Good morning, " said Cuthbert hollowly. 

"Such good news about Vladimir Brusiloff. "

"Dead?" said Cuthbert, with a touch of hope. 

"Dead? Of course not. Why should he be? No, Aunt Emily met his managerafter his lecture at Queen's Hall yesterday, and he has promised thatMr. Brusiloff shall come to her next Wednesday reception. "

"Oh, ah!" said Cuthbert, dully. 

"I don't know how she managed it. I think she must have told him thatMr. Devine would be there to meet him. "

"But you said he was coming, " argued Cuthbert. 

"I shall be very glad, " said Raymond Devine, "of the opportunity ofmeeting Brusiloff. "

"I'm sure, " said Adeline, "he will be very glad of the opportunity ofmeeting you. "

"Possibly, " said Mr. Devine. "Possibly. Competent critics have saidthat my work closely resembles that of the great Russian Masters. "

"Your psychology is so deep. "

"Yes, yes. "

"And your atmosphere. "

"Quite. "

Cuthbert in a perfect agony of spirit prepared to withdraw from thislove-feast. The sun was shining brightly, but the world was black tohim. Birds sang in the tree-tops, but he did not hear them. He mighthave been a moujik for all the pleasure he found in life. 

"You will be there, Mr. Banks?" said Adeline, as he turned away. 

"Oh, all right, " said Cuthbert. 

When Cuthbert had entered the drawing-room on the following Wednesdayand had taken his usual place in a distant corner where, while able tofeast his gaze on Adeline, he had a sporting chance of being overlookedor mistaken for a piece of furniture, he perceived the great Russianthinker seated in the midst of a circle of admiring females. RaymondParsloe Devine had not yet arrived. 

His first glance at the novelist surprised Cuthbert. Doubtless with thebest motives, Vladimir Brusiloff had permitted his face to becomealmost entirely concealed behind a dense zareba of hair, but his eyeswere visible through the undergrowth, and it seemed to Cuthbert thatthere was an expression in them not unlike that of a cat in a strangebackyard surrounded by small boys. The man looked forlorn and hopeless, and Cuthbert wondered whether he had had bad news from home. 

This was not the case. The latest news which Vladimir Brusiloff had hadfrom Russia had been particularly cheering. Three of his principalcreditors had perished in the last massacre of the _bourgeoisie_, and a man whom he owed for five years for a samovar and a pair ofovershoes had fled the country, and had not been heard of since. It wasnot bad news from home that was depressing Vladimir. What was wrongwith him was the fact that this was the eighty-second suburban literaryreception he had been compelled to attend since he had landed in thecountry on his lecturing tour, and he was sick to death of it. When hisagent had first suggested the trip, he had signed on the dotted linewithout an instant's hesitation. Worked out in roubles, the feesoffered had seemed just about right. But now, as he peered throughthe brushwood at the faces round him, and realized that eight out often of those present had manuscripts of some sort concealed on theirpersons, and were only waiting for an opportunity to whip them outand start reading, he wished that he had stayed at his quiet home inNijni-Novgorod, where the worst thing that could happen to a fellowwas a brace of bombs coming in through the window and mixingthemselves up with his breakfast egg. 

At this point in his meditations he was aware that his hostess waslooming up before him with a pale young man in horn-rimmed spectaclesat her side. There was in Mrs. Smethurst's demeanour something of theunction of the master-of-ceremonies at the big fight who introduces theearnest gentleman who wishes to challenge the winner. 

"Oh, Mr. Brusiloff, " said Mrs. Smethurst, "I do so want you to meet Mr. Raymond Parsloe Devine, whose work I expect you know. He is one of ouryounger novelists. "

The distinguished visitor peered in a wary and defensive manner throughthe shrubbery, but did not speak. Inwardly he was thinking how exactlylike Mr. Devine was to the eighty-one other younger novelists to whomhe had been introduced at various hamlets throughout the country. Raymond Parsloe Devine bowed courteously, while Cuthbert, wedged intohis corner, glowered at him. 

"The critics, " said Mr. Devine, "have been kind enough to say that mypoor efforts contain a good deal of the Russian spirit. I owe much tothe great Russians. I have been greatly influenced by Sovietski. "

Down in the forest something stirred. It was Vladimir Brusiloff's mouthopening, as he prepared to speak. He was not a man who prattledreadily, especially in a foreign tongue. He gave the impression thateach word was excavated from his interior by some up-to-date process ofmining. He glared bleakly at Mr. Devine, and allowed three words todrop out of him. 

"Sovietski no good!"

He paused for a moment, set the machinery working again, and deliveredfive more at the pithead. 

"I spit me of Sovietski!"

There was a painful sensation. The lot of a popular idol is in manyways an enviable one, but it has the drawback of uncertainty. Heretoday and gone tomorrow. Until this moment Raymond Parsloe Devine'sstock had stood at something considerably over par in Wood Hillsintellectual circles, but now there was a rapid slump. Hitherto he hadbeen greatly admired for being influenced by Sovietski, but it appearednow that this was not a good thing to be. It was evidently a rottenthing to be. The law could not touch you for being influenced bySovietski, but there is an ethical as well as a legal code, and this itwas obvious that Raymond Parsloe Devine had transgressed. Women drewaway from him slightly, holding their skirts. Men looked at himcensoriously. Adeline Smethurst started violently, and dropped atea-cup. And Cuthbert Banks, doing his popular imitation of a sardinein his corner, felt for the first time that life held something ofsunshine. 

Raymond Parsloe Devine was plainly shaken, but he made an adroitattempt to recover his lost prestige. 

"When I say I have been influenced by Sovietski, I mean, of course, that I was once under his spell. A young writer commits many follies. Ihave long since passed through that phase. The false glamour ofSovietski has ceased to dazzle me. I now belong whole-heartedly to theschool of Nastikoff. "

There was a reaction. People nodded at one another sympathetically. After all, we cannot expect old heads on young shoulders, and a lapseat the outset of one's career should not be held against one who haseventually seen the light. 

"Nastikoff no good, " said Vladimir Brusiloff, coldly. He paused, listening to the machinery. 

"Nastikoff worse than Sovietski. "

He paused again. 

"I spit me of Nastikoff!" he said. 

This time there was no doubt about it. The bottom had dropped out ofthe market, and Raymond Parsloe Devine Preferred were down in thecellar with no takers. It was clear to the entire assembled companythat they had been all wrong about Raymond Parsloe Devine. They hadallowed him to play on their innocence and sell them a pup. They hadtaken him at his own valuation, and had been cheated into admiring himas a man who amounted to something, and all the while he had belongedto the school of Nastikoff. You never can tell. Mrs. Smethurst's guestswere well-bred, and there was consequently no violent demonstration, but you could see by their faces what they felt. Those nearest RaymondParsloe jostled to get further away. Mrs. Smethurst eyed him stonilythrough a raised lorgnette. One or two low hisses were heard, and overat the other end of the room somebody opened the window in a markedmanner. 

Raymond Parsloe Devine hesitated for a moment, then, realizing hissituation, turned and slunk to the door. There was an audible sigh ofrelief as it closed behind him. 

Vladimir Brusiloff proceeded to sum up. 

"No novelists any good except me. Sovietski--yah! Nastikoff--bah! I spitme of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists anygood except me. "

And, having uttered this dictum, he removed a slab of cake from anear-by plate, steered it through the jungle, and began to champ. 

It is too much to say that there was a dead silence. There could neverbe that in any room in which Vladimir Brusiloff was eating cake. Butcertainly what you might call the general chit-chat was pretty welldown and out. Nobody liked to be the first to speak. The members of theWood Hills Literary Society looked at one another timidly. Cuthbert, for his part, gazed at Adeline; and Adeline gazed into space. It wasplain that the girl was deeply stirred. Her eyes were opened wide, afaint flush crimsoned her cheeks, and her breath was coming quickly. 

Adeline's mind was in a whirl. She felt as if she had been walkinggaily along a pleasant path and had stopped suddenly on the very brinkof a precipice. It would be idle to deny that Raymond Parsloe Devinehad attracted her extraordinarily. She had taken him at his ownvaluation as an extremely hot potato, and her hero-worship hadgradually been turning into love. And now her hero had been shown tohave feet of clay. It was hard, I consider, on Raymond Parsloe Devine, but that is how it goes in this world. You get a following as acelebrity, and then you run up against another bigger celebrity andyour admirers desert you. One could moralize on this at considerablelength, but better not, perhaps. Enough to say that the glamour ofRaymond Devine ceased abruptly in that moment for Adeline, and her mostcoherent thought at this juncture was the resolve, as soon as she gotup to her room, to burn the three signed photographs he had sent herand to give the autographed presentation set of his books to thegrocer's boy. 

Mrs. Smethurst, meanwhile, having rallied somewhat, was endeavouring toset the feast of reason and flow of soul going again. 

"And how do you like England, Mr. Brusiloff?" she asked. 

The celebrity paused in the act of lowering another segment of cake. 

"Dam good, " he replied, cordially. 

"I suppose you have travelled all over the country by this time?"

"You said it, " agreed the Thinker. 

"Have you met many of our great public men?"

"Yais--Yais--Quite a few of the nibs--Lloyid Gorge, I meet him. But----"Beneath the matting a discontented expression came into his face, andhis voice took on a peevish note. "But I not meet your real greatmen--your Arbmishel, your Arreevadon--I not meet them. That's whatgives me the pipovitch. Have _you_ ever met Arbmishel andArreevadon?"

A strained, anguished look came into Mrs. Smethurst's face and wasreflected in the faces of the other members of the circle. The eminentRussian had sprung two entirely new ones on them, and they felt thattheir ignorance was about to be exposed. What would Vladimir Brusiloffthink of the Wood Hills Literary Society? The reputation of the WoodHills Literary Society was at stake, trembling in the balance, andcoming up for the third time. In dumb agony Mrs. Smethurst rolled hereyes about the room searching for someone capable of coming to therescue. She drew blank. 

And then, from a distant corner, there sounded a deprecating, cough, and those nearest Cuthbert Banks saw that he had stopped twisting hisright foot round his left ankle and his left foot round his right ankleand was sitting up with a light of almost human intelligence in hiseyes. 

"Er----" said Cuthbert, blushing as every eye in the room seemed to fixitself on him, "I think he means Abe Mitchell and Harry Vardon. "

"Abe Mitchell and Harry Vardon?" repeated Mrs. Smethurst, blankly. "Inever heard of----"

"Yais! Yais! Most! Very!" shouted Vladimir Brusiloff, enthusiastically. "Arbmishel and Arreevadon. You know them, yes, what, no, perhaps?"

"I've played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with HarryVardon in last year's Open. "

The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier. 

"You play in ze Open? Why, " he demanded reproachfully of Mrs. Smethurst, "was I not been introducted to this young man who play inopens?"

"Well, really, " faltered Mrs. Smethurst. "Well, the fact is, Mr. Brusiloff----"

She broke off. She was unequal to the task of explaining, withouthurting anyone's feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as apiece of cheese and a blot on the landscape. 

"Introduct me!" thundered the Celebrity. 

"Why, certainly, certainly, of course. This is Mr. ----. "

She looked appealingly at Cuthbert. 

"Banks, " prompted Cuthbert. 

"Banks!" cried Vladimir Brusiloff. "Not Cootaboot Banks?"

"_Is_ your name Cootaboot?" asked Mrs. Smethurst, faintly. 

"Well, it's Cuthbert. "

"Yais! Yais! Cootaboot!" There was a rush and swirl, as theeffervescent Muscovite burst his way through the throng and rushed towhere Cuthbert sat. He stood for a moment eyeing him excitedly, then, stooping swiftly, kissed him on both cheeks before Cuthbert could gethis guard up. "My dear young man, I saw you win ze French Open. Great!Great! Grand! Superb! Hot stuff, and you can say I said so! Will youpermit one who is but eighteen at Nijni-Novgorod to salute you oncemore?"

And he kissed Cuthbert again. Then, brushing aside one or twointellectuals who were in the way, he dragged up a chair and sat down. 

"You are a great man!" he said. 

"Oh, no, " said Cuthbert modestly. 

"Yais! Great. Most! Very! The way you lay your approach-putts dead fromanywhere!"

"Oh, I don't know. "

Mr. Brusiloff drew his chair closer. 

"Let me tell you one vairy funny story about putting. It was one day Iplay at Nijni-Novgorod with the pro. Against Lenin and Trotsky, andTrotsky had a two-inch putt for the hole. But, just as he addresses theball, someone in the crowd he tries to assassinate Lenin with arewolwer--you know that is our great national sport, trying toassassinate Lenin with rewolwers--and the bang puts Trotsky off hisstroke and he goes five yards past the hole, and then Lenin, who israther shaken, you understand, he misses again himself, and we win thehole and match and I clean up three hundred and ninety-six thousandroubles, or fifteen shillings in your money. Some gameovitch! And nowlet me tell you one other vairy funny story----"

Desultory conversation had begun in murmurs over the rest of the room, as the Wood Hills intellectuals politely endeavoured to conceal thefact that they realized that they were about as much out of it at thisre-union of twin souls as cats at a dog-show. From time to time theystarted as Vladimir Brusiloff's laugh boomed out. Perhaps it was aconsolation to them to know that he was enjoying himself. 

As for Adeline, how shall I describe her emotions? She was stunned. Before her very eyes the stone which the builders had rejected hadbecome the main thing, the hundred-to-one shot had walked away with therace. A rush of tender admiration for Cuthbert Banks flooded her heart. She saw that she had been all wrong. Cuthbert, whom she had alwaystreated with a patronizing superiority, was really a man to be lookedup to and worshipped. A deep, dreamy sigh shook Adeline's fragile form. 

Half an hour later Vladimir and Cuthbert Banks rose. 

"Goot-a-bye, Mrs. Smet-thirst, " said the Celebrity. "Zank you for amost charming visit. My friend Cootaboot and me we go now to shoot afew holes. You will lend me clobs, friend Cootaboot?"

"Any you want. "

"The niblicksky is what I use most. Goot-a-bye, Mrs. Smet-thirst. "

They were moving to the door, when Cuthbert felt a light touch on hisarm. Adeline was looking up at him tenderly. 

"May I come, too, and walk round with you?"

Cuthbert's bosom heaved. 

"Oh, " he said, with a tremor in his voice, "that you would walk roundwith me for life!"

Her eyes met his. 

"Perhaps, " she whispered, softly, "it could be arranged. "

 * * * * *

"And so, " (concluded the Oldest Member), "you see that golf can be ofthe greatest practical assistance to a man in Life's struggle. RaymondParsloe Devine, who was no player, had to move out of the neighbourhoodimmediately, and is now, I believe, writing scenarios out in Californiafor the Flicker Film Company. Adeline is married to Cuthbert, and itwas only his earnest pleading which prevented her from having theireldest son christened Abe Mitchell Ribbed-Faced Mashie Banks, for sheis now as keen a devotee of the great game as her husband. Those whoknow them say that theirs is a union so devoted, so----"

 * * * * *

The Sage broke off abruptly, for the young man had rushed to the doorand out into the passage. Through the open door he could hear himcrying passionately to the waiter to bring back his clubs. 

2

_A Woman is only a Woman_

On a fine day in the spring, summer, or early autumn, there are fewspots more delightful than the terrace in front of our Golf Club. It isa vantage-point peculiarly fitted to the man of philosophic mind: forfrom it may be seen that varied, never-ending pageant, which men callGolf, in a number of its aspects. To your right, on the first tee, stand the cheery optimists who are about to make their opening drive, happily conscious that even a topped shot will trickle a measurabledistance down the steep hill. Away in the valley, directly in front ofyou, is the lake hole, where these same optimists will be converted topessimism by the wet splash of a new ball. At your side is the ninthgreen, with its sinuous undulations which have so often wrecked thereturning traveller in sight of home. And at various points within yourline of vision are the third tee, the sixth tee, and the sinisterbunkers about the eighth green--none of them lacking in food for thereflective mind. 

It is on this terrace that the Oldest Member sits, watching the youngergeneration knocking at the divot. His gaze wanders from JimmyFothergill's two-hundred-and-twenty-yard drive down the hill to thesilver drops that flash up in the sun, as young Freddie Woosley'smashie-shot drops weakly into the waters of the lake. Returning, itrests upon Peter Willard, large and tall, and James Todd, small andslender, as they struggle up the fair-way of the ninth. 

 * * * * *

Love (says the Oldest Member) is an emotion which your true golfershould always treat with suspicion. Do not misunderstand me. I am notsaying that love is a bad thing, only that it is an unknown quantity. Ihave known cases where marriage improved a man's game, and other caseswhere it seemed to put him right off his stroke. There seems to be nofixed rule. But what I do say is that a golfer should be cautious. Heshould not be led away by the first pretty face. I will tell you astory that illustrates the point. It is the story of those two men whohave just got on to the ninth green--Peter Willard and James Todd. 

There is about great friendships between man and man (said the OldestMember) a certain inevitability that can only be compared with theage-old association of ham and eggs. No one can say when it was thatthese two wholesome and palatable food-stuffs first came together, norwhat was the mutual magnetism that brought their deathless partnershipabout. One simply feels that it is one of the things that must be so. Similarly with men. Who can trace to its first beginnings the love ofDamon for Pythias, of David for Jonathan, of Swan for Edgar? Who canexplain what it was about Crosse that first attracted Blackwell? Wesimply say, "These men are friends, " and leave it at that. 

In the case of Peter Willard and James Todd, one may hazard the guessthat the first link in the chain that bound them together was the factthat they took up golf within a few days of each other, and contrived, as time went on, to develop such equal form at the game that the mostexpert critics are still baffled in their efforts to decide which isthe worse player. I have heard the point argued a hundred times withoutany conclusion being reached. Supporters of Peter claim that hisdriving off the tee entitles him to an unchallenged pre-eminence amongthe world's most hopeless foozlers--only to be discomfited later whenthe advocates of James show, by means of diagrams, that no one has eversurpassed their man in absolute incompetence with the spoon. It is oneof those problems where debate is futile. 

Few things draw two men together more surely than a mutual inability tomaster golf, coupled with an intense and ever-increasing love for thegame. At the end of the first few months, when a series of costlyexperiments had convinced both Peter and James that there was not atottering grey-beard nor a toddling infant in the neighbourhood whosedownfall they could encompass, the two became inseparable. It waspleasanter, they found, to play together, and go neck and neck roundthe eighteen holes, than to take on some lissome youngster who couldspatter them all over the course with one old ball and a cut-down cleekstolen from his father; or some spavined elder who not only rubbed itinto them, but was apt, between strokes, to bore them with personalreminiscences of the Crimean War. So they began to play together earlyand late. In the small hours before breakfast, long ere the first faintpiping of the waking caddie made itself heard from the caddie-shed, they were half-way through their opening round. And at close of day, when bats wheeled against the steely sky and the "pro's" had stolenhome to rest, you might see them in the deepening dusk, going throughthe concluding exercises of their final spasm. After dark, they visitedeach other's houses and read golf books. 

If you have gathered from what I have said that Peter Willard and JamesTodd were fond of golf, I am satisfied. That is the impression Iintended to convey. They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing ofthe spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke. 

It must not be thought, however, that they devoted too much of theirtime and their thoughts to golf--assuming, indeed, that such a thing ispossible. Each was connected with a business in the metropolis; andoften, before he left for the links, Peter would go to the trouble andexpense of ringing up the office to say he would not be coming in thatday; while I myself have heard James--and this not once, butfrequently--say, while lunching in the club-house, that he had half amind to get Gracechurch Street on the 'phone and ask how things weregoing. They were, in fact, the type of men of whom England isproudest--the back-bone of a great country, toilers in the mart, untired businessmen, keen red-blooded men of affairs. If they played alittle golf besides, who shall blame them?

So they went on, day by day, happy and contented. And then the Womancame into their lives, like the Serpent in the Links of Eden, andperhaps for the first time they realized that they were not oneentity--not one single, indivisible Something that made for toppeddrives and short putts--but two individuals, in whose breasts Naturehad implanted other desires than the simple ambition some day to do thedog-leg hole on the second nine in under double figures. My friendstell me that, when I am relating a story, my language is inclined attimes a little to obscure my meaning; but, if you understand from whatI have been saying that James Todd and Peter Willard both fell in lovewith the same woman--all right, let us carry on. That is precisely whatI was driving at. 

I have not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with GraceForrester. I have seen her in the distance, watering the flowers in hergarden, and on these occasions her stance struck me as graceful. Andonce, at a picnic, I observed her killing wasps with a teaspoon, andwas impressed by the freedom of the wrist-action of her back-swing. Beyond this, I can say little. But she must have been attractive, forthere can be no doubt of the earnestness with which both Peter andJames fell in love with her. I doubt if either slept a wink the nightof the dance at which it was their privilege first to meet her. 

The next afternoon, happening to encounter Peter in the bunker near theeleventh green, James said:

"That was a nice girl, that Miss What's-her-name. "

And Peter, pausing for a moment from his trench-digging, replied:

"Yes. "

And then James, with a pang, knew that he had a rival, for he had notmentioned Miss Forrester's name, and yet Peter had divined that it wasto her that he had referred. 

Love is a fever which, so to speak, drives off without wasting time onthe address. On the very next morning after the conversation which Ihave related, James Todd rang Peter Willard up on the 'phone andcancelled their golf engagements for the day, on the plea of a sprainedwrist. Peter, acknowledging the cancellation, stated that he himselfhad been on the point of ringing James up to say that he would beunable to play owing to a slight headache. They met at tea-time at MissForrester's house. James asked how Peter's headache was, and Peter saidit was a little better. Peter inquired after James's sprained wrist, and was told it seemed on the mend. Miss Forrester dispensed tea andconversation to both impartially. 

They walked home together. After an awkward silence of twenty minutes, James said:

"There is something about the atmosphere--the aura, shall I say?--thatemanates from a good woman that makes a man feel that life has a new, adifferent meaning. "

Peter replied:

"Yes. "

When they reached James's door, James said:

"I won't ask you in tonight, old man. You want to go home and rest andcure that headache. "

"Yes, " said Peter. 

There was another silence. Peter was thinking that, only a couple ofdays before, James had told him that he had a copy of Sandy MacBean's"How to Become a Scratch Man Your First Season by Studying Photographs"coming by parcel-post from town, and they had arranged to read it aloudtogether. By now, thought Peter, it must be lying on his friend'stable. The thought saddened him. And James, guessing what was inPeter's mind, was saddened too. But he did not waver. He was in no moodto read MacBean's masterpiece that night. In the twenty minutes ofsilence after leaving Miss Forrester he had realized that "Grace"rhymes with "face", and he wanted to sit alone in his study and writepoetry. The two men parted with a distant nod. I beg your pardon? Yes, you are right. Two distant nods. It was always a failing of mine tocount the score erroneously. 

It is not my purpose to weary you by a minute recital of the happeningsof each day that went by. On the surface, the lives of these two menseemed unchanged. They still played golf together, and during the roundachieved towards each other a manner that, superficially, retained allits ancient cheeriness and affection. If--I should say--when, Jamestopped his drive, Peter never failed to say "Hard luck!" And when--or, rather, if Peter managed not to top his, James invariably said "Great!"But things were not the same, and they knew it. 

It so happened, as it sometimes will on these occasions, for Fate is adramatist who gets his best effects with a small cast, that PeterWillard and James Todd were the only visible aspirants for the hand ofMiss Forrester. Right at the beginning young Freddie Woosley had seemedattracted by the girl, and had called once or twice with flowers andchocolates, but Freddie's affections never centred themselves on oneobject for more than a few days, and he had dropped out after the firstweek. From that time on it became clear to all of us that, if GraceForrester intended to marry anyone in the place, it would be eitherJames or Peter; and a good deal of interest was taken in the matter bythe local sportsmen. So little was known of the form of the two men, neither having figured as principal in a love-affair before, that evenmoney was the best you could get, and the market was sluggish. I thinkmy own flutter of twelve golf-balls, taken up by Percival Brown, wasthe most substantial of any of the wagers. I selected James as thewinner. Why, I can hardly say, unless that he had an aunt whocontributed occasional stories to the "Woman's Sphere". These thingssometimes weigh with a girl. On the other hand, George Lucas, who hadhalf-a-dozen of ginger-ale on Peter, based his calculations on the factthat James wore knickerbockers on the links, and that no girl couldpossibly love a man with calves like that. In short, you see, we reallyhad nothing to go on. 

Nor had James and Peter. The girl seemed to like them both equally. They never saw her except in each other's company. And it was not untilone day when Grace Forrester was knitting a sweater that there seemed achance of getting a clue to her hidden feelings. 

When the news began to spread through the place that Grace was knittingthis sweater there was a big sensation. The thing seemed to uspractically to amount to a declaration. 

That was the view that James Todd and Peter Willard took of it, andthey used to call on Grace, watch her knitting, and come away withtheir heads full of complicated calculations. The whole thing hung onone point--to wit, what size the sweater was going to be. If it waslarge, then it must be for Peter; if small, then James was the luckyman. Neither dared to make open inquiries, but it began to seem almostimpossible to find out the truth without them. No masculine eye canreckon up purls and plains and estimate the size of chest which thegarment is destined to cover. Moreover, with amateur knitters theremust always be allowed a margin for involuntary error. There were manycases during the war where our girls sent sweaters to their sweetheartswhich would have induced strangulation in their young brothers. Theamateur sweater of those days was, in fact, practically tantamount toGerman propaganda. 

Peter and James were accordingly baffled. One evening the sweater wouldlook small, and James would come away jubilant; the next it would haveswollen over a vast area, and Peter would walk home singing. Thesuspense of the two men can readily be imagined. On the one hand, theywanted to know their fate; on the other, they fully realized thatwhoever the sweater was for would have to wear it. And, as it was avivid pink and would probably not fit by a mile, their hearts quailedat the prospect. 

In all affairs of human tension there must come a breaking point. Itcame one night as the two men were walking home. 

"Peter, " said James, stopping in mid-stride. He mopped his forehead. His manner had been feverish all the evening. 

"Yes?" said Peter. 

"I can't stand this any longer. I haven't had a good night's rest forweeks. We must find out definitely which of us is to have thatsweater. "

"Let's go back and ask her, " said Peter. 

So they turned back and rang the bell and went into the house andpresented themselves before Miss Forrester. 

"Lovely evening, " said James, to break the ice. 

"Superb, " said Peter. 

"Delightful, " said Miss Forrester, looking a little surprised atfinding the troupe playing a return date without having booked it inadvance. 

"To settle a bet, " said James, "will you please tell us who--I shouldsay, whom--you are knitting that sweater for?"

"It is not a sweater, " replied Miss Forrester, with a womanly candourthat well became her. "It is a sock. And it is for my cousin Juliet'syoungest son, Willie. "

"Good night, " said James. 

"Good night, " said Peter. 

"Good night, " said Grace Forrester. 

It was during the long hours of the night, when ideas so often come towakeful men, that James was struck by an admirable solution of his andPeter's difficulty. It seemed to him that, were one or the other toleave Woodhaven, the survivor would find himself in a position toconduct his wooing as wooing should be conducted. Hitherto, as I haveindicated, neither had allowed the other to be more than a few minutesalone with the girl. They watched each other like hawks. When Jamescalled, Peter called. When Peter dropped in, James invariably poppedround. The thing had resolved itself into a stalemate. 

The idea which now came to James was that he and Peter should settletheir rivalry by an eighteen-hole match on the links. He thought veryhighly of the idea before he finally went to sleep, and in the morningthe scheme looked just as good to him as it had done overnight. 

James was breakfasting next morning, preparatory to going round todisclose his plan to Peter, when Peter walked in, looking happier thanhe had done for days. 

"'Morning, " said James. 

"'Morning, " said Peter. 

Peter sat down and toyed absently with a slice of bacon. 

"I've got an idea, " he said. 

"One isn't many, " said James, bringing his knife down with a jerk-shoton a fried egg. "What is your idea?"

"Got it last night as I was lying awake. It struck me that, if eitherof us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fairchance. You know what I mean--with Her. At present we've got each otherstymied. Now, how would it be, " said Peter, abstractedly spreadingmarmalade on his bacon, "if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, theloser to leg out of the neighbourhood and stay away long enough to givethe winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood?"

James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye withhis fork. 

"That's exactly the idea I got last night, too. "

"Then it's a go?"

"It's the only thing to do. "

There was silence for a moment. Both men were thinking. Remember, theywere friends. For years they had shared each other's sorrows, joys, andgolf-balls, and sliced into the same bunkers. 

Presently Peter said:

"I shall miss you. "

"What do you mean, miss me?"

"When you're gone. Woodhaven won't seem the same place. But of courseyou'll soon be able to come back. I sha'n't waste any time proposing. "

"Leave me your address, " said James, "and I'll send you a wire when youcan return. You won't be offended if I don't ask you to be best man atthe wedding? In the circumstances it might be painful to you. "

Peter sighed dreamily. 

"We'll have the sitting-room done in blue. Her eyes are blue. "

"Remember, " said James, "there will always be a knife and fork for youat our little nest. Grace is not the woman to want me to drop mybachelor friends. "

"Touching this match, " said Peter. "Strict Royal and Ancient rules, ofcourse?"

"Certainly. "

"I mean to say--no offence, old man--but no grounding niblicks inbunkers. "

"Precisely. And, without hinting at anything personal, the ball shallbe considered holed-out only when it is in the hole, not when it stopson the edge. "

"Undoubtedly. And--you know I don't want to hurt your feelings--missingthe ball counts as a stroke, not as a practice-swing. "

"Exactly. And--you'll forgive me if I mention it--a player whose ballhas fallen in the rough, may not pull up all the bushes within a radiusof three feet. "

"In fact, strict rules. "

"Strict rules. "

They shook hands without more words. And presently Peter walked out, and James, with a guilty look over his shoulder, took down SandyMacBean's great work from the bookshelf and began to study thephotograph of the short approach-shot showing Mr. MacBean swinging fromPoint A, through dotted line B-C, to Point D, his head the whileremaining rigid at the spot marked with a cross. He felt a littleguiltily that he had stolen a march on his friend, and that the contestwas as good as over. 

 * * * * *

I cannot recall a lovelier summer day than that on which the greatTodd-Willard eighteen-hole match took place. It had rained during thenight, and now the sun shone down from a clear blue sky on to turf thatglistened more greenly than the young grass of early spring. Butterflies flitted to and fro; birds sang merrily. In short, allNature smiled. And it is to be doubted if Nature ever had a betterexcuse for smiling--or even laughing outright; for matches like thatbetween James Todd and Peter Willard do not occur every day. 

Whether it was that love had keyed them up, or whether hours of studyof Braid's "Advanced Golf" and the Badminton Book had produced abelated effect, I cannot say; but both started off quite reasonablywell. Our first hole, as you can see, is a bogey four, and James wasdead on the pin in seven, leaving Peter, who had twice hit the UnitedKingdom with his mashie in mistake for the ball, a difficult putt forthe half. Only one thing could happen when you left Peter a difficultputt; and James advanced to the lake hole one up, Peter, as hefollowed, trying to console himself with the thought that many of thebest golfers prefer to lose the first hole and save themselves for astrong finish. 

Peter and James had played over the lake hole so often that they hadbecome accustomed to it, and had grown into the habit of sinking a ballor two as a preliminary formality with much the same stoicism displayedby those kings in ancient and superstitious times who used to flingjewellery into the sea to propitiate it before they took a voyage. Buttoday, by one of those miracles without which golf would not be golf, each of them got over with his first shot--and not only over, but deadon the pin. Our "pro. " himself could not have done better. 

I think it was at this point that the two men began to go to pieces. They were in an excited frame of mind, and this thing unmanned them. You will no doubt recall Keats's poem about stout Cortez staring witheagle eyes at the Pacific while all his men gazed at each other with awild surmise, silent upon a peak in Darien. Precisely so did PeterWillard and James Todd stare with eagle eyes at the second lake hole, and gaze at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a tee inWoodhaven. They had dreamed of such a happening so often and woke tofind the vision false, that at first they could not believe that thething had actually occurred. 

"I got over!" whispered James, in an awed voice. 

"So did I!" muttered Peter. 

"In one!"

"With my very first!"

They walked in silence round the edge of the lake, and holed out. Oneputt was enough for each, and they halved the hole with a two. Peter'sprevious record was eight, and James had once done a seven. There aretimes when strong men lose their self-control, and this was one ofthem. They reached the third tee in a daze, and it was here thatmortification began to set in. 

The third hole is another bogey four, up the hill and past the treethat serves as a direction-post, the hole itself being out of sight. Onhis day, James had often done it in ten and Peter in nine; but now theywere unnerved. James, who had the honour, shook visibly as he addressedhis ball. Three times he swung and only connected with the ozone; thefourth time he topped badly. The discs had been set back a little way, and James had the mournful distinction of breaking a record for thecourse by playing his fifth shot from the tee. It was a low, rakingbrassey-shot, which carried a heap of stones twenty feet to the rightand finished in a furrow. Peter, meanwhile, had popped up a lofty ballwhich came to rest behind a stone. 

It was now that the rigid rules governing this contest began to taketheir toll. Had they been playing an ordinary friendly round, eachwould have teed up on some convenient hillock and probably been pastthe tree with their second, for James would, in ordinary circumstances, have taken his drive back and regarded the strokes he had made as alittle preliminary practice to get him into midseason form. But todayit was war to the niblick, and neither man asked nor expected quarter. Peter's seventh shot dislodged the stone, leaving him a clear field, and James, with his eleventh, extricated himself from the furrow. Fiftyfeet from the tree James was eighteen, Peter twelve; but then thelatter, as every golfer does at times, suddenly went right off hisgame. He hit the tree four times, then hooked into the sand-bunkers tothe left of the hole. James, who had been playing a game that wassteady without being brilliant, was on the green in twenty-six, Petertaking twenty-seven. Poor putting lost James the hole. Peter was downin thirty-three, but the pace was too hot for James. He missed atwo-foot putt for the half, and they went to the fourth tee all square. 

The fourth hole follows the curve of the road, on the other side ofwhich are picturesque woods. It presents no difficulties to the expert, but it has pitfalls for the novice. The dashing player stands for aslice, while the more cautious are satisfied if they can clear thebunker that spans the fairway and lay their ball well out to the left, whence an iron shot will take them to the green. Peter and Jamescombined the two policies. Peter aimed to the left and got a slice, andJames, also aiming to the left, topped into the bunker. Peter, realizing from experience the futility of searching for his ball in thewoods, drove a second, which also disappeared into the jungle, as didhis third. By the time he had joined James in the bunker he had playedhis sixth. 

It is the glorious uncertainty of golf that makes it the game it is. The fact that James and Peter, lying side by side in the same bunker, had played respectively one and six shots, might have induced anunthinking observer to fancy the chances of the former. And no doubt, had he not taken seven strokes to extricate himself from the pit, whilehis opponent, by some act of God, contrived to get out in two, James'schances might have been extremely rosy. As it was, the two menstaggered out on to the fairway again with a score of eight apiece. Once past the bunker and round the bend of the road, the hole becomessimple. A judicious use of the cleek put Peter on the green infourteen, while James, with a Braid iron, reached it in twelve. Peterwas down in seventeen, and James contrived to halve. It was only as hewas leaving the hole that the latter discovered that he had beenputting with his niblick, which cannot have failed to exercise aprejudicial effect on his game. These little incidents are bound tohappen when one is in a nervous and highly-strung condition. 

The fifth and sixth holes produced no unusual features. Peter won thefifth in eleven, and James the sixth in ten. The short seventh theyhalved in nine. The eighth, always a tricky hole, they took noliberties with, James, sinking a long putt with his twenty-third, justmanaging to halve. A ding-dong race up the hill for the ninth foundJames first at the pin, and they finished the first nine with James oneup. 

As they left the green James looked a little furtively at hiscompanion. 

"You might be strolling on to the tenth, " he said. "I want to get a fewballs at the shop. And my mashie wants fixing up. I sha'n't be long. "

"I'll come with you, " said Peter. 

"Don't bother, " said James. "You go on and hold our place at the tee. "

I regret to say that James was lying. His mashie was in excellentrepair, and he still had a dozen balls in his bag, it being his prudentpractice always to start out with eighteen. No! What he had said wasmere subterfuge. He wanted to go to his locker and snatch a few minuteswith Sandy MacBean's "How to Become a Scratch Man". He felt sure thatone more glance at the photograph of Mr. MacBean driving would give himthe mastery of the stroke and so enable him to win the match. In this Ithink he was a little sanguine. The difficulty about Sandy MacBean'smethod of tuition was that he laid great stress on the fact that theball should be directly in a line with a point exactly in the centre ofthe back of the player's neck; and so far James's efforts to keep hiseye on the ball and on the back of his neck simultaneously had producedno satisfactory results. 

 * * * * *

It seemed to James, when he joined Peter on the tenth tee, that thelatter's manner was strange. He was pale. There was a curious look inhis eye. 

"James, old man, " he said. 

"Yes?" said James. 

"While you were away I have been thinking. James, old man, do youreally love this girl?"

James stared. A spasm of pain twisted Peter's face. 

"Suppose, " he said in a low voice, "she were not all you--we--think sheis!"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, nothing. "

"Miss Forrester is an angel. "

"Yes, yes. Quite so. "

"I know what it is, " said James, passionately. "You're trying to put meoff my stroke. You know that the least thing makes me lose my form. "

"No, no!"

"You hope that you can take my mind off the game and make me go topieces, and then you'll win the match. "

"On the contrary, " said Peter. "I intend to forfeit the match. "

James reeled. 

"What!"

"I give up. "

"But--but----" James shook with emotion. His voice quavered. "Ah!" hecried. "I see now: I understand! You are doing this for me because I amyour pal. Peter, this is noble! This is the sort of thing you readabout in books. I've seen it in the movies. But I can't accept thesacrifice. "

"You must!"

"No, no!"

"I insist!"

"Do you mean this?"

"I give her up, James, old man. I--I hope you will be happy. "

"But I don't know what to say. How can I thank you?"

"Don't thank me. "

"But, Peter, do you fully realize what you are doing? True, I am oneup, but there are nine holes to go, and I am not right on my gametoday. You might easily beat me. Have you forgotten that I once tookforty-seven at the dog-leg hole? This may be one of my bad days. Do youunderstand that if you insist on giving up I shall go to Miss Forrestertonight and propose to her?"

"I understand. "

"And yet you stick to it that you are through?"

"I do. And, but the way, there's no need for you to wait till tonight. I saw Miss Forrester just now outside the tennis court. She's alone. "

James turned crimson. 

"Then I think perhaps----"

"You'd better go to her at once. "

"I will. " James extended his hand. "Peter, old man, I shall neverforget this. "

"That's all right. "

"What are you going to do?"

"Now, do you mean? Oh, I shall potter round the second nine. If youwant me, you'll find me somewhere about. "

"You'll come to the wedding, Peter?" said James, wistfully. 

"Of course, " said Peter. "Good luck. "

He spoke cheerily, but, when the other had turned to go, he stoodlooking after him thoughtfully. Then he sighed a heavy sigh. 

 * * * * *

James approached Miss Forrester with a beating heart. She made acharming picture as she stood there in the sunlight, one hand on herhip, the other swaying a tennis racket. 

"How do you do?" said James. 

"How are you, Mr. Todd? Have you been playing golf?"

"Yes. "

"With Mr. Willard?"

"Yes. We were having a match. "

"Golf, " said Grace Forrester, "seems to make men very rude. Mr. Willardleft me without a word in the middle of our conversation. "

James was astonished. 

"Were you talking to Peter?"

"Yes. Just now. I can't understand what was the matter with him. Hejust turned on his heel and swung off. "

"You oughtn't to turn on your heel when you swing, " said James; "onlyon the ball of the foot. "

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, nothing. I wasn't thinking. The fact is, I've something on mymind. So has Peter. You mustn't think too hardly of him. We have beenplaying an important match, and it must have got on his nerves. Youdidn't happen by any chance to be watching us?"

"No. "

"Ah! I wish you had seen me at the lake-hole. I did it one under par. "

"Was your father playing?"

"You don't understand. I mean I did it in one better than even thefinest player is supposed to do it. It's a mashie-shot, you know. Youmustn't play too light, or you fall in the lake; and you mustn't playit too hard, or you go past the hole into the woods. It requires thenicest delicacy and judgment, such as I gave it. You might have to waita year before seeing anyone do it in two again. I doubt if the 'pro. 'often does it in two. Now, directly we came to this hole today, I madeup my mind that there was going to be no mistake. The great secret ofany shot at golf is ease, elegance, and the ability to relax. Themajority of men, you will find, think it important that their addressshould be good. "

"How snobbish! What does it matter where a man lives?"

"You don't absolutely follow me. I refer to the waggle and the stancebefore you make the stroke. Most players seem to fix in their minds theappearance of the angles which are presented by the position of thearms, legs, and club shaft, and it is largely the desire to retainthese angles which results in their moving their heads and stiffeningtheir muscles so that there is no freedom in the swing. There is onlyone point which vitally affects the stroke, and the only reason whythat should be kept constant is that you are enabled to see your ballclearly. That is the pivotal point marked at the base of the neck, anda line drawn from this point to the ball should be at right angles tothe line of flight. "

James paused for a moment for air, and as he paused Miss Forresterspoke. 

"This is all gibberish to me, " she said. 

"Gibberish!" gasped James. "I am quoting verbatim from one of the bestauthorities on golf. "

Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably. 

"Golf, " she said, "bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest gameever invented!"

The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble a meansof depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist hasthe advantage over the historian. Were I an artist, I should show Jamesat this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyesshut, with a semi-circular dotted line marking the progress of hisflight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. Thereare no words that can adequately describe the sheer, black horror thatfroze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears. 

He had never inquired into Miss Forrester's religious views before, buthe had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she waspolluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. Itwould be incorrect to say that James's love was turned to hate. He didnot hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. Whathe felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blendof the two. 

There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then, without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away. 

 * * * * *

Peter was working moodily in the twelfth bunker when his friendarrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other wasalone, he came forward hesitatingly. 

"Am I to congratulate you?"

James breathed a deep breath. 

"You are!" he said. "On an escape!"

"She refused you?"

"She didn't get the chance. Old man, have you ever sent one right upthe edge of that bunker in front of the seventh and just not gone in?"

"Very rarely. "

"I did once. It was my second shot, from a good lie, with the lightiron, and I followed well through and thought I had gone just too far, and, when I walked up, there was my ball on the edge of the bunker, nicely teed up on a chunk of grass, so that I was able to lay it deadwith my mashie-niblick, holing out in six. Well, what I mean to say is, I feel now as I felt then--as if some unseen power had withheld me intime from some frightful disaster. "

"I know just how you feel, " said Peter, gravely. 

"Peter, old man, that girl said golf bored her pallid. She said shethought it was the silliest game ever invented. " He paused to mark theeffect of his words. Peter merely smiled a faint, wan smile. "You don'tseem revolted, " said James. 

"I am revolted, but not surprised. You see, she said the same thing tome only a few minutes before. "

"She did!"

"It amounted to the same thing. I had just been telling her how I didthe lake-hole today in two, and she said that in her opinion golf was agame for children with water on the brain who weren't athletic enoughto play Animal Grab. "

The two men shivered in sympathy. 

"There must be insanity in the family, " said James at last. 

"That, " said Peter, "is the charitable explanation. "

"We were fortunate to find it out in time. "

"We were!"

"We mustn't run a risk like that again. "

"Never again!"

"I think we had better take up golf really seriously. It will keep usout of mischief. "

"You're quite right. We ought to do our four rounds a day regularly. "

"In spring, summer, and autumn. And in winter it would be rash not topractise most of the day at one of those indoor schools. "

"We ought to be safe that way. "

"Peter, old man, " said James, "I've been meaning to speak to you aboutit for some time. I've got Sandy MacBean's new book, and I think youought to read it. It is full of helpful hints. "

"James!"

"Peter!"

Silently the two men clasped hands. James Todd and Peter Willard werethemselves again. 

 * * * * *

And so (said the Oldest Member) we come back to our originalstarting-point--to wit, that, while there is nothing to be saiddefinitely against love, your golfer should be extremely careful how heindulges in it. It may improve his game or it may not. But, if he findsthat there is any danger that it may not--if the object of hisaffections is not the kind of girl who will listen to him with cheerfulsympathy through the long evenings, while he tells her, illustratingstance and grip and swing with the kitchen poker, each detail of theday's round--then, I say unhesitatingly, he had better leave it alone. Love has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times; but thereare higher, nobler things than love. A woman is only a woman, but ahefty drive is a slosh. 

3

_A Mixed Threesome_

It was the holiday season, and during the holidays the GreensCommittees have decided that the payment of twenty guineas shallentitle fathers of families not only to infest the course themselves, but also to decant their nearest and dearest upon it in whateverquantity they please. All over the links, in consequence, happy, laughing groups of children had broken out like a rash. A wan-facedadult, who had been held up for ten minutes while a drove of issuequarrelled over whether little Claude had taken two hundred or twohundred and twenty approach shots to reach the ninth green sank into aseat beside the Oldest Member. 

"What luck?" inquired the Sage. 

"None to speak of, " returned the other, moodily. "I thought I hadbagged a small boy in a Lord Fauntleroy suit on the sixth, but heducked. These children make me tired. They should be bowling theirhoops in the road. Golf is a game for grownups. How can a fellow play, with a platoon of progeny blocking him at every hole?"

The Oldest Member shook his head. He could not subscribe to thesesentiments. 

No doubt (said the Oldest Member) the summer golf-child is, from thepoint of view of the player who likes to get round the course in asingle afternoon, something of a trial; but, personally, I confess, itpleases me to see my fellow human beings--and into this categorygolf-children, though at the moment you may not be broad-minded enoughto admit it, undoubtedly fall--taking to the noblest of games at anearly age. Golf, like measles, should be caught young, for, ifpostponed to riper years, the results may be serious. Let me tell youthe story of Mortimer Sturgis, which illustrates what I mean ratheraptly. 

Mortimer Sturgis, when I first knew him, was a care-free man ofthirty-eight, of amiable character and independent means, which heincreased from time to time by judicious ventures on the StockExchange. Although he had never played golf, his had not beenaltogether an ill-spent life. He swung a creditable racket at tennis, was always ready to contribute a baritone solo to charity concerts, andgave freely to the poor. He was what you might call a golden-mean man, good-hearted rather than magnetic, with no serious vices and no heroicvirtues. For a hobby, he had taken up the collecting of porcelainvases, and he was engaged to Betty Weston, a charming girl oftwenty-five, a lifelong friend of mine. 

I like Mortimer. Everybody liked him. But, at the same time, I was alittle surprised that a girl like Betty should have become engaged tohim. As I said before, he was not magnetic; and magnetism, I thought, was the chief quality she would have demanded in a man. Betty was oneof those ardent, vivid girls, with an intense capacity forhero-worship, and I would have supposed that something more in thenature of a plumed knight or a corsair of the deep would have been herideal. But, of course, if there is a branch of modern industry wherethe demand is greater than the supply, it is the manufacture of knightsand corsairs; and nowadays a girl, however flaming her aspirations, hasto take the best she can get. I must admit that Betty seemed perfectlycontent with Mortimer. 

Such, then, was the state of affairs when Eddie Denton arrived, and thetrouble began. 

I was escorting Betty home one evening after a tea-party at which wehad been fellow-guests, when, walking down the road, we happened toespy Mortimer. He broke into a run when he saw us, and galloped up, waving a piece of paper in his hand. He was plainly excited, a thingwhich was unusual in this well-balanced man. His broad, good-humouredface was working violently. 

"Good news!" he cried. "Good news! Dear old Eddie's back!"

"Oh, how nice for you, dear!" said Betty. "Eddie Denton is Mortimer'sbest friend, " she explained to me. "He has told me so much about him. Ihave been looking forward to his coming home. Mortie thinks the worldof him. "

"So will you, when you know him, " cried Mortimer. "Dear old Eddie! He'sa wonder! The best fellow on earth! We were at school and the 'Varsitytogether. There's nobody like Eddie! He landed yesterday. Just homefrom Central Africa. He's an explorer, you know, " he said to me. "Spends all his time in places where it's death for a white man to go. "

"An explorer!" I heard Betty breathe, as if to herself. I was not soimpressed, I fear, as she was. Explorers, as a matter of fact, leave mea trifle cold. It has always seemed to me that the difficulties oftheir life are greatly exaggerated--generally by themselves. In a largecountry like Africa, for instance, I should imagine that it was almostimpossible for a man not to get somewhere if he goes on long enough. Give _me_ the fellow who can plunge into the bowels of the earthat Piccadilly Circus and find the right Tube train with nothing but alot of misleading signs to guide him. However, we are not allconstituted alike in this world, and it was apparent from the flush onher cheek and the light in her eyes that Betty admired explorers. 

"I wired to him at once, " went on Mortimer, "and insisted on his comingdown here. It's two years since I saw him. You don't know how I havelooked forward, dear, to you and Eddie meeting. He is just your sort. Iknow how romantic you are and keen on adventure and all that. Well, you should hear Eddie tell the story of how he brought down thebull _bongo_ with his last cartridge after all the _pongos_, ornative bearers, had fled into the _dongo_, or undergrowth. "

"I should love to!" whispered Betty, her eyes glowing. I suppose to animpressionable girl these things really are of absorbing interest. Formyself, _bongos_ intrigue me even less than _pongos_, while_dongos_ frankly bore me. "When do you expect him?"

"He will get my wire tonight. I'm hoping we shall see the dear oldfellow tomorrow afternoon some time. How surprised old Eddie will be tohear that I'm engaged. He's such a confirmed bachelor himself. He toldme once that he considered the wisest thing ever said by human tonguewas the Swahili proverb--'Whoso taketh a woman into his kraaldepositeth himself straightway in the _wongo_. ' _Wongo_, hetells me, is a sort of broth composed of herbs and meat-bones, corresponding to our soup. You must get Eddie to give it you in theoriginal Swahili. It sounds even better. "

I saw the girl's eyes flash, and there came into her face that peculiarset expression which married men know. It passed in an instant, but notbefore it had given me material for thought which lasted me all the wayto my house and into the silent watches of the night. I was fond ofMortimer Sturgis, and I could see trouble ahead for him as plainly asthough I had been a palmist reading his hand at two guineas a visit. There are other proverbs fully as wise as the one which Mortimer hadtranslated from the Swahili, and one of the wisest is that quaint oldEast London saying, handed down from one generation of costermongers toanother, and whispered at midnight in the wigwams of the whelk-seller!"Never introduce your donah to a pal. " In those seven words iscontained the wisdom of the ages. I could read the future so plainly. What but one thing could happen after Mortimer had influenced Betty'simagination with his stories of his friend's romantic career, and addedthe finishing touch by advertising him as a woman-hater? He might justas well have asked for his ring back at once. My heart bled forMortimer. 

 * * * *

I happened to call at his house on the second evening of the explorer'svisit, and already the mischief had been done. 

Denton was one of those lean, hard-bitten men with smouldering eyes anda brick-red complexion. He looked what he was, the man of action andenterprise. He had the wiry frame and strong jaw without which noexplorer is complete, and Mortimer, beside him, seemed but a poor, softproduct of our hot-house civilization. Mortimer, I forgot to say, woreglasses; and, if there is one time more than another when a man shouldnot wear glasses, it is while a strong-faced, keen-eyed wanderer in thewilds is telling a beautiful girl the story of his adventures. 

For this was what Denton was doing. My arrival seemed to haveinterrupted him in the middle of narrative. He shook my hand in astrong, silent sort of way, and resumed:

"Well, the natives seemed fairly friendly, so I decided to stay thenight. "

I made a mental note never to seem fairly friendly to an explorer. Ifyou do, he always decides to stay the night. 

"In the morning they took me down to the river. At this point it widensinto a _kongo_, or pool, and it was here, they told me, that thecrocodile mostly lived, subsisting on the native oxen--the short-horned_jongos_--which, swept away by the current while crossing the fordabove, were carried down on the _longos_, or rapids. It was not, however, till the second evening that I managed to catch sight of hisugly snout above the surface. I waited around, and on the third day Isaw him suddenly come out of the water and heave his whole length on toa sandbank in mid-stream and go to sleep in the sun. He was certainly amonster--fully thirty--you have never been in Central Africa, have you, Miss Weston? No? You ought to go there!--fully fifty feet from tip totail. There he lay, glistening. I shall never forget the sight. "

He broke off to light a cigarette. I heard Betty draw in her breathsharply. Mortimer was beaming through his glasses with the air of theowner of a dog which is astonishing a drawing-room with its clevertricks. 

"And what did you do then, Mr. Denton?" asked Betty, breathlessly. 

"Yes, what did you do then, old chap?" said Mortimer. 

Denton blew out the match and dropped it on the ash-tray. 

"Eh? Oh, " he said, carelessly, "I swam across and shot him. "

"Swam across and shot him!"

"Yes. It seemed to me that the chance was too good to be missed. Ofcourse, I might have had a pot at him from the bank, but the chanceswere I wouldn't have hit him in a vital place. So I swam across to thesandbank, put the muzzle of my gun in his mouth, and pulled thetrigger. I have rarely seen a crocodile so taken aback. "

"But how dreadfully dangerous!"

"Oh, danger!" Eddie Denton laughed lightly. "One drops into the habitof taking a few risks out there, you know. Talking of _danger_, the time when things really did look a little nasty was when thewounded _gongo_ cornered me in a narrow _tongo_ and I only hada pocket-knife with everything in it broken except the corkscrewand the thing for taking stones out of horses' hoofs. It was likethis----"

I could bear no more. I am a tender-hearted man, and I made some excuseand got away. From the expression on the girl's face I could see thatit was only a question of days before she gave her heart to thisromantic newcomer. 

 * * * * *

As a matter of fact, it was on the following afternoon that she calledon me and told me that the worst had happened. I had known her from achild, you understand, and she always confided her troubles to me. 

"I want your advice, " she began. "I'm so wretched!"

She burst into tears. I could see the poor girl was in a highly nervouscondition, so I did my best to calm her by describing how I had oncedone the long hole in four. My friends tell me that there is no finersoporific, and it seemed as though they may be right, for presently, just as I had reached the point where I laid my approach-putt dead froma distance of fifteen feet, she became quieter. She dried her eyes, yawned once or twice, and looked at me bravely. 

"I love Eddie Denton!" she said. 

"I feared as much. When did you feel this coming on?"

"It crashed on me like a thunderbolt last night after dinner. We werewalking in the garden, and he was just telling me how he had beenbitten by a poisonous _zongo_, when I seemed to go all giddy. WhenI came to myself I was in Eddie's arms. His face was pressed againstmine, and he was gargling. "

"Gargling?"

"I thought so at first. But he reassured me. He was merely speaking inone of the lesser-known dialects of the Walla-Walla natives of EasternUganda, into which he always drops in moments of great emotion. He soonrecovered sufficiently to give me a rough translation, and then I knewthat he loved me. He kissed me. I kissed him. We kissed each other. "

"And where was Mortimer all this while?"

"Indoors, cataloguing his collection of vases. "

For a moment, I confess, I was inclined to abandon Mortimer's cause. Aman, I felt, who could stay indoors cataloguing vases while his_fiancee_ wandered in the moonlight with explorers deserved allthat was coming to him. I overcame the feeling. 

"Have you told him?"

"Of course not. "

"You don't think it might be of interest to him?"

"How can I tell him? It would break his heart. I am awfully fond ofMortimer. So is Eddie. We would both die rather than do anything tohurt him. Eddie is the soul of honour. He agrees with me that Mortimermust never know. "

"Then you aren't going to break off your engagement?"

"I couldn't. Eddie feels the same. He says that, unless something canbe done, he will say good-bye to me and creep far, far away to somedistant desert, and there, in the great stillness, broken only by thecry of the prowling _yongo_, try to forget. "

"When you say 'unless something can be done, ' what do you mean? Whatcan be done?"

"I thought you might have something to suggest. Don't you think itpossible that somehow Mortimer might take it into his head to break theengagement himself?"

"Absurd! He loves you devotedly. "

"I'm afraid so. Only the other day I dropped one of his best vases, andhe just smiled and said it didn't matter. "

"I can give you even better proof than that. This morning Mortimer cameto me and asked me to give him secret lessons in golf. "

"Golf! But he despises golf. "

"Exactly. But he is going to learn it for your sake. "

"But why secret lessons?"

"Because he wants to keep it a surprise for your birthday. Now can youdoubt his love?"

"I am not worthy of him!" she whispered. 

The words gave me an idea. 

"Suppose, " I said, "we could convince Mortimer of that!"

"I don't understand. "

"Suppose, for instance, he could be made to believe that you were, letus say, a dipsomaniac. "

She shook her head. "He knows that already. "

"What!"

"Yes; I told him I sometimes walked in my sleep. "

"I mean a secret drinker. "

"Nothing will induce me to pretend to be a secret drinker. "

"Then a drug-fiend?" I suggested, hopefully. 

"I hate medicine. "

"I have it!" I said. "A kleptomaniac. "

"What is that?"

"A person who steals things. "

"Oh, that's horrid. "

"Not at all. It's a perfectly ladylike thing to do. You don't know youdo it. "

"But, if I don't know I do it, how do I know I do it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, how can I tell Mortimer I do it if I don't know?"

"You don't tell him. I will tell him. I will inform him tomorrow thatyou called on me this afternoon and stole my watch and"--I glancedabout the room--"my silver matchbox. "

"I'd rather have that little vinaigrette. "

"You don't get either. I merely say you stole it. What will happen?"

"Mortimer will hit you with a cleek. "

"Not at all. I am an old man. My white hairs protect me. What he willdo is to insist on confronting me with you and asking you to deny thefoul charge. "

"And then?"

"Then you admit it and release him from his engagement. "

She sat for a while in silence. I could see that my words had made animpression. 

"I think it's a splendid idea. Thank you very much. " She rose and movedto the door. "I knew you would suggest something wonderful. " Shehesitated. "You don't think it would make it sound more plausible if Ireally took the vinaigrette?" she added, a little wistfully. 

"It would spoil everything, " I replied, firmly, as I reached for thevinaigrette and locked it carefully in my desk. 

She was silent for a moment, and her glance fell on the carpet. That, however, did not worry me. It was nailed down. 

"Well, good-bye, " she said. 

"_Au revoir_, " I replied. "I am meeting Mortimer at six-thirtytomorrow. You may expect us round at your house at about eight. "

 * * * * *

Mortimer was punctual at the tryst next morning. When I reached thetenth tee he was already there. We exchanged a brief greeting and Ihanded him a driver, outlined the essentials of grip and swing, andbade him go to it. 

"It seems a simple game, " he said, as he took his stance. "You're sureit's fair to have the ball sitting up on top of a young sand-hill likethis?"

"Perfectly fair. "

"I mean, I don't want to be coddled because I'm a beginner. "

"The ball is always teed up for the drive, " I assured him. 

"Oh, well, if you say so. But it seems to me to take all the element ofsport out of the game. Where do I hit it?"

"Oh, straight ahead. "

"But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that houseover there?"

He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards downthe fairway. 

"In that case, " I replied, "the owner comes out in his pyjamas andoffers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar. "

He seemed reassured, and began to address the ball. Then he pausedagain. 

"Isn't there something you say before you start?" he asked. "'Five', orsomething?"

"You may say 'Fore!' if it makes you feel any easier. But it isn'tnecessary. "

"If I am going to learn this silly game, " said Mortimer, firmly, "I amgoing to learn it _right_. Fore!"

I watched him curiously. I never put a club into the hand of a beginnerwithout something of the feeling of the sculptor who surveys a mass ofshapeless clay. I experience the emotions of a creator. Here, I say tomyself, is a semi-sentient being into whose soulless carcass I ambreathing life. A moment before, he was, though technically living, amere clod. A moment hence he will be a golfer. 

While I was still occupied with these meditations Mortimer swung at theball. The club, whizzing down, brushed the surface of the rubbersphere, toppling it off the tee and propelling it six inches with aslight slice on it. 

"Damnation!" said Mortimer, unravelling himself. 

I nodded approvingly. His drive had not been anything to write to thegolfing journals about, but he was picking up the technique of thegame. 

"What happened then?"

I told him in a word. 

"Your stance was wrong, and your grip was wrong, and you moved yourhead, and swayed your body, and took your eye off the ball, andpressed, and forgot to use your wrists, and swung back too fast, andlet the hands get ahead of the club, and lost your balance, and omittedto pivot on the ball of the left foot, and bent your right knee. "

He was silent for a moment. 

"There is more in this pastime, " he said, "than the casual observerwould suspect. "

I have noticed, and I suppose other people have noticed, that in thegolf education of every man there is a definite point at which he maybe said to have crossed the dividing line--the Rubicon, as itwere--that separates the golfer from the non-golfer. This moment comesimmediately after his first good drive. In the ninety minutes in whichI instructed Mortimer Sturgis that morning in the rudiments of thegame, he made every variety of drive known to science; but it was nottill we were about to leave that he made a good one. 

A moment before he had surveyed his blistered hands with sombredisgust. 

"It's no good, " he said. "I shall never learn this beast of a game. AndI don't want to either. It's only fit for lunatics. Where's the sensein it? Hitting a rotten little ball with a stick! If I want exercise, I'll take a stick and go and rattle it along the railings. There'ssomething _in_ that! Well, let's be getting along. No good wastingthe whole morning out here. "

"Try one more drive, and then we'll go. "

"All right. If you like. No sense in it, though. "

He teed up the ball, took a careless stance, and flicked moodily. Therewas a sharp crack, the ball shot off the tee, flew a hundred yards in adead straight line never ten feet above the ground, soared anotherseventy yards in a graceful arc, struck the turf, rolled, and came torest within easy mashie distance of the green. 

"Splendid!" I cried. 

The man seemed stunned. 

"How did that happen?"

I told him very simply. 

"Your stance was right, and your grip was right, and you kept your headstill, and didn't sway your body, and never took your eye off the ball, and slowed back, and let the arms come well through, and rolled thewrists, and let the club-head lead, and kept your balance, and pivotedon the ball of the left foot, and didn't duck the right knee. "

"I see, " he said. "Yes, I thought that must be it. "

"Now let's go home. "

"Wait a minute. I just want to remember what I did while it's fresh inmy mind. Let me see, this was the way I stood. Or was it more likethis? No, like this. " He turned to me, beaming. "What a great idea itwas, my taking up golf! It's all nonsense what you read in the comicpapers about people foozling all over the place and breaking clubs andall that. You've only to exercise a little reasonable care. And what acorking game it is! Nothing like it in the world! I wonder if Betty isup yet. I must go round and show her how I did that drive. A perfectswing, with every ounce of weight, wrist, and muscle behind it. I meantto keep it a secret from the dear girl till I had really learned, butof course I _have_ learned now. Let's go round and rout her out. "

He had given me my cue. I put my hand on his shoulder and spokesorrowfully. 

"Mortimer, my boy, I fear I have bad news for you. "

"Slow; back--keep the head---- What's that? Bad news?"

"About Betty. "

"About Betty? What about her? Don't sway the body--keep the eye onthe----"

"Prepare yourself for a shock, my boy. Yesterday afternoon Betty calledto see me. When she had gone I found that she had stolen my silvermatchbox. "

"Stolen your matchbox?"

"Stolen my matchbox. "

"Oh, well, I dare say there were faults on both sides, " said Mortimer. "Tell me if I sway my body this time. "

"You don't grasp what I have said! Do you realize that Betty, the girlyou are going to marry, is a kleptomaniac?"

"A kleptomaniac!"

"That is the only possible explanation. Think what this means, my boy. Think how you will feel every time your wife says she is going out todo a little shopping! Think of yourself, left alone at home, watchingthe clock, saying to yourself, 'Now she is lifting a pair of silkstockings!' 'Now she is hiding gloves in her umbrella!' 'Just aboutthis moment she is getting away with a pearl necklace!'"

"Would she do that?"

"She would! She could not help herself. Or, rather, she could notrefrain from helping herself. How about it, my boy?"

"It only draws us closer together, " he said. 

I was touched, I own. My scheme had failed, but it had proved MortimerSturgis to be of pure gold. He stood gazing down the fairway, wrappedin thought. 

"By the way, " he said, meditatively, "I wonder if the dear girl evergoes to any of those sales--those auction-sales, you know, where you'reallowed to inspect the things the day before? They often have somepretty decent vases. "

He broke off and fell into a reverie. 

 * * * * *

From this point onward Mortimer Sturgis proved the truth of what I saidto you about the perils of taking up golf at an advanced age. Alifetime of observing my fellow-creatures has convinced me that Natureintended us all to be golfers. In every human being the germ of golf isimplanted at birth, and suppression causes it to grow and grow till--itmay be at forty, fifty, sixty--it suddenly bursts its bonds and sweepsover the victim like a tidal wave. The wise man, who begins to play inchildhood, is enabled to let the poison exude gradually from hissystem, with no harmful results. But a man like Mortimer Sturgis, withthirty-eight golfless years behind him, is swept off his feet. He iscarried away. He loses all sense of proportion. He is like the fly thathappens to be sitting on the wall of the dam just when the crack comes. 

Mortimer Sturgis gave himself up without a struggle to an orgy of golfsuch as I have never witnessed in any man. Within two days of thatfirst lesson he had accumulated a collection of clubs large enough tohave enabled him to open a shop; and he went on buying them at the rateof two and three a day. On Sundays, when it was impossible to buyclubs, he was like a lost spirit. True, he would do his regular fourrounds on the day of rest, but he never felt happy. The thought, as hesliced into the rough, that the patent wooden-faced cleek which heintended to purchase next morning might have made all the difference, completely spoiled his enjoyment. 

I remember him calling me up on the telephone at three o'clock onemorning to tell me that he had solved the problem of putting. Heintended in future, he said, to use a croquet mallet, and he wonderedthat no one had ever thought of it before. The sound of his brokengroan when I informed him that croquet mallets were against the ruleshaunted me for days. 

His golf library kept pace with his collection of clubs. He bought allthe standard works, subscribed to all the golfing papers, and, when hecame across a paragraph in a magazine to the effect that Mr. Hutchings, an ex-amateur champion, did not begin to play till he was past forty, and that his opponent in the final, Mr. S. H. Fry, had never held a clubtill his thirty-fifth year, he had it engraved on vellum and framed andhung up beside his shaving-mirror. 

 * * * * *

And Betty, meanwhile? She, poor child, stared down the years into ableak future, in which she saw herself parted for ever from the man sheloved, and the golf-widow of another for whom--even when he won a medalfor lowest net at a weekly handicap with a score of a hundred and threeminus twenty-four--she could feel nothing warmer than respect. Thosewere dreary days for Betty. We three--she and I and Eddie Denton--oftentalked over Mortimer's strange obsession. Denton said that, except thatMortimer had not come out in pink spots, his symptoms were almostidentical with those of the dreaded _mongo-mongo_, the scourge ofthe West African hinterland. Poor Denton! He had already booked hispassage for Africa, and spent hours looking in the atlas for gooddeserts. 

In every fever of human affairs there comes at last the crisis. We mayemerge from it healed or we may plunge into still deeper depths ofsoul-sickness; but always the crisis comes. I was privileged to bepresent when it came in the affairs of Mortimer Sturgis and BettyWeston. 

I had gone into the club-house one afternoon at an hour when it isusually empty, and the first thing I saw, as I entered the main room, which looks out on the ninth green, was Mortimer. He was grovelling onthe floor, and I confess that, when I caught sight of him, my heartstood still. I feared that his reason, sapped by dissipation, had givenway. I knew that for weeks, day in and day out, the niblick had hardlyever been out of his hand, and no constitution can stand that. 

He looked up as he heard my footstep. 

"Hallo, " he said. "Can you see a ball anywhere?"

"A ball?" I backed away, reaching for the door-handle. "My dear boy, " Isaid, soothingly, "you have made a mistake. Quite a natural mistake. One anybody would have made. But, as a matter of fact, this is theclub-house. The links are outside there. Why not come away with me veryquietly and let us see if we can't find some balls on the links? If youwill wait here a moment, I will call up Doctor Smithson. He was tellingme only this morning that he wanted a good spell of ball-hunting to puthim in shape. You don't mind if he joins us?"

"It was a Silver King with my initials on it, " Mortimer went on, notheeding me. "I got on the ninth green in eleven with a nicemashie-niblick, but my approach-putt was a little too strong. It camein through that window. "

I perceived for the first time that one of the windows facing thecourse was broken, and my relief was great. I went down on my knees andhelped him in his search. We ran the ball to earth finally inside thepiano. 

"What's the local rule?" inquired Mortimer. "Must I play it where itlies, or may I tee up and lose a stroke? If I have to play it where itlies, I suppose a niblick would be the club?"

It was at this moment that Betty came in. One glance at her pale, setface told me that there was to be a scene, and I would have retired, but that she was between me and the door. 

"Hallo, dear, " said Mortimer, greeting her with a friendly waggle ofhis niblick. "I'm bunkered in the piano. My approach-putt was a littlestrong, and I over-ran the green. "

"Mortimer, " said the girl, tensely, "I want to ask you one question. "

"Yes, dear? I wish, darling, you could have seen my drive at the eighthjust now. It was a pip!"

Betty looked at him steadily. 

"Are we engaged, " she said, "or are we not?"

"Engaged? Oh, to be married? Why, of course. I tried the open stancefor a change, and----"

"This morning you promised to take me for a ride. You never appeared. Where were you?"

"Just playing golf. "

"Golf! I'm sick of the very name!"

A spasm shook Mortimer. 

"You mustn't let people hear you saying things like that!" he said. "Isomehow felt, the moment I began my up-swing, that everything was goingto be all right. I----"

"I'll give you one more chance. Will you take me for a drive in yourcar this evening?"

"I can't. "

"Why not? What are you doing?"

"Just playing golf!"

"I'm tired of being neglected like this!" cried Betty, stamping herfoot. Poor girl, I saw her point of view. It was bad enough for herbeing engaged to the wrong man, without having him treat her as a mereacquaintance. Her conscience fighting with her love for Eddie Dentonhad kept her true to Mortimer, and Mortimer accepted the sacrifice withan absent-minded carelessness which would have been galling to anygirl. "We might just as well not be engaged at all. You never take meanywhere. "

"I asked you to come with me to watch the Open Championship. "

"Why don't you ever take me to dances?"

"I can't dance. "

"You could learn. "

"But I'm not sure if dancing is a good thing for a fellow's game. Younever hear of any first-class pro. Dancing. James Braid doesn't dance. "

"Well, my mind's made up. Mortimer, you must choose between golf andme. "

"But, darling, I went round in a hundred and one yesterday. You can'texpect a fellow to give up golf when he's at the top of his game. "

"Very well. I have nothing more to say. Our engagement is at an end. "

"Don't throw me over, Betty, " pleaded Mortimer, and there was that inhis voice which cut me to the heart. "You'll make me so miserable. And, when I'm miserable, I always slice my approach shots. "

Betty Weston drew herself up. Her face was hard. 

"Here is your ring!" she said, and swept from the room. 

 * * * * *

For a moment after she had gone Mortimer remained very still, lookingat the glistening circle in his hand. I stole across the room andpatted his shoulder. 

"Bear up, my boy, bear up!" I said. 

He looked at me piteously. 

"Stymied!" he muttered. 

"Be brave!"

He went on, speaking as if to himself. 

"I had pictured--ah, how often I had pictured!--our little home! Hersand mine. She sewing in her arm-chair, I practising putts on thehearth-rug----" He choked. "While in the corner, little Harry VardonSturgis played with little J. H. Taylor Sturgis. And round theroom--reading, busy with their childish tasks--little George DuncanSturgis, Abe Mitchell Sturgis, Harold Hilton Sturgis, Edward RaySturgis, Horace Hutchinson Sturgis, and little James Braid Sturgis. "

"My boy! My boy!" I cried. 

"What's the matter?"

"Weren't you giving yourself rather a large family?"

He shook his head moodily. 

"Was I?" he said, dully. "I don't know. What's bogey?"

There was a silence. 

"And yet----" he said, at last, in a low voice. He paused. An odd, bright look had come into his eyes. He seemed suddenly to be himselfagain, the old, happy Mortimer Sturgis I had known so well. "And yet, "he said, "who knows? Perhaps it is all for the best. They might allhave turned out tennis-players!" He raised his niblick again, his faceaglow. "Playing thirteen!" he said. "I think the game here would be tochip out through the door and work round the club-house to the green, don't you?"

 * * * * *

Little remains to be told. Betty and Eddie have been happily marriedfor years. Mortimer's handicap is now down to eighteen, and he isimproving all the time. He was not present at the wedding, beingunavoidably detained by a medal tournament; but, if you turn up thefiles and look at the list of presents, which were both numerous andcostly, you will see--somewhere in the middle of the column, the words:

 STURGIS, J. MORTIMER. _Two dozen Silver King Golf-balls and one patent Sturgis Aluminium Self-Adjusting, Self-Compensating Putting-Cleek. _

4

_Sundered Hearts_

In the smoking-room of the club-house a cheerful fire was burning, andthe Oldest Member glanced from time to time out of the window into thegathering dusk. Snow was falling lightly on the links. From where hesat, the Oldest Member had a good view of the ninth green; andpresently, out of the greyness of the December evening, there appearedover the brow of the hill a golf-ball. It trickled across the green, and stopped within a yard of the hole. The Oldest Member noddedapprovingly. A good approach-shot. 

A young man in a tweed suit clambered on to the green, holed out witheasy confidence, and, shouldering his bag, made his way to theclub-house. A few moments later he entered the smoking-room, anduttered an exclamation of rapture at the sight of the fire. 

"I'm frozen stiff!"

He rang for a waiter and ordered a hot drink. The Oldest Member gave agracious assent to the suggestion that he should join him. 

"I like playing in winter, " said the young man. "You get the course toyourself, for the world is full of slackers who only turn out when theweather suits them. I cannot understand where they get the nerve tocall themselves golfers. "

"Not everyone is as keen as you are, my boy, " said the Sage, dippinggratefully into his hot drink. "If they were, the world would be abetter place, and we should hear less of all this modern unrest. "

"I _am_ pretty keen, " admitted the young man. 

"I have only encountered one man whom I could describe as keener. Iallude to Mortimer Sturgis. "

"The fellow who took up golf at thirty-eight and let the girl he wasengaged to marry go off with someone else because he hadn't the time tocombine golf with courtship? I remember. You were telling me about himthe other day. "

"There is a sequel to that story, if you would care to hear it, " saidthe Oldest Member. 

"You have the honour, " said the young man. "Go ahead!"

 * * * * *

Some people (began the Oldest Member) considered that Mortimer Sturgiswas too wrapped up in golf, and blamed him for it. I could never seeeye to eye with them. In the days of King Arthur nobody thought theworse of a young knight if he suspended all his social and businessengagements in favour of a search for the Holy Grail. In the MiddleAges a man could devote his whole life to the Crusades, and the publicfawned upon him. Why, then, blame the man of today for a zealousattention to the modern equivalent, the Quest of Scratch! MortimerSturgis never became a scratch player, but he did eventually get hishandicap down to nine, and I honour him for it. 

The story which I am about to tell begins in what might be called themiddle period of Sturgis's career. He had reached the stage when hishandicap was a wobbly twelve; and, as you are no doubt aware, it isthen that a man really begins to golf in the true sense of the word. Mortimer's fondness for the game until then had been merely tepidcompared with what it became now. He had played a little before, butnow he really buckled to and got down to it. It was at this point, too, that he began once more to entertain thoughts of marriage. A profoundstatistician in this one department, he had discovered that practicallyall the finest exponents of the art are married men; and the thoughtthat there might be something in the holy state which improved a man'sgame, and that he was missing a good thing, troubled him a great deal. Moreover, the paternal instinct had awakened in him. As he justlypointed out, whether marriage improved your game or not, it was to OldTom Morris's marriage that the existence of young Tommy Morris, winnerof the British Open Championship four times in succession, could bedirectly traced. In fact, at the age of forty-two, Mortimer Sturgis wasin just the frame of mind to take some nice girl aside and ask her tobecome a step-mother to his eleven drivers, his baffy, his twenty-eightputters, and the rest of the ninety-four clubs which he had accumulatedin the course of his golfing career. The sole stipulation, of course, which he made when dreaming his daydreams was that the future Mrs. Sturgis must be a golfer. I can still recall the horror in his facewhen one girl, admirable in other respects, said that she had neverheard of Harry Vardon, and didn't he mean Dolly Vardon? She has sinceproved an excellent wife and mother, but Mortimer Sturgis never spoketo her again. 

With the coming of January, it was Mortimer's practice to leave Englandand go to the South of France, where there was sunshine and crisp dryturf. He pursued his usual custom this year. With his suit-case and hisninety-four clubs he went off to Saint Brule, staying as he always didat the Hotel Superbe, where they knew him, and treated with an amiabletolerance his habit of practising chip-shots in his bedroom. On thefirst evening, after breaking a statuette of the Infant Samuel inPrayer, he dressed and went down to dinner. And the first thing he sawwas Her. 

Mortimer Sturgis, as you know, had been engaged before, but BettyWeston had never inspired the tumultuous rush of emotion which the meresight of this girl had set loose in him. He told me later that just towatch her holing out her soup gave him a sort of feeling you get whenyour drive collides with a rock in the middle of a tangle of rough andkicks back into the middle of the fairway. If golf had come late inlife to Mortimer Sturgis, love came later still, and just as the golf, attacking him in middle life, had been some golf, so was the loveconsiderable love. Mortimer finished his dinner in a trance, which isthe best way to do it at some hotels, and then scoured the place forsomeone who would introduce him. He found such a person eventually andthe meeting took place. 

 * * * * *

She was a small and rather fragile-looking girl, with big blue eyes anda cloud of golden hair. She had a sweet expression, and her left wristwas in a sling. She looked up at Mortimer as if she had at last foundsomething that amounted to something. I am inclined to think it was acase of love at first sight on both sides. 

"Fine weather we're having, " said Mortimer, who was a capitalconversationalist. 

"Yes, " said the girl. 

"I like fine weather. "

"So do I. "

"There's something about fine weather!"

"Yes. "

"It's--it's--well, fine weather's so much finer than weather that isn'tfine, " said Mortimer. 

He looked at the girl a little anxiously, fearing he might be takingher out of her depth, but she seemed to have followed his train ofthought perfectly. 

"Yes, isn't it?" she said. "It's so--so fine. "

"That's just what I meant, " said Mortimer. "So fine. You've just hitit. "

He was charmed. The combination of beauty with intelligence is so rare. 

"I see you've hurt your wrist, " he went on, pointing to the sling. 

"Yes. I strained it a little playing in the championship. "

"The championship?" Mortimer was interested. "It's awfully rude of me, "he said, apologetically, "but I didn't catch your name just now. "

"My name is Somerset. "

Mortimer had been bending forward solicitously. He overbalanced andnearly fell off his chair. The shock had been stunning. Even before hehad met and spoken to her, he had told himself that he loved this girlwith the stored-up love of a lifetime. And she was Mary Somerset! Thehotel lobby danced before Mortimer's eyes. 

The name will, of course, be familiar to you. In the early rounds ofthe Ladies' Open Golf Championship of that year nobody had paid muchattention to Mary Somerset. She had survived her first two matches, buther opponents had been nonentities like herself. And then, in the thirdround, she had met and defeated the champion. From that point on, hername was on everybody's lips. She became favourite. And she justifiedthe public confidence by sailing into the final and winning easily. Andhere she was, talking to him like an ordinary person, and, if he couldread the message in her eyes, not altogether indifferent to his charms, if you could call them that. 

"Golly!" said Mortimer, awed. 

 * * * * *

Their friendship ripened rapidly, as friendships do in the South ofFrance. In that favoured clime, you find the girl and Nature does therest. On the second morning of their acquaintance Mortimer invited herto walk round the links with him and watch him play. He did it a littlediffidently, for his golf was not of the calibre that would be likelyto extort admiration from a champion. On the other hand, one shouldnever let slip the opportunity of acquiring wrinkles on the game, andhe thought that Miss Somerset, if she watched one or two of his shots, might tell him just what he ought to do. And sure enough, the openingarrived on the fourth hole, where Mortimer, after a drive whichsurprised even himself, found his ball in a nasty cuppy lie. 

He turned to the girl. 

"What ought I to do here?" he asked. 

Miss Somerset looked at the ball. She seemed to be weighing the matterin her mind. 

"Give it a good hard knock, " she said. 

Mortimer knew what she meant. She was advocating a full iron. The onlytrouble was that, when he tried anything more ambitious than ahalf-swing, except off the tee, he almost invariably topped. However, he could not fail this wonderful girl, so he swung well back and took achance. His enterprise was rewarded. The ball flew out of theindentation in the turf as cleanly as though John Henry Taylor had beenbehind it, and rolled, looking neither to left nor to right, straightfor the pin. A few moments later Mortimer Sturgis had holed out oneunder bogey, and it was only the fear that, having known him for soshort a time, she might be startled and refuse him that kept him fromproposing then and there. This exhibition of golfing generalship on herpart had removed his last doubts. He knew that, if he lived for ever, there could be no other girl in the world for him. With her at hisside, what might he not do? He might get his handicap down to six--tothree--to scratch--to plus something! Good heavens, why, even theAmateur Championship was not outside the range of possibility. MortimerSturgis shook his putter solemnly in the air, and vowed a silent vowthat he would win this pearl among women. 

Now, when a man feels like that, it is impossible to restrain him long. For a week Mortimer Sturgis's soul sizzled within him: then he couldcontain himself no longer. One night, at one of the informal dances atthe hotel, he drew the girl out on to the moonlit terrace. 

"Miss Somerset----" he began, stuttering with emotion like animperfectly-corked bottle of ginger-beer. "Miss Somerset--may I callyou Mary?"

The girl looked at him with eyes that shone softly in the dim light. 

"Mary?" she repeated. "Why, of course, if you like----"

"If I like!" cried Mortimer. "Don't you know that it is my dearestwish? Don't you know that I would rather be permitted to call you Marythan do the first hole at Muirfield in two? Oh, Mary, how I have longedfor this moment! I love you! I love you! Ever since I met you I haveknown that you were the one girl in this vast world whom I would die towin! Mary, will you be mine? Shall we go round together? Will you fixup a match with me on the links of life which shall end only when theGrim Reaper lays us both a stymie?"

She drooped towards him. 

"Mortimer!" she murmured. 

He held out his arms, then drew back. His face had grown suddenlytense, and there were lines of pain about his mouth. 

"Wait!" he said, in a strained voice. "Mary, I love you dearly, andbecause I love you so dearly I cannot let you trust your sweet life tome blindly. I have a confession to make, I am not--I have not alwaysbeen"--he paused--"a good man, " he said, in a low voice. 

She started indignantly. 

"How can you say that? You are the best, the kindest, the bravest man Ihave ever met! Who but a good man would have risked his life to save mefrom drowning?"

"Drowning?" Mortimer's voice seemed perplexed. "You? What do you mean?"

"Have you forgotten the time when I fell in the sea last week, and youjumped in with all your clothes on----"

"Of course, yes, " said Mortimer. "I remember now. It was the day I didthe long seventh in five. I got off a good tee-shot straight down thefairway, took a baffy for my second, and---- But that is not the point. It is sweet and generous of you to think so highly of what was themerest commonplace act of ordinary politeness, but I must repeat, thatjudged by the standards of your snowy purity, I am not a good man. I donot come to you clean and spotless as a young girl should expect herhusband to come to her. Once, playing in a foursome, my ball fell insome long grass. Nobody was near me. We had no caddies, and the otherswere on the fairway. God knows----" His voice shook. "God knows Istruggled against the temptation. But I fell. I kicked the ball on to alittle bare mound, from which it was an easy task with a nicehalf-mashie to reach the green for a snappy seven. Mary, there havebeen times when, going round by myself, I have allowed myself ten-footputts on three holes in succession, simply in order to be able to say Ihad done the course in under a hundred. Ah! you shrink from me! You aredisgusted!"

"I'm not disgusted! And I don't shrink! I only shivered because it israther cold. "

"Then you can love me in spite of my past?"

"Mortimer!"

She fell into his arms. 

"My dearest, " he said presently, "what a happy life ours will be. Thatis, if you do not find that you have made a mistake. "

"A mistake!" she cried, scornfully. 

"Well, my handicap is twelve, you know, and not so darned twelve atthat. There are days when I play my second from the fairway of the nexthole but one, days when I couldn't putt into a coal-hole with'Welcome!' written over it. And you are a Ladies' Open Champion. Still, if you think it's all right----. Oh, Mary, you little know how I havedreamed of some day marrying a really first-class golfer! Yes, that wasmy vision--of walking up the aisle with some sweet plus two girl on myarm. You shivered again. You are catching cold. "

"It is a little cold, " said the girl. She spoke in a small voice. 

"Let me take you in, sweetheart, " said Mortimer. "I'll just put you ina comfortable chair with a nice cup of coffee, and then I think Ireally must come out again and tramp about and think how perfectlysplendid everything is. "

 * * * * *

They were married a few weeks later, very quietly, in the littlevillage church of Saint Brule. The secretary of the local golf-clubacted as best man for Mortimer, and a girl from the hotel was the onlybridesmaid. The whole business was rather a disappointment to Mortimer, who had planned out a somewhat florid ceremony at St. George's, HanoverSquare, with the Vicar of Tooting (a scratch player excellent at shortapproach shots) officiating, and "The Voice That Breathed O'er St. Andrews" boomed from the organ. He had even had the idea of copying themilitary wedding and escorting his bride out of the church under anarch of crossed cleeks. But she would have none of this pomp. Sheinsisted on a quiet wedding, and for the honeymoon trip preferred atour through Italy. Mortimer, who had wanted to go to Scotland to visitthe birthplace of James Braid, yielded amiably, for he loved herdearly. But he did not think much of Italy. In Rome, the greatmonuments of the past left him cold. Of the Temple of Vespasian, all hethought was that it would be a devil of a place to be bunkered behind. The Colosseum aroused a faint spark of interest in him, as hespeculated whether Abe Mitchell would use a full brassey to carry it. In Florence, the view over the Tuscan Hills from the Torre Rosa, Fiesole, over which his bride waxed enthusiastic, seemed to him merelya nasty bit of rough which would take a deal of getting out if. 

And so, in the fullness of time, they came home to Mortimer's cosylittle house adjoining the links. 

 * * * * *

Mortimer was so busy polishing his ninety-four clubs on the evening oftheir arrival that he failed to notice that his wife was preoccupied. Aless busy man would have perceived at a glance that she was distinctlynervous. She started at sudden noises, and once, when he tried thenewest of his mashie-niblicks and broke one of the drawing-roomwindows, she screamed sharply. In short her manner was strange, and, ifEdgar Allen Poe had put her into "The Fall Of the House of Usher", shewould have fitted it like the paper on the wall. She had the air of onewaiting tensely for the approach of some imminent doom. Mortimer, humming gaily to himself as he sand-papered the blade of histwenty-second putter, observed none of this. He was thinking of themorrow's play. 

"Your wrist's quite well again now, darling, isn't it?" he said. 

"Yes. Yes, quite well. "

"Fine!" said Mortimer. "We'll breakfast early--say at half-pastseven--and then we'll be able to get in a couple of rounds beforelunch. A couple more in the afternoon will about see us through. Onedoesn't want to over-golf oneself the first day. " He swung the putterjoyfully. "How had we better play do you think? We might start with yougiving me a half. "

She did not speak. She was very pale. She clutched the arm of her chairtightly till the knuckles showed white under the skin. 

To anybody but Mortimer her nervousness would have been even moreobvious on the following morning, as they reached the first tee. Hereyes were dull and heavy, and she started when a grasshopper chirruped. But Mortimer was too occupied with thinking how jolly it was having thecourse to themselves to notice anything. 

He scooped some sand out of the box, and took a ball out of her bag. His wedding present to her had been a brand-new golf-bag, six dozenballs, and a full set of the most expensive clubs, all born inScotland. 

"Do you like a high tee?" he asked. 

"Oh, no, " she replied, coming with a start out of her thoughts. "Doctors say it's indigestible. "

Mortimer laughed merrily. 

"Deuced good!" he chuckled. "Is that your own or did you read it in acomic paper? There you are!" He placed the ball on a little hill ofsand, and got up. "Now let's see some of that championship form ofyours!"

She burst into tears. 

"My darling!"

Mortimer ran to her and put his arms round her. She tried weakly topush him away. 

"My angel! What is it?"

She sobbed brokenly. Then, with an effort, she spoke. 

"Mortimer, I have deceived you!"

"Deceived me?"

"I have never played golf in my life! I don't even know how to hold thecaddie!"

Mortimer's heart stood still. This sounded like the gibberings of anunbalanced mind, and no man likes his wife to begin gibberingimmediately after the honeymoon. 

"My precious! You are not yourself!"

"I am! That's the whole trouble! I'm myself and not the girl youthought I was!"

Mortimer stared at her, puzzled. He was thinking that it was a littledifficult and that, to work it out properly, he would need a pencil anda bit of paper. 

"My name is not Mary!"

"But you said it was. "

"I didn't. You asked if you could call me Mary, and I said you might, because I loved you too much to deny your smallest whim. I was going onto say that it wasn't my name, but you interrupted me. "

"Not Mary!" The horrid truth was coming home to Mortimer. "You were notMary Somerset?"

"Mary is my cousin. My name is Mabel. "

"But you said you had sprained your wrist playing in the championship. "

"So I had. The mallet slipped in my hand. "

"The mallet!" Mortimer clutched at his forehead. "You didn't say 'themallet'?"

"Yes, Mortimer! The mallet!"

A faint blush of shame mantled her cheek, and into her blue eyes therecame a look of pain, but she faced him bravely. 

"I am the Ladies' Open Croquet Champion!" she whispered. 

Mortimer Sturgis cried aloud, a cry that was like the shriek of somewounded animal. 

"Croquet!" He gulped, and stared at her with unseeing eyes. He was noprude, but he had those decent prejudices of which no self-respectingman can wholly rid himself, however broad-minded he may try to be. "Croquet!"

There was a long silence. The light breeze sang in the pines abovethem. The grasshoppers chirrupped at their feet. 

She began to speak again in a low, monotonous voice. 

"I blame myself! I should have told you before, while there was yettime for you to withdraw. I should have confessed this to you thatnight on the terrace in the moonlight. But you swept me off my feet, and I was in your arms before I realized what you would think of me. Itwas only then that I understood what my supposed skill at golf meant toyou, and then it was too late. I loved you too much to let you go! Icould not bear the thought of you recoiling from me. Oh, I wasmad--mad! I knew that I could not keep up the deception for ever, thatyou must find me out in time. But I had a wild hope that by then weshould be so close to one another that you might find it in your heartto forgive. But I was wrong. I see it now. There are some things thatno man can forgive. Some things, " she repeated, dully, "which no mancan forgive. "

She turned away. Mortimer awoke from his trance. 

"Stop!" he cried. "Don't go!"

"I must go. "

"I want to talk this over. "

She shook her head sadly and started to walk slowly across the sunlitgrass. Mortimer watched her, his brain in a whirl of chaotic thoughts. She disappeared through the trees. 

Mortimer sat down on the tee-box, and buried his face in his hands. Fora time he could think of nothing but the cruel blow he had received. This was the end of those rainbow visions of himself and her goingthrough life side by side, she lovingly criticizing his stance and hisback-swing, he learning wisdom from her. A croquet-player! He wasmarried to a woman who hit coloured balls through hoops. MortimerSturgis writhed in torment. A strong man's agony. 

The mood passed. How long it had lasted, he did not know. But suddenly, as he sat there, he became once more aware of the glow of the sunshineand the singing of the birds. It was as if a shadow had lifted. Hopeand optimism crept into his heart. 

He loved her. He loved her still. She was part of him, and nothing thatshe could do had power to alter that. She had deceived him, yes. Butwhy had she deceived him? Because she loved him so much that she couldnot bear to lose him. Dash it all, it was a bit of a compliment. 

And, after all, poor girl, was it her fault? Was it not rather thefault of her upbringing? Probably she had been taught to play croquetwhen a mere child, hardly able to distinguish right from wrong. Nosteps had been taken to eradicate the virus from her system, and thething had become chronic. Could she be blamed? Was she not more to bepitied than censured?

Mortimer rose to his feet, his heart swelling with generousforgiveness. The black horror had passed from him. The future seemedonce more bright. It was not too late. She was still young, many yearsyounger than he himself had been when he took up golf, and surely, ifshe put herself into the hands of a good specialist and practised everyday, she might still hope to become a fair player. He reached the houseand ran in, calling her name. 

No answer came. He sped from room to room, but all were empty. 

She had gone. The house was there. The furniture was there. The canarysang in its cage, the cook in the kitchen. The pictures still hung onthe walls. But she had gone. Everything was at home except his wife. 

Finally, propped up against the cup he had once won in a handicapcompetition, he saw a letter. With a sinking heart he tore open theenvelope. 

It was a pathetic, a tragic letter, the letter of a woman endeavouringto express all the anguish of a torn heart with one of thosefountain-pens which suspend the flow of ink about twice in every threewords. The gist of it was that she felt she had wronged him; that, though he might forgive, he could never forget; and that she was goingaway, away out into the world alone. 

Mortimer sank into a chair, and stared blankly before him. She hadscratched the match. 

 * * * * *

I am not a married man myself, so have had no experience of how itfeels to have one's wife whizz off silently into the unknown; but Ishould imagine that it must be something like taking a full swing witha brassey and missing the ball. Something, I take it, of the same senseof mingled shock, chagrin, and the feeling that nobody loves one, whichattacks a man in such circumstances, must come to the bereaved husband. And one can readily understand how terribly the incident must haveshaken Mortimer Sturgis. I was away at the time, but I am told by thosewho saw him that his game went all to pieces. 

He had never shown much indication of becoming anything in the natureof a first-class golfer, but he had managed to acquire one or twodecent shots. His work with the light iron was not at all bad, and hewas a fairly steady putter. But now, under the shadow of this tragedy, he dropped right back to the form of his earliest period. It was apitiful sight to see this gaunt, haggard man with the look of dumbanguish behind his spectacles taking as many as three shots sometimesto get past the ladies' tee. His slice, of which he had almost curedhimself, returned with such virulence that in the list of ordinaryhazards he had now to include the tee-box. And, when he was notslicing, he was pulling. I have heard that he was known, when drivingat the sixth, to get bunkered in his own caddie, who had taken up hisposition directly behind him. As for the deep sand-trap in front of theseventh green, he spent so much of his time in it that there was someinformal talk among the members of the committee of charging him asmall weekly rent. 

A man of comfortable independent means, he lived during these days onnext to nothing. Golf-balls cost him a certain amount, but the bulk ofhis income he spent in efforts to discover his wife's whereabouts. Headvertised in all the papers. He employed private detectives. He even, much as it revolted his finer instincts, took to travelling about thecountry, watching croquet matches. But she was never among the players. I am not sure that he did not find a melancholy comfort in this, for itseemed to show that, whatever his wife might be and whatever she mightbe doing, she had not gone right under. 

Summer passed. Autumn came and went. Winter arrived. The days grewbleak and chill, and an early fall of snow, heavier than had been knownat that time of the year for a long while, put an end to golf. Mortimerspent his days indoors, staring gloomily through the window at thewhite mantle that covered the earth. 

It was Christmas Eve. 

 * * * * *

The young man shifted uneasily on his seat. His face was long andsombre. 

"All this is very depressing, " he said. 

"These soul tragedies, " agreed the Oldest Member, "are never verycheery. "

"Look here, " said the young man, firmly, "tell me one thing frankly, asman to man. Did Mortimer find her dead in the snow, covered except forher face, on which still lingered that faint, sweet smile which heremembered so well? Because, if he did, I'm going home. "

"No, no, " protested the Oldest Member. "Nothing of that kind. "

"You're sure? You aren't going to spring it on me suddenly?"

"No, no!"

The young man breathed a relieved sigh. 

"It was your saying that about the white mantle covering the earth thatmade me suspicious. "

The Sage resumed. 

 * * * * *

It was Christmas Eve. All day the snow had been falling, and now it laythick and deep over the countryside. Mortimer Sturgis, his frugaldinner concluded--what with losing his wife and not being able to getany golf, he had little appetite these days--was sitting in hisdrawing-room, moodily polishing the blade of his jigger. Soon wearyingof this once congenial task, he laid down the club and went to thefront door to see if there was any chance of a thaw. But no. It wasfreezing. The snow, as he tested it with his shoe, crackled crisply. The sky above was black and full of cold stars. It seemed to Mortimerthat the sooner he packed up and went to the South of France, thebetter. He was just about to close the door, when suddenly he thoughthe heard his own name called. 

"Mortimer!"

Had he been mistaken? The voice had sounded faint and far away. 

"Mortimer!"

He thrilled from head to foot. This time there could be no mistake. Itwas the voice he knew so well, his wife's voice, and it had come fromsomewhere down near the garden-gate. It is difficult to judge distancewhere sounds are concerned, but Mortimer estimated that the voice hadspoken about a short mashie-niblick and an easy putt from where hestood. 

The next moment he was racing down the snow-covered path. And then hisheart stood still. What was that dark something on the ground justinside the gate? He leaped towards it. He passed his hands over it. Itwas a human body. Quivering, he struck a match. It went out. He struckanother. That went out, too. He struck a third, and it burnt with asteady flame; and, stooping, he saw that it was his wife who lay there, cold and stiff. Her eyes were closed, and on her face still lingeredthat faint, sweet smile which he remembered so well. 

 * * * * *

The young man rose with a set face. He reached for his golf-bag. 

"I call that a dirty trick, " he said, "after you promised--" The Sagewaved him back to his seat. 

"Have no fear! She had only fainted. "

"You said she was cold. "

"Wouldn't you be cold if you were lying in the snow?"

"And stiff. "

"Mrs. Sturgis was stiff because the train-service was bad, it being theholiday-season, and she had had to walk all the way from the junction, a distance of eight miles. Sit down and allow me to proceed. "

 * * * * *

Tenderly, reverently Mortimer Sturgis picked her up and began to bearher into the house. Half-way there, his foot slipped on a piece of iceand he fell heavily, barking his shin and shooting his lovely burdenout on to the snow. 

The fall brought her to. She opened her eyes. 

"Mortimer, darling!" she said. 

Mortimer had just been going to say something else, but he checkedhimself. 

"Are you alive?" he asked. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

"Thank God!" said Mortimer, scooping some of the snow out of the backof his collar. 

Together they went into the house, and into the drawing-room. Wifegazed at husband, husband at wife. There was a silence. 

"Rotten weather!" said Mortimer. 

"Yes, isn't it!"

The spell was broken. They fell into each other's arms. And presentlythey were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands, just as ifthat awful parting had been but a dream. 

It was Mortimer who made the first reference to it. 

"I say, you know, " he said, "you oughtn't to have nipped away likethat!"

"I thought you hated me!"

"Hated _you_! I love you better than life itself! I would soonerhave smashed my pet driver than have had you leave me!"

She thrilled at the words. 

"Darling!"

Mortimer fondled her hand. 

"I was just coming back to tell you that I loved you still. I was goingto suggest that you took lessons from some good professional. And Ifound you gone!"

"I wasn't worthy of you, Mortimer!"

"My angel!" He pressed his lips to her hair, and spoke solemnly. "Allthis has taught me a lesson, dearest. I knew all along, and I know itmore than ever now, that it is you--you that I want. Just you! I don'tcare if you don't play golf. I don't care----" He hesitated, then went onmanfully. "I don't care even if you play croquet, so long as you arewith me!"

For a moment her face showed rapture that made it almost angelic. Sheuttered a low moan of ecstasy. She kissed him. Then she rose. 

"Mortimer, look!"

"What at?"

"Me. Just look!"

The jigger which he had been polishing lay on a chair close by. Shetook it up. From the bowl of golf-balls on the mantelpiece she selecteda brand new one. She placed it on the carpet. She addressed it. Then, with a merry cry of "Fore!" she drove it hard and straight through theglass of the china-cupboard. 

"Good God!" cried Mortimer, astounded. It had been a bird of a shot. 

She turned to him, her whole face alight with that beautiful smile. 

"When I left you, Mortie, " she said, "I had but one aim in life, somehow to make myself worthy of you. I saw your advertisements in thepapers, and I longed to answer them, but I was not ready. All thislong, weary while I have been in the village of Auchtermuchtie, inScotland, studying under Tamms McMickle. "

"Not the Tamms McMickle who finished fourth in the Open Championship of1911, and had the best ball in the foursome in 1912 with Jock McHaggis, Andy McHeather, and Sandy McHoots!"

"Yes, Mortimer, the very same. Oh, it was difficult at first. I missedmy mallet, and long to steady the ball with my foot and use the toe ofthe club. Wherever there was a direction post I aimed at itautomatically. But I conquered my weakness. I practised steadily. Andnow Mr. McMickle says my handicap would be a good twenty-four on anylinks. " She smiled apologetically. "Of course, that doesn't sound muchto you! You were a twelve when I left you, and now I suppose you aredown to eight or something. "

Mortimer shook his head. 

"Alas, no!" he replied, gravely. "My game went right off for somereason or other, and I'm twenty-four, too. "

"For some reason or other!" She uttered a cry. "Oh, I know what thereason was! How can I ever forgive myself! I have ruined your game!"

The brightness came back to Mortimer's eyes. He embraced her fondly. 

"Do not reproach yourself, dearest, " he murmured. "It is the best thingthat could have happened. From now on, we start level, two hearts thatbeat as one, two drivers that drive as one. I could not wish itotherwise. By George! It's just like that thing of Tennyson's. "

He recited the lines softly:

 _My bride, My wife, my life. Oh, we will walk the links Yoked in all exercise of noble end, And so thro' those dark bunkers off the course That no man knows. Indeed, I love thee: come, Yield thyself up: our handicaps are one; Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me. _

She laid her hands in his. 

"And now, Mortie, darling, " she said, "I want to tell you all about howI did the long twelfth at Auchtermuchtie in one under bogey. "

5

_The Salvation of George Mackintosh_

The young man came into the club-house. There was a frown on hisusually cheerful face, and he ordered a ginger-ale in the sort of voicewhich an ancient Greek would have used when asking the executioner tobring on the hemlock. 

Sunk in the recesses of his favourite settee the Oldest Member hadwatched him with silent sympathy. 

"How did you get on?" he inquired. 

"He beat me. "

The Oldest Member nodded his venerable head. 

"You have had a trying time, if I am not mistaken. I feared as muchwhen I saw you go out with Pobsley. How many a young man have I seen goout with Herbert Pobsley exulting in his youth, and crawl back ateventide looking like a toad under the harrow! He talked?"

"All the time, confound it! Put me right off my stroke. "

The Oldest Member sighed. 

"The talking golfer is undeniably the most pronounced pest of ourcomplex modern civilization, " he said, "and the most difficult to dealwith. It is a melancholy thought that the noblest of games should haveproduced such a scourge. I have frequently marked Herbert Pobsley inaction. As the crackling of thorns under a pot.... He is almost as badas poor George Mackintosh in his worst period. Did I ever tell youabout George Mackintosh?"

"I don't think so. "

"His, " said the Sage, "is the only case of golfing garrulity I haveever known where a permanent cure was affected. If you would care tohear about it----?"

 * * * * *

George Mackintosh (said the Oldest Member), when I first knew him, wasone of the most admirable young fellows I have ever met. A handsome, well-set-up man, with no vices except a tendency to use the mashie forshots which should have been made with the light iron. And as for hispositive virtues, they were too numerous to mention. He never swayedhis body, moved his head, or pressed. He was always ready to utter atactful grunt when his opponent foozled. And when he himself achieved aglaring fluke, his self-reproachful click of the tongue was music tohis adversary's bruised soul. But of all his virtues the one that mostendeared him to me and to all thinking men was the fact that, from thestart of a round to the finish, he never spoke a word except whenabsolutely compelled to do so by the exigencies of the game. And it wasthis man who subsequently, for a black period which lives in the memoryof all his contemporaries, was known as Gabby George and became a shadeless popular than the germ of Spanish Influenza. Truly, _corruptiooptimi pessima!_

One of the things that sadden a man as he grows older and reviews hislife is the reflection that his most devastating deeds were generallythe ones which he did with the best motives. The thought isdisheartening. I can honestly say that, when George Mackintosh came tome and told me his troubles, my sole desire was to ameliorate his lot. That I might be starting on the downward path a man whom I liked andrespected never once occurred to me. 

One night after dinner when George Mackintosh came in, I could see atonce that there was something on his mind, but what this could be I wasat a loss to imagine, for I had been playing with him myself all theafternoon, and he had done an eighty-one and a seventy-nine. And, as Ihad not left the links till dusk was beginning to fall, it waspractically impossible that he could have gone out again and donebadly. The idea of financial trouble seemed equally out of thequestion. George had a good job with the old-established legal firm ofPeabody, Peabody, Peabody, Peabody, Cootes, Toots, and Peabody. Thethird alternative, that he might be in love, I rejected at once. In allthe time I had known him I had never seen a sign that George Mackintoshgave a thought to the opposite sex. 

Yet this, bizarre as it seemed, was the true solution. Scarcely had heseated himself and lit a cigar when he blurted out his confession. 

"What would you do in a case like this?" he said. 

"Like what?"

"Well----" He choked, and a rich blush permeated his surface. "Well, itseems a silly thing to say and all that, but I'm in love with MissTennant, you know!"

"You are in love with Celia Tennant?"

"Of course I am. I've got eyes, haven't I? Who else is there that anysane man could possibly be in love with? That, " he went on, moodily, "is the whole trouble. There's a field of about twenty-nine, and Ishould think my place in the betting is about thirty-three to one. "

"I cannot agree with you there, " I said. "You have every advantage, itappears to me. You are young, amiable, good-looking, comfortably off, scratch----"

"But I can't talk, confound it!" he burst out. "And how is a man to getanywhere at this sort of game without talking?"

"You are talking perfectly fluently now. "

"Yes, to you. But put me in front of Celia Tennant, and I simply make asort of gurgling noise like a sheep with the botts. It kills my chancesstone dead. You know these other men. I can give Claude Mainwaring athird and beat him. I can give Eustace Brinkley a stroke a hole andsimply trample on his corpse. But when it comes to talking to a girl, I'm not in their class. "

"You must not be diffident. "

"But I _am_ diffident. What's the good of saying I mustn't bediffident when I'm the man who wrote the words and music, whenDiffidence is my middle name and my telegraphic address? I can't helpbeing diffident. "

"Surely you could overcome it?"

"But how? It was in the hope that you might be able to suggestsomething that I came round tonight. "

And this was where I did the fatal thing. It happened that, just beforeI took up "Braid on the Push-Shot, " I had been dipping into the currentnumber of a magazine, and one of the advertisements, I chanced toremember, might have been framed with a special eye to George'sunfortunate case. It was that one, which I have no doubt you have seen, which treats of "How to Become a Convincing Talker". I picked up thismagazine now and handed it to George. 

He studied it for a few minutes in thoughtful silence. He looked at thepicture of the Man who had taken the course being fawned upon by lovelywomen, while the man who had let this opportunity slip stood outsidethe group gazing with a wistful envy. 

"They never do that to me, " said George. 

"Do what, my boy?"

"Cluster round, clinging cooingly. "

"I gather from the letterpress that they will if you write for thebooklet. "

"You think there is really something in it?"

"I see no reason why eloquence should not be taught by mail. One seemsto be able to acquire every other desirable quality in that mannernowadays. "

"I might try it. After all, it's not expensive. There's no doubt aboutit, " he murmured, returning to his perusal, "that fellow does lookpopular. Of course, the evening dress may have something to do withit. "

"Not at all. The other man, you will notice, is also wearing eveningdress, and yet he is merely among those on the outskirts. It is simplya question of writing for the booklet. "

"Sent post free. "

"Sent, as you say, post free. "

"I've a good mind to try it. "

"I see no reason why you should not. "

"I will, by Duncan!" He tore the page out of the magazine and put it inhis pocket. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give this thing a trialfor a week or two, and at the end of that time I'll go to the boss andsee how he reacts when I ask for a rise of salary. If he crawls, it'llshow there's something in this. If he flings me out, it will prove thething's no good. "

We left it at that, and I am bound to say--owing, no doubt, to my nothaving written for the booklet of the Memory Training Course advertisedon the adjoining page of the magazine--the matter slipped from my mind. When, therefore, a few weeks later, I received a telegram from youngMackintosh which ran:

 _Worked like magic, _

I confess I was intensely puzzled. It was only a quarter of an hourbefore George himself arrived that I solved the problem of its meaning. 

"So the boss crawled?" I said, as he came in. 

He gave a light, confident laugh. I had not seen him, as I say, forsome time, and I was struck by the alteration in his appearance. Inwhat exactly this alteration consisted I could not at first have said;but gradually it began to impress itself on me that his eye wasbrighter, his jaw squarer, his carriage a trifle more upright than ithad been. But it was his eye that struck me most forcibly. The GeorgeMackintosh I had known had had a pleasing gaze, but, though frank andagreeable, it had never been more dynamic than a fried egg. This newGeorge had an eye that was a combination of a gimlet and a searchlight. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, I imagine, must have been somewhatsimilarly equipped. The Ancient Mariner stopped a wedding guest on hisway to a wedding; George Mackintosh gave me the impression that hecould have stopped the Cornish Riviera express on its way to Penzance. Self-confidence--aye, and more than self-confidence--a sort of sinful, overbearing swank seemed to exude from his very pores. 

"Crawled?" he said. "Well, he didn't actually lick my boots, because Isaw him coming and side-stepped; but he did everything short of that. Ihadn't been talking an hour when----"

"An hour!" I gasped. "Did you talk for an hour?"

"Certainly. You wouldn't have had me be abrupt, would you? I went intohis private office and found him alone. I think at first he would havebeen just as well pleased if I had retired. In fact, he said as much. But I soon adjusted that outlook. I took a seat and a cigarette, andthen I started to sketch out for him the history of my connection withthe firm. He began to wilt before the end of the first ten minutes. Atthe quarter of an hour mark he was looking at me like a lost dog that'sjust found its owner. By the half-hour he was making little bleatingnoises and massaging my coat-sleeve. And when, after perhaps an hourand a half, I came to my peroration and suggested a rise, he chokedback a sob, gave me double what I had asked, and invited me to dine athis club next Tuesday. I'm a little sorry now I cut the thing so short. A few minutes more, and I fancy he would have given me hissock-suspenders and made over his life-insurance in my favour. "

"Well, " I said, as soon as I could speak, for I was finding my youngfriend a trifle overpowering, "this is most satisfactory. "

"So-so, " said George. "Not un-so-so. A man wants an addition to hisincome when he is going to get married. "

"Ah!" I said. "That, of course, will be the real test. "

"What do you mean?"

"Why, when you propose to Celia Tennant. You remember you were sayingwhen we spoke of this before--"

"Oh, that!" said George, carelessly. "I've arranged all that. "

"What!"

"Oh, yes. On my way up from the station. I looked in on Celia about anhour ago, and it's all settled. "

"Amazing!"

"Well, I don't know. I just put the thing to her, and she seemed to seeit. "

"I congratulate you. So now, like Alexander, you have no more worlds toconquer. "

"Well, I don't know so much about that, " said George. "The way it looks tome is that I'm just starting. This eloquence is a thing that rather growson one. You didn't hear about my after-dinner speech at the anniversarybanquet of the firm, I suppose? My dear fellow, a riot! A positivestampede. Had 'em laughing and then crying and then laughing again andthen crying once more till six of 'em had to be led out and the rest downwith hiccoughs. Napkins waving ... Three tables broken ... Waiters inhysterics. I tell you, I played on them as on a stringed instrument.... "

"Can you play on a stringed instrument?"

"As it happens, no. But as I would have played on a stringed instrumentif I could play on a stringed instrument. Wonderful sense of power itgives you. I mean to go in pretty largely for that sort of thing infuture. "

"You must not let it interfere with your golf. "

He gave a laugh which turned my blood cold. 

"Golf!" he said. "After all, what is golf? Just pushing a small ballinto a hole. A child could do it. Indeed, children have done it withgreat success. I see an infant of fourteen has just won some sort ofchampionship. Could that stripling convulse a roomful of banqueters? Ithink not! To sway your fellow-men with a word, to hold them with agesture ... That is the real salt of life. I don't suppose I shall playmuch more golf now. I'm making arrangements for a lecturing-tour, andI'm booked up for fifteen lunches already. "

Those were his words. A man who had once done the lake-hole in one. Aman whom the committee were grooming for the amateur championship. I amno weakling, but I confess they sent a chill shiver down my spine. 

 * * * * *

George Mackintosh did not, I am glad to say, carry out his mad projectto the letter. He did not altogether sever himself from golf. He wasstill to be seen occasionally on the links. But now--and I know ofnothing more tragic that can befall a man--he found himself graduallyshunned, he who in the days of his sanity had been besieged with moreoffers of games than he could manage to accept. Men simply would notstand his incessant flow of talk. One by one they dropped off, untilthe only person he could find to go round with him was old MajorMoseby, whose hearing completely petered out as long ago as the year'98. And, of course, Celia Tennant would play with him occasionally;but it seemed to me that even she, greatly as no doubt she loved him, was beginning to crack under the strain. 

So surely had I read the pallor of her face and the wild look of dumbagony in her eyes that I was not surprised when, as I sat one morningin my garden reading Ray on Taking Turf, my man announced her name. Ihad been half expecting her to come to me for advice and consolation, for I had known her ever since she was a child. It was I who had givenher her first driver and taught her infant lips to lisp "Fore!" It isnot easy to lisp the word "Fore!" but I had taught her to do it, andthis constituted a bond between us which had been strengthened ratherthan weakened by the passage of time. 

She sat down on the grass beside my chair, and looked up at my face insilent pain. We had known each other so long that I know that it wasnot my face that pained her, but rather some unspoken _malaise_ ofthe soul. I waited for her to speak, and suddenly she burst outimpetuously as though she could hold back her sorrow no longer. 

"Oh, I can't stand it! I can't stand it!"

"You mean... ?" I said, though I knew only too well. 

"This horrible obsession of poor George's, " she cried passionately. "Idon't think he has stopped talking once since we have been engaged. "

"He _is_ chatty, " I agreed. "Has he told you the story about theIrishman?"

"Half a dozen times. And the one about the Swede oftener than that. ButI would not mind an occasional anecdote. Women have to learn to bearanecdotes from the men they love. It is the curse of Eve. It is hisincessant easy flow of chatter on all topics that is undermining evenmy devotion. "

"But surely, when he proposed to you, he must have given you an inklingof the truth. He only hinted at it when he spoke to me, but I gatherthat he was eloquent. "

"When he proposed, " said Celia dreamily, "he was wonderful. He spokefor twenty minutes without stopping. He said I was the essence of hisevery hope, the tree on which the fruit of his life grew; his Present, his Future, his Past ... Oh, and all that sort of thing. If he wouldonly confine his conversation now to remarks of a similar nature, Icould listen to him all day long. But he doesn't. He talks politics andstatistics and philosophy and ... Oh, and everything. He makes my headache. "

"And your heart also, I fear, " I said gravely. 

"I love him!" she replied simply. "In spite of everything, I love himdearly. But what to do? What to do? I have an awful fear that when weare getting married instead of answering 'I will, ' he will go into thepulpit and deliver an address on Marriage Ceremonies of All Ages. Theworld to him is a vast lecture-platform. He looks on life as one longafter-dinner, with himself as the principal speaker of the evening. Itis breaking my heart. I see him shunned by his former friends. Shunned!They run a mile when they see him coming. The mere sound of his voiceoutside the club-house is enough to send brave men diving for safetybeneath the sofas. Can you wonder that I am in despair? What have I tolive for?"

"There is always golf. "

"Yes, there is always golf, " she whispered bravely. 

"Come and have a round this afternoon. "

"I had promised to go for a walk ... " She shuddered, then pulled herselftogether. "... For a walk with George. "

I hesitated for a moment. 

"Bring him along, " I said, and patted her hand. "It may be thattogether we shall find an opportunity of reasoning with him. "

She shook her head. 

"You can't reason with George. He never stops talking long enough togive you time. "

"Nevertheless, there is no harm in trying. I have an idea that thismalady of his is not permanent and incurable. The very violence withwhich the germ of loquacity has attacked him gives me hope. You mustremember that before this seizure he was rather a noticeably silentman. Sometimes I think that it is just Nature's way of restoring theaverage, and that soon the fever may burn itself out. Or it may be thata sudden shock ... At any rate, have courage. "

"I will try to be brave. "

"Capital! At half-past two on the first tee, then. "

"You will have to give me a stroke on the third, ninth, twelfth, fifteenth, sixteenth and eighteenth, " she said, with a quaver in hervoice. "My golf has fallen off rather lately. "

I patted her hand again. 

"I understand, " I said gently. "I understand. "

 * * * * *

The steady drone of a baritone voice as I alighted from my car andapproached the first tee told me that George had not forgotten thetryst. He was sitting on the stone seat under the chestnut-tree, speaking a few well-chosen words on the Labour Movement. 

"To what conclusion, then, do we come?" he was saying. "We come to theforegone and inevitable conclusion that.... "

"Good afternoon, George, " I said. 

He nodded briefly, but without verbal salutation. He seemed to regardmy remark as he would have regarded the unmannerly heckling of some oneat the back of the hall. He proceeded evenly with his speech, and wasstill talking when Celia addressed her ball and drove off. Her drive, coinciding with a sharp rhetorical question from George, wavered inmid-air, and the ball trickled off into the rough half-way down thehill. I can see the poor girl's tortured face even now. But shebreathed no word of reproach. Such is the miracle of women's love. 

"Where you went wrong there, " said George, breaking off his remarks onLabour, "was that you have not studied the dynamics of golfsufficiently. You did not pivot properly. You allowed your left heel topoint down the course when you were at the top of your swing. Thismakes for instability and loss of distance. The fundamental law of thedynamics of golf is that the left foot shall be solidly on the groundat the moment of impact. If you allow your heel to point down thecourse, it is almost impossible to bring it back in time to make thefoot a solid fulcrum. "

I drove, and managed to clear the rough and reach the fairway. But itwas not one of my best drives. George Mackintosh, I confess, hadunnerved me. The feeling he gave me resembled the self-conscious panicwhich I used to experience in my childhood when informed that there wasOne Awful Eye that watched my every movement and saw my every act. Itwas only the fact that poor Celia appeared even more affected by hisespionage that enabled me to win the first hole in seven. 

On the way to the second tee George discoursed on the beauties ofNature, pointing out at considerable length how exquisitely the silverglitter of the lake harmonized with the vivid emerald turf near thehole and the duller green of the rough beyond it. As Celia teed up herball, he directed her attention to the golden glory of the sand-pit tothe left of the flag. It was not the spirit in which to approach thelake-hole, and I was not surprised when the unfortunate girl's ballfell with a sickening plop half-way across the water. 

"Where you went wrong there, " said George, "was that you made thestroke a sudden heave instead of a smooth, snappy flick of the wrists. Pressing is always bad, but with the mashie----"

"I think I will give you this hole, " said Celia to me, for my shot hadcleared the water and was lying on the edge of the green. "I wish Ihadn't used a new ball. "

"The price of golf-balls, " said George, as we started to round thelake, "is a matter to which economists should give some attention. I amcredibly informed that rubber at the present time is exceptionallycheap. Yet we see no decrease in the price of golf-balls, which, as Ineed scarcely inform you, are rubber-cored. Why should this be so? Youwill say that the wages of skilled labour have gone up. True. But----"

"One moment, George, while I drive, " I said. For we had now arrived atthe third tee. 

"A curious thing, concentration, " said George, "and why certainphenomena should prevent us from focusing our attention---- This bringsme to the vexed question of sleep. Why is it that we are able to sleepthrough some vast convulsion of Nature when a dripping tap is enough tokeep us awake? I am told that there were people who slumberedpeacefully through the San Francisco earthquake, merely stirringdrowsily from time to time to tell an imaginary person to leave it onthe mat. Yet these same people----"

Celia's drive bounded into the deep ravine which yawns some fifty yardsfrom the tee. A low moan escaped her. 

"Where you went wrong there----" said George. 

"I know, " said Celia. "I lifted my head. "

I had never heard her speak so abruptly before. Her manner, in a girlless noticeably pretty, might almost have been called snappish. George, however, did not appear to have noticed anything amiss. He filled hispipe and followed her into the ravine. 

"Remarkable, " he said, "how fundamental a principle of golf is thiskeeping the head still. You will hear professionals tell their pupilsto keep their eye on the ball. Keeping the eye on the ball is only asecondary matter. What they really mean is that the head should be keptrigid, as otherwise it is impossible to----"

His voice died away. I had sliced my drive into the woods on the right, and after playing another had gone off to try to find my ball, leavingCelia and George in the ravine behind me. My last glimpse of themshowed me that her ball had fallen into a stone-studded cavity in theside of the hill, and she was drawing her niblick from her bag as Ipassed out of sight. George's voice, blurred by distance to amonotonous murmur, followed me until I was out of earshot. 

I was just about to give up the hunt for my ball in despair, when Iheard Celia's voice calling to me from the edge of the undergrowth. There was a sharp note in it which startled me. 

I came out, trailing a portion of some unknown shrub which had twineditself about my ankle. 

"Yes?" I said, picking twigs out of my hair. 

"I want your advice, " said Celia. 

"Certainly. What is the trouble? By the way, " I said, looking round, "where is your _fiance_?"

"I have no _fiance_, " she said, in a dull, hard voice. 

"You have broken off the engagement?"

"Not exactly. And yet--well, I suppose it amounts to that. "

"I don't quite understand. "

"Well, the fact is, " said Celia, in a burst of girlish frankness, "Irather think I've killed George. "

"Killed him, eh?"

It was a solution that had not occurred to me, but now that it waspresented for my inspection I could see its merits. In these days ofnational effort, when we are all working together to try to make ourbeloved land fit for heroes to live in, it was astonishing that nobodybefore had thought of a simple, obvious thing like killing GeorgeMackintosh. George Mackintosh was undoubtedly better dead, but it hadtaken a woman's intuition to see it. 

"I killed him with my niblick, " said Celia. 

I nodded. If the thing was to be done at all, it was unquestionably aniblick shot. 

"I had just made my eleventh attempt to get out of that ravine, " thegirl went on, "with George talking all the time about the recentexcavations in Egypt, when suddenly--you know what it is when somethingseems to snap----"

"I had the experience with my shoe-lace only this morning. "

"Yes, it was like that. Sharp--sudden--happening all in a moment. Isuppose I must have said something, for George stopped talking aboutEgypt and said that he was reminded by a remark of the last speaker'sof a certain Irishman-----"

I pressed her hand. 

"Don't go on if it hurts you, " I said, gently. 

"Well, there is very little more to tell. He bent his head to light hispipe, and well--the temptation was too much for me. That's all. "

"You were quite right. "

"You really think so?"

"I certainly do. A rather similar action, under far less provocation, once made Jael the wife of Heber the most popular woman in Israel. "

"I wish I could think so too, " she murmured. "At the moment, you know, I was conscious of nothing but an awful elation. But--but--oh, he wassuch a darling before he got this dreadful affliction. I can't helpthinking of G-George as he used to be. "

She burst into a torrent of sobs. 

"Would you care for me to view the remains?" I said. 

"Perhaps it would be as well. "

She led me silently into the ravine. George Mackintosh was lying on hisback where he had fallen. 

"There!" said Celia. 

And, as she spoke, George Mackintosh gave a kind of snorting groan andsat up. Celia uttered a sharp shriek and sank on her knees before him. George blinked once or twice and looked about him dazedly. 

"Save the women and children!" he cried. "I can swim. "

"Oh, George!" said Celia. 

"Feeling a little better?" I asked. 

"A little. How many people were hurt?"

"Hurt?"

"When the express ran into us. " He cast another glance around him. "Why, how did I get here?"

"You were here all the time, " I said. 

"Do you mean after the roof fell in or before?"

Celia was crying quietly down the back of his neck. 

"Oh, George!" she said, again. 

He groped out feebly for her hand and patted it. 

"Brave little woman!" he said. "Brave little woman! She stuck by me allthrough. Tell me--I am strong enough to bear it--what caused theexplosion?"

It seemed to me a case where much unpleasant explanation might beavoided by the exercise of a little tact. 

"Well, some say one thing and some another, " I said. "Whether it was aspark from a cigarette----"

Celia interrupted me. The woman in her made her revolt against thiswell-intentioned subterfuge. 

"I hit you, George!"

"Hit me?" he repeated, curiously. "What with? The Eiffel Tower?"

"With my niblick. "

"You hit me with your niblick? But why?"

She hesitated. Then she faced him bravely. 

"Because you wouldn't stop talking. "

He gaped. 

"Me!" he said. "_I_ wouldn't stop talking! But I hardly talk atall. I'm noted for it. "

Celia's eyes met mine in agonized inquiry. But I saw what had happened. The blow, the sudden shock, had operated on George's brain-cells insuch a way as to effect a complete cure. I have not the technicalknowledge to be able to explain it, but the facts were plain. 

"Lately, my dear fellow, " I assured him, "you have dropped into thehabit of talking rather a good deal. Ever since we started out thisafternoon you have kept up an incessant flow of conversation!"

"Me! On the links! It isn't possible. "

"It is only too true, I fear. And that is why this brave girl hit youwith her niblick. You started to tell her a funny story just as she wasmaking her eleventh shot to get her ball out of this ravine, and shetook what she considered the necessary steps. "

"Can you ever forgive me, George?" cried Celia. 

George Mackintosh stared at me. Then a crimson blush mantled his face. 

"So I did! It's all beginning to come back to me. Oh, heavens!"

"_Can_ you forgive me, George?" cried Celia again. 

He took her hand in his. 

"Forgive you?" he muttered. "Can _you_ forgive _me?_ Me--atee-talker, a green-gabbler, a prattler on the links, the lowest formof life known to science! I am unclean, unclean!"

"It's only a little mud, dearest, " said Celia, looking at the sleeve ofhis coat. "It will brush off when it's dry. "

"How can you link your lot with a man who talks when people are makingtheir shots?"

"You will never do it again. "

"But I have done it. And you stuck to me all through! Oh, Celia!"

"I loved you, George!"

The man seemed to swell with a sudden emotion. His eye lit up, and hethrust one hand into the breast of his coat while he raised the otherin a sweeping gesture. For an instant he appeared on the verge of aflood of eloquence. And then, as if he had been made sharply aware ofwhat it was that he intended to do, he suddenly sagged. The gleam diedout of his eyes. He lowered his hand. 

"Well, I must say that was rather decent of you, " he said. 

A lame speech, but one that brought an infinite joy to both hishearers. For it showed that George Mackintosh was cured beyondpossibility of relapse. 

"Yes, I must say you are rather a corker, " he added. 

"George!" cried Celia. 

I said nothing, but I clasped his hand; and then, taking my clubs, Iretired. When I looked round she was still in his arms. I left themthere, alone together in the great silence. 

 * * * * *

And so (concluded the Oldest Member) you see that a cure is possible, though it needs a woman's gentle hand to bring it about. And how fewwomen are capable of doing what Celia Tennant did. Apart from thedifficulty of summoning up the necessary resolution, an act like hersrequires a straight eye and a pair of strong and supple wrists. Itseems to me that for the ordinary talking golfer there is no hope. Andthe race seems to be getting more numerous every day. Yet the finestgolfers are always the least loquacious. It is related of theillustrious Sandy McHoots that when, on the occasion of his winning theBritish Open Championship, he was interviewed by reporters from theleading daily papers as to his views on Tariff Reform, Bimetallism, theTrial by Jury System, and the Modern Craze for Dancing, all they couldextract from him was the single word "Mphm!" Having uttered which, heshouldered his bag and went home to tea. A great man. I wish there weremore like him. 

6

_Ordeal By Golf_

A pleasant breeze played among the trees on the terrace outside theMarvis Bay Golf and Country Club. It ruffled the leaves and cooled theforehead of the Oldest Member, who, as was his custom of a Saturdayafternoon, sat in the shade on a rocking-chair, observing the youngergeneration as it hooked and sliced in the valley below. The eye of theOldest Member was thoughtful and reflective. When it looked into yoursyou saw in it that perfect peace, that peace beyond understanding, which comes at its maximum only to the man who has given up golf. 

The Oldest Member has not played golf since the rubber-cored ballsuperseded the old dignified gutty. But as a spectator and philosopherhe still finds pleasure in the pastime. He is watching it now with keeninterest. His gaze, passing from the lemonade which he is suckingthrough a straw, rests upon the Saturday foursome which is strugglingraggedly up the hill to the ninth green. Like all Saturday foursomes, it is in difficulties. One of the patients is zigzagging about thefairway like a liner pursued by submarines. Two others seem to bedigging for buried treasure, unless--it is too far off to becertain--they are killing snakes. The remaining cripple, who has justfoozled a mashie-shot, is blaming his caddie. His voice, as he upbraidsthe innocent child for breathing during his up-swing, comes clearly upthe hill. 

The Oldest Member sighs. His lemonade gives a sympathetic gurgle. Heputs it down on the table. 

 * * * * *

How few men, says the Oldest Member, possess the proper golfingtemperament! How few indeed, judging by the sights I see here onSaturday afternoons, possess any qualification at all for golf except apair of baggy knickerbockers and enough money to enable them to pay forthe drinks at the end of the round. The ideal golfer never loses histemper. When I played, I never lost my temper. Sometimes, it is true, Imay, after missing a shot, have broken my club across my knees; but Idid it in a calm and judicial spirit, because the club was obviously nogood and I was going to get another one anyway. To lose one's temper atgolf is foolish. It gets you nothing, not even relief. Imitate thespirit of Marcus Aurelius. "Whatever may befall thee, " says that greatman in his "Meditations", "it was preordained for thee fromeverlasting. Nothing happens to anybody which he is not fitted bynature to bear. " I like to think that this noble thought came to himafter he had sliced a couple of new balls into the woods, and that hejotted it down on the back of his score-card. For there can be no doubtthat the man was a golfer, and a bad golfer at that. Nobody who had nothad a short putt stop on the edge of the hole could possibly havewritten the words: "That which makes the man no worse than he was makeslife no worse. It has no power to harm, without or within. " Yes, MarcusAurelius undoubtedly played golf, and all the evidence seems toindicate that he rarely went round in under a hundred and twenty. Theniblick was his club. 

Speaking of Marcus Aurelius and the golfing temperament recalls to mymind the case of young Mitchell Holmes. Mitchell, when I knew himfirst, was a promising young man with a future before him in thePaterson Dyeing and Refining Company, of which my old friend, AlexanderPaterson, was the president. He had many engaging qualities--among theman unquestioned ability to imitate a bulldog quarrelling with aPekingese in a way which had to be heard to be believed. It was a giftwhich made him much in demand at social gatherings in theneighbourhood, marking him off from other young men who could onlyalmost play the mandolin or recite bits of Gunga Din; and no doubt itwas this talent of his which first sowed the seeds of love in the heartof Millicent Boyd. Women are essentially hero-worshippers, and when awarm-hearted girl like Millicent has heard a personable young manimitating a bulldog and a Pekingese to the applause of a crowdeddrawing-room, and has been able to detect the exact point at which thePekingese leaves off and the bulldog begins, she can never feel quitethe same to other men. In short, Mitchell and Millicent were engaged, and were only waiting to be married till the former could bite theDyeing and Refining Company's ear for a bit of extra salary. 

Mitchell Holmes had only one fault. He lost his temper when playinggolf. He seldom played a round without becoming piqued, peeved, or--inmany cases--chagrined. The caddies on our links, it was said, couldalways worst other small boys in verbal argument by calling them someof the things they had heard Mitchell call his ball on discovering itin a cuppy lie. He had a great gift of language, and he used itunsparingly. I will admit that there was some excuse for the man. Hehad the makings of a brilliant golfer, but a combination of bad luckand inconsistent play invariably robbed him of the fruits of his skill. He was the sort of player who does the first two holes in one underbogey and then takes an eleven at the third. The least thing upset himon the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of thebutterflies in the adjoining meadows. 

It seemed hardly likely that this one kink in an otherwise admirablecharacter would ever seriously affect his working or professional life, but it did. One evening, as I was sitting in my garden, AlexanderPaterson was announced. A glance at his face told me that he had cometo ask my advice. Rightly or wrongly, he regarded me as one capable ofgiving advice. It was I who had changed the whole current of his lifeby counselling him to leave the wood in his bag and take a driving-ironoff the tee; and in one or two other matters, like the choice of aputter (so much more important than the choice of a wife), I had beenof assistance to him. 

Alexander sat down and fanned himself with his hat, for the evening waswarm. Perplexity was written upon his fine face. 

"I don't know what to do, " he said. 

"Keep the head still--slow back--don't press, " I said, gravely. Thereis no better rule for a happy and successful life. 

"It's nothing to do with golf this time, " he said. "It's about thetreasurership of my company. Old Smithers retires next week, and I'vegot to find a man to fill his place. "

"That should be easy. You have simply to select the most deserving fromamong your other employees. "

"But which _is_ the most deserving? That's the point. There aretwo men who are capable of holding the job quite adequately. But then Irealize how little I know of their real characters. It is thetreasurership, you understand, which has to be filled. Now, a man whowas quite good at another job might easily get wrong ideas into hishead when he became a treasurer. He would have the handling of largesums of money. In other words, a man who in ordinary circumstances hadnever been conscious of any desire to visit the more distant portionsof South America might feel the urge, so to speak, shortly after hebecame a treasurer. That is my difficulty. Of course, one always takesa sporting chance with any treasurer; but how am I to find out which ofthese two men would give me the more reasonable opportunity of keepingsome of my money?"

I did not hesitate a moment. I held strong views on the subject ofcharacter-testing. 

"The only way, " I said to Alexander, "of really finding out a man'strue character is to play golf with him. In no other walk of life doesthe cloven hoof so quickly display itself. I employed a lawyer foryears, until one day I saw him kick his ball out of a heel-mark. Iremoved my business from his charge next morning. He has not yet runoff with any trust-funds, but there is a nasty gleam in his eye, and Iam convinced that it is only a question of time. Golf, my dear fellow, is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone, with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ballwhere it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well. Theman who can smile bravely when his putt is diverted by one of thosebeastly wormcasts is pure gold right through. But the man who is hasty, unbalanced, and violent on the links will display the same qualities inthe wider field of everyday life. You don't want an unbalancedtreasurer do you?"

"Not if his books are likely to catch the complaint. "

"They are sure to. Statisticians estimate that the average of crimeamong good golfers is lower than in any class of the community exceptpossibly bishops. Since Willie Park won the first championship atPrestwick in the year 1860 there has, I believe, been no instance of anOpen Champion spending a day in prison. Whereas the bad golfers--and bybad I do not mean incompetent, but black-souled--the men who fail tocount a stroke when they miss the globe; the men who never replace adivot; the men who talk while their opponent is driving; and the menwho let their angry passions rise--these are in and out of WormwoodScrubbs all the time. They find it hardly worth while to get their haircut in their brief intervals of liberty. "

Alexander was visibly impressed. 

"That sounds sensible, by George!" he said. 

"It is sensible. "

"I'll do it! Honestly, I can't see any other way of deciding betweenHolmes and Dixon. "

I started. 

"Holmes? Not Mitchell Holmes?"

"Yes. Of course you must know him? He lives here, I believe. "

"And by Dixon do you mean Rupert Dixon?"

"That's the man. Another neighbour of yours. "

I confess that my heart sank. It was as if my ball had fallen into thepit which my niblick had digged. I wished heartily that I had thoughtof waiting to ascertain the names of the two rivals before offering myscheme. I was extremely fond of Mitchell Holmes and of the girl to whomhe was engaged to be married. Indeed, it was I who had sketched out afew rough notes for the lad to use when proposing; and results hadshown that he had put my stuff across well. And I had listened many atime with a sympathetic ear to his hopes in the matter of securing arise of salary which would enable him to get married. Somehow, whenAlexander was talking, it had not occurred to me that young Holmesmight be in the running for so important an office as thetreasurership. I had ruined the boy's chances. Ordeal by golf was theone test which he could not possibly undergo with success. Only amiracle could keep him from losing his temper, and I had expresslywarned Alexander against such a man. 

When I thought of his rival my heart sank still more. Rupert Dixon wasrather an unpleasant young man, but the worst of his enemies could notaccuse him of not possessing the golfing temperament. From the driveoff the tee to the holing of the final putt he was uniformly suave. 

 * * * * *

When Alexander had gone, I sat in thought for some time. I was facedwith a problem. Strictly speaking, no doubt, I had no right to takesides; and, though secrecy had not been enjoined upon me in so manywords, I was very well aware that Alexander was under the impressionthat I would keep the thing under my hat and not reveal to either partythe test that awaited him. Each candidate was, of course, to remainignorant that he was taking part in anything but a friendly game. 

But when I thought of the young couple whose future depended on thisordeal, I hesitated no longer. I put on my hat and went round to MissBoyd's house, where I knew that Mitchell was to be found at this hour. 

The young couple were out in the porch, looking at the moon. Theygreeted me heartily, but their heartiness had rather a tinny sound, andI could see that on the whole they regarded me as one of those thingswhich should not happen. But when I told my story their attitudechanged. They began to look on me in the pleasanter light of aguardian, philosopher, and friend. 

"Wherever did Mr. Paterson get such a silly idea?" said Miss Boyd, indignantly. I had--from the best motives--concealed the source of thescheme. "It's ridiculous!"

"Oh, I don't know, " said Mitchell. "The old boy's crazy about golf. It's just the sort of scheme he would cook up. Well, it dishes_me_!"

"Oh, come!" I said. 

"It's no good saying 'Oh, come!' You know perfectly well that I'm afrank, outspoken golfer. When my ball goes off nor'-nor'-east when Iwant it to go due west I can't help expressing an opinion about it. Itis a curious phenomenon which calls for comment, and I give it. Similarly, when I top my drive, I have to go on record as saying that Idid not do it intentionally. And it's just these trifles, as far as Ican make out, that are going to decide the thing. "

"Couldn't you learn to control yourself on the links, Mitchell, darling?" asked Millicent. "After all, golf is only a game!"

Mitchell's eyes met mine, and I have no doubt that mine showed just thesame look of horror which I saw in his. Women say these things withoutthinking. It does not mean that there is any kink in their character. They simply don't realize what they are saying. 

"Hush!" said Mitchell, huskily, patting her hand and overcoming hisemotion with a strong effort. "Hush, dearest!"

 * * * * *

Two or three days later I met Millicent coming from the post-office. There was a new light of happiness in her eyes, and her face wasglowing. 

"Such a splendid thing has happened, " she said. "After Mitchell leftthat night I happened to be glancing through a magazine, and I cameacross a wonderful advertisement. It began by saying that all the greatmen in history owed their success to being able to control themselves, and that Napoleon wouldn't have amounted to anything if he had notcurbed his fiery nature, and then it said that we can all be likeNapoleon if we fill in the accompanying blank order-form for ProfessorOrlando Rollitt's wonderful book, 'Are You Your Own Master?' absolutelyfree for five days and then seven shillings, but you must write at oncebecause the demand is enormous and pretty soon it may be too late. Iwrote at once, and luckily I was in time, because Professor Rollitt didhave a copy left, and it's just arrived. I've been looking through it, and it seems splendid. "

She held out a small volume. I glanced at it. There was a frontispieceshowing a signed photograph of Professor Orlando Rollitt controllinghimself in spite of having long white whiskers, and then some readingmatter, printed between wide margins. One look at the book told me theprofessor's methods. To be brief, he had simply swiped MarcusAurelius's best stuff, the copyright having expired some two thousandyears ago, and was retailing it as his own. I did not mention this toMillicent. It was no affair of mine. Presumably, however obscure thenecessity, Professor Rollitt had to live. 

"I'm going to start Mitchell on it today. Don't you think this is good?'Thou seest how few be the things which if a man has at his command hislife flows gently on and is divine. ' I think it will be wonderful ifMitchell's life flows gently on and is divine for seven shillings, don't you?"

 * * * * *

At the club-house that evening I encountered Rupert Dixon. He wasemerging from a shower-bath, and looked as pleased with himself asusual. 

"Just been going round with old Paterson, " he said. "He was askingafter you. He's gone back to town in his car. "

I was thrilled. So the test had begun!

"How did you come out?" I asked. 

Rupert Dixon smirked. A smirking man, wrapped in a bath towel, with awisp of wet hair over one eye, is a repellent sight. 

"Oh, pretty well. I won by six and five. In spite of having poisonousluck. "

I felt a gleam of hope at these last words. 

"Oh, you had bad luck?"

"The worst. I over-shot the green at the third with the bestbrassey-shot I've ever made in my life--and that's saying a lot--andlost my ball in the rough beyond it. "

"And I suppose you let yourself go, eh?"

"Let myself go?"

"I take it that you made some sort of demonstration?"

"Oh, no. Losing your temper doesn't get you anywhere at golf. It onlyspoils your next shot. "

I went away heavy-hearted. Dixon had plainly come through the ordeal aswell as any man could have done. I expected to hear every day that thevacant treasurership had been filled, and that Mitchell had not evenbeen called upon to play his test round. I suppose, however, thatAlexander Paterson felt that it would be unfair to the other competitornot to give him his chance, for the next I heard of the matter was whenMitchell Holmes rang me up on the Friday and asked me if I wouldaccompany him round the links next day in the match he was playing withAlexander, and give him my moral support. 

"I shall need it, " he said. "I don't mind telling you I'm prettynervous. I wish I had had longer to get the stranglehold on that 'AreYou Your Own Master?' stuff. I can see, of course, that it is the realtabasco from start to finish, and absolutely as mother makes it, butthe trouble is I've only had a few days to soak it into my system. It'slike trying to patch up a motor car with string. You never know whenthe thing will break down. Heaven knows what will happen if I sink aball at the water-hole. And something seems to tell me I am going to doit. "

There was a silence for a moment. 

"Do you believe in dreams?" asked Mitchell. 

"Believe in what?"

"Dreams. "

"What about them?"

"I said, 'Do you believe in dreams?' Because last night I dreamed thatI was playing in the final of the Open Championship, and I got into therough, and there was a cow there, and the cow looked at me in a sadsort of way and said, 'Why don't you use the two-V grip instead of theinterlocking?' At the time it seemed an odd sort of thing to happen, but I've been thinking it over and I wonder if there isn't something init. These things must be sent to us for a purpose. "

"You can't change your grip on the day of an important match. "

"I suppose not. The fact is, I'm a bit jumpy, or I wouldn't havementioned it. Oh, well! See you tomorrow at two. "

 * * * * *

The day was bright and sunny, but a tricky cross-wind was blowing whenI reached the club-house. Alexander Paterson was there, practisingswings on the first tee; and almost immediately Mitchell Holmesarrived, accompanied by Millicent. 

"Perhaps, " said Alexander, "we had better be getting under way. Shall Itake the honour?"

"Certainly, " said Mitchell. 

Alexander teed up his ball. 

Alexander Paterson has always been a careful rather than a dashingplayer. It is his custom, a sort of ritual, to take two measuredpractice-swings before addressing the ball, even on the putting-green. When he does address the ball he shuffles his feet for a moment or two, then pauses, and scans the horizon in a suspicious sort of way, as ifhe had been expecting it to play some sort of a trick on him when hewas not looking. A careful inspection seems to convince him of thehorizon's _bona fides_, and he turns his attention to the ballagain. He shuffles his feet once more, then raises his club. He wagglesthe club smartly over the ball three times, then lays it behind theglobule. At this point he suddenly peers at the horizon again, in theapparent hope of catching it off its guard. This done, he raises hisclub very slowly, brings it back very slowly till it almost touches theball, raises it again, brings it down again, raises it once more, andbrings it down for the third time. He then stands motionless, wrappedin thought, like some Indian fakir contemplating the infinite. Then heraises his club again and replaces it behind the ball. Finally hequivers all over, swings very slowly back, and drives the ball forabout a hundred and fifty yards in a dead straight line. 

It is a method of procedure which proves sometimes a littleexasperating to the highly strung, and I watched Mitchell's faceanxiously to see how he was taking his first introduction to it. Theunhappy lad had blenched visibly. He turned to me with the air of onein pain. 

"Does he always do that?" he whispered. 

"Always, " I replied. 

"Then I'm done for! No human being could play golf against a one-ringcircus like that without blowing up!"

I said nothing. It was, I feared, only too true. Well-poised as I am, Ihad long since been compelled to give up playing with AlexanderPaterson, much as I esteemed him. It was a choice between that andresigning from the Baptist Church. 

At this moment Millicent spoke. There was an open book in her hand. Irecognized it as the life-work of Professor Rollitt. 

"Think on this doctrine, " she said, in her soft, modulated voice, "thatto be patient is a branch of justice, and that men sin withoutintending it. "

Mitchell nodded briefly, and walked to the tee with a firm step. 

"Before you drive, darling, " said Millicent, "remember this. Let no actbe done at haphazard, nor otherwise than according to the finishedrules that govern its kind. "

The next moment Mitchell's ball was shooting through the air, to cometo rest two hundred yards down the course. It was a magnificent drive. He had followed the counsel of Marcus Aurelius to the letter. 

An admirable iron-shot put him in reasonable proximity to the pin, andhe holed out in one under bogey with one of the nicest putts I haveever beheld. And when at the next hole, the dangerous water-hole, hisball soared over the pond and lay safe, giving him bogey for the hole, I began for the first time to breathe freely. Every golfer has his day, and this was plainly Mitchell's. He was playing faultless golf. If hecould continue in this vein, his unfortunate failing would have nochance to show itself. 

The third hole is long and tricky. You drive over a ravine--or possiblyinto it. In the latter event you breathe a prayer and call for yourniblick. But, once over the ravine, there is nothing to disturb theequanimity. Bogey is five, and a good drive, followed by abrassey-shot, will put you within easy mashie-distance of the green. 

Mitchell cleared the ravine by a hundred and twenty yards. He strolledback to me, and watched Alexander go through his ritual with anindulgent smile. I knew just how he was feeling. Never does the worldseem so sweet and fair and the foibles of our fellow human beings solittle irritating as when we have just swatted the pill right on thespot. 

"I can't see why he does it, " said Mitchell, eyeing Alexander with atoleration that almost amounted to affection. "If I did all thoseSwedish exercises before I drove, I should forget what I had come outfor and go home. " Alexander concluded the movements, and landed a barethree yards on the other side of the ravine. "He's what you would calla steady performer, isn't he? Never varies!"

Mitchell won the hole comfortably. There was a jauntiness about hisstance on the fourth tee which made me a little uneasy. Over-confidenceat golf is almost as bad as timidity. 

My apprehensions were justified. Mitchell topped his ball. It rolledtwenty yards into the rough, and nestled under a dock-leaf. His mouthopened, then closed with a snap. He came over to where Millicent and Iwere standing. 

"I didn't say it!" he said. "What on earth happened then?"

"Search men's governing principles, " said Millicent, "and consider thewise, what they shun and what they cleave to. "

"Exactly, " I said. "You swayed your body. "

"And now I've got to go and look for that infernal ball. "

"Never mind, darling, " said Millicent. "Nothing has such power tobroaden the mind as the ability to investigate systematically and trulyall that comes under thy observation in life. "

"Besides, " I said, "you're three up. "

"I shan't be after this hole. "

He was right. Alexander won it in five, one above bogey, and regainedthe honour. 

Mitchell was a trifle shaken. His play no longer had its first carelessvigour. He lost the next hole, halved the sixth, lost the shortseventh, and then, rallying, halved the eighth. 

The ninth hole, like so many on our links, can be a perfectly simplefour, although the rolling nature of the green makes bogey always asomewhat doubtful feat; but, on the other hand, if you foozle yourdrive, you can easily achieve double figures. The tee is on the fartherside of the pond, beyond the bridge, where the water narrows almost tothe dimensions of a brook. You drive across this water and over atangle of trees and under-growth on the other bank. The distance to thefairway cannot be more than sixty yards, for the hazard is purely amental one, and yet how many fair hopes have been wrecked there!

Alexander cleared the obstacles comfortably with his customary short, straight drive, and Mitchell advanced to the tee. 

I think the loss of the honour had been preying on his mind. He seemednervous. His up-swing was shaky, and he swayed back perceptibly. Hemade a lunge at the ball, sliced it, and it struck a tree on the otherside of the water and fell in the long grass. We crossed the bridge tolook for it; and it was here that the effect of Professor Rollitt begandefinitely to wane. 

"Why on earth don't they mow this darned stuff?" demanded Mitchell, querulously, as he beat about the grass with his niblick. 

"You have to have rough on a course, " I ventured. 

"Whatever happens at all, " said Millicent, "happens as it should. Thouwilt find this true if thou shouldst watch narrowly. "

"That's all very well, " said Mitchell, watching narrowly in a clump ofweeds but seeming unconvinced. "I believe the Greens Committee run thisbally club purely in the interests of the caddies. I believe theyencourage lost balls, and go halves with the little beasts when theyfind them and sell them!"

Millicent and I exchanged glances. There were tears in her eyes. 

"Oh, Mitchell! Remember Napoleon!"

"Napoleon! What's Napoleon got to do with it? Napoleon never wasexpected to drive through a primeval forest. Besides, what did Napoleonever do? Where did Napoleon get off, swanking round as if he amountedto something? Poor fish! All he ever did was to get hammered atWaterloo!"

Alexander rejoined us. He had walked on to where his ball lay. 

"Can't find it, eh? Nasty bit of rough, this!"

"No, I can't find it. But tomorrow some miserable, chinless, half-witted reptile of a caddie with pop eyes and eight hundred andthirty-seven pimples will find it, and will sell it to someone forsixpence! No, it was a brand-new ball. He'll probably get a shillingfor it. That'll be sixpence for himself and sixpence for the GreensCommittee. No wonder they're buying cars quicker than the makers cansupply them. No wonder you see their wives going about in mink coatsand pearl necklaces. Oh, dash it! I'll drop another!"

"In that case, " Alexander pointed out, "you will, of course, under therules governing match-play, lose the hole. "

"All right, then. I'll give up the hole. "

"Then that, I think, makes me one up on the first nine, " saidAlexander. "Excellent! A very pleasant, even game. "

"Pleasant! On second thoughts I don't believe the Greens Committee letthe wretched caddies get any of the loot. They hang round behind treestill the deal's concluded, and then sneak out and choke it out ofthem!"

I saw Alexander raise his eyebrows. He walked up the hill to the nexttee with me. 

"Rather a quick-tempered young fellow, Holmes!" he said, thoughtfully. "I should never have suspected it. It just shows how little one canknow of a man, only meeting him in business hours. "

I tried to defend the poor lad. 

"He has an excellent heart, Alexander. But the fact is--we are such oldfriends that I know you will forgive my mentioning it--your style ofplay gets, I fancy, a little on his nerves. "

"My style of play? What's wrong with my style of play?"

"Nothing is actually wrong with it, but to a young and ardent spiritthere is apt to be something a trifle upsetting in being, compelled towatch a man play quite so slowly as you do. Come now, Alexander, as onefriend to another, is it necessary to take two practice-swings beforeyou putt?"

"Dear, dear!" said Alexander. "You really mean to say that that upsetshim? Well, I'm afraid I am too old to change my methods now. "

I had nothing more to say. 

As we reached the tenth tee, I saw that we were in for a few minutes'wait. Suddenly I felt a hand on my arm. Millicent was standing besideme, dejection written on her face. Alexander and young Mitchell weresome distance away from us. 

"Mitchell doesn't want me to come round the rest of the way with him, "she said, despondently. "He says I make him nervous. "

I shook my head. 

"That's bad! I was looking on you as a steadying influence. "

"I thought I was, too. But Mitchell says no. He says my being therekeeps him from concentrating. "

"Then perhaps it would be better for you to remain in the club-housetill we return. There is, I fear, dirty work ahead. "

A choking sob escaped the unhappy girl. 

"I'm afraid so. There is an apple tree near the thirteenth hole, andMitchell's caddie is sure to start eating apples. I am thinking of whatMitchell will do when he hears the crunching when he is addressing hisball. "

"That is true. "

"Our only hope, " she said, holding out Professor Rollitt's book, "isthis. Will you please read him extracts when you see him gettingnervous? We went through the book last night and marked all thepassages in blue pencil which might prove helpful. You will see notesagainst them in the margin, showing when each is supposed to be used. "

It was a small favour to ask. I took the book and gripped her handsilently. Then I joined Alexander and Mitchell on the tenth tee. Mitchell was still continuing his speculations regarding the GreensCommittee. 

"The hole after this one, " he said, "used to be a short hole. There wasno chance of losing a ball. Then, one day, the wife of one of theGreens Committee happened to mention that the baby needed new shoes, sonow they've tacked on another hundred and fifty yards to it. You haveto drive over the brow of a hill, and if you slice an eighth of an inchyou get into a sort of No Man's Land, full of rocks and bushes andcrevices and old pots and pans. The Greens Committee practically livethere in the summer. You see them prowling round in groups, encouragingeach other with merry cries as they fill their sacks. Well, I'm goingto fool them today. I'm going to drive an old ball which is justhanging together by a thread. It'll come to pieces when they pick itup!"

Golf, however, is a curious game--a game of fluctuations. One mighthave supposed that Mitchell, in such a frame of mind, would havecontinued to come to grief. But at the beginning of the second nine heonce more found his form. A perfect drive put him in position to reachthe tenth green with an iron-shot, and, though the ball was severalyards from the hole, he laid it dead with his approach-putt and holedhis second for a bogey four. Alexander could only achieve a five, sothat they were all square again. 

The eleventh, the subject of Mitchell's recent criticism, is certainlya tricky hole, and it is true that a slice does land the player ingrave difficulties. Today, however, both men kept their drivesstraight, and found no difficulty in securing fours. 

"A little more of this, " said Mitchell, beaming, "and the GreensCommittee will have to give up piracy and go back to work. "

The twelfth is a long, dog-leg hole, bogey five. Alexander pluggedsteadily round the bend, holing out in six, and Mitchell, whose secondshot had landed him in some long grass, was obliged to use his niblick. He contrived, however, to halve the hole with a nicely-judgedmashie-shot to the edge of the green. 

Alexander won the thirteenth. It is a three hundred and sixty yardhole, free from bunkers. It took Alexander three strokes to reach thegreen, but his third laid the ball dead; while Mitchell, who was on intwo, required three putts. 

"That reminds me, " said Alexander, chattily, "of a story I heard. Friend calls out to a beginner, 'How are you getting on, old man?' andthe beginner says, 'Splendidly. I just made three perfect putts on thelast green!'"

Mitchell did not appear amused. I watched his face anxiously. He hadmade no remark, but the missed putt which would have saved the hole hadbeen very short, and I feared the worst. There was a brooding look inhis eye as we walked to the fourteenth tee. 

There are few more picturesque spots in the whole of the countrysidethan the neighbourhood of the fourteenth tee. It is a sight to charmthe nature-lover's heart. 

But, if golf has a defect, it is that it prevents a man being awhole-hearted lover of nature. Where the layman sees waving grass andromantic tangles of undergrowth, your golfer beholds nothing but anasty patch of rough from which he must divert his ball. The cry of thebirds, wheeling against the sky, is to the golfer merely something thatmay put him off his putt. As a spectator, I am fond of the ravine atthe bottom of the slope. It pleases the eye. But, as a golfer, I havefrequently found it the very devil. 

The last hole had given Alexander the honour again. He drove even moredeliberately than before. For quite half a minute he stood over hisball, pawing at it with his driving-iron like a cat investigating atortoise. Finally he despatched it to one of the few safe spots on thehillside. The drive from this tee has to be carefully calculated, for, if it be too straight, it will catch the slope and roll down into theravine. 

Mitchell addressed his ball. He swung up, and then, from immediatelybehind him came a sudden sharp crunching sound. I looked quickly in thedirection whence it came. Mitchell's caddie, with a glassy look in hiseyes, was gnawing a large apple. And even as I breathed a silentprayer, down came the driver, and the ball, with a terrible slice onit, hit the side of the hill and bounded into the ravine. 

There was a pause--a pause in which the world stood still. Mitchelldropped his club and turned. His face was working horribly. 

"Mitchell!" I cried. "My boy! Reflect! Be calm!"

"Calm! What's the use of being calm when people are chewing apples inthousands all round you? What _is_ this, anyway--a golf match or apleasant day's outing for the children of the poor? Apples! Go on, myboy, take another bite. Take several. Enjoy yourself! Never mind if itseems to cause me a fleeting annoyance. Go on with your lunch! Youprobably had a light breakfast, eh, and are feeling a little peckish, yes? If you will wait here, I will run to the clubhouse and get you asandwich and a bottle of ginger-ale. Make yourself quite at home, youlovable little fellow! Sit down and have a good time!"

I turned the pages of Professor Rollitt's book feverishly. I could notfind a passage that had been marked in blue pencil to meet thisemergency. I selected one at random. 

"Mitchell, " I said, "one moment. How much time he gains who does notlook to see what his neighbour says or does, but only at what he doeshimself, to make it just and holy. "

"Well, look what I've done myself! I'm somewhere down at the bottom ofthat dashed ravine, and it'll take me a dozen strokes to get out. Doyou call that just and holy? Here, give me that book for a moment!"

He snatched the little volume out of my hands. For an instant he lookedat it with a curious expression of loathing, then he placed it gentlyon the ground and jumped on it a few times. Then he hit it with hisdriver. Finally, as if feeling that the time for half measures hadpassed, he took a little run and kicked it strongly into the longgrass. 

He turned to Alexander, who had been an impassive spectator of thescene. 

"I'm through!" he said. "I concede the match. Good-bye. You'll find mein the bay!"

"Going swimming?"

"No. Drowning myself. "

A gentle smile broke out over my old friend's usually grave face. Hepatted Mitchell's shoulder affectionately. 

"Don't do that, my boy, " he said. "I was hoping you would stick aroundthe office awhile as treasurer of the company. "

Mitchell tottered. He grasped my arm for support. Everything was verystill. Nothing broke the stillness but the humming of the bees, themurmur of the distant wavelets, and the sound of Mitchell's caddiegoing on with his apple. 

"What!" cried Mitchell. 

"The position, " said Alexander, "will be falling vacant very shortly, as no doubt you know. It is yours, if you care to accept it. "

"You mean--you mean--you're going to give me the job?"

"You have interpreted me exactly. "

Mitchell gulped. So did his caddie. One from a spiritual, the otherfrom a physical cause. 

"If you don't mind excusing me, " said Mitchell, huskily, "I think I'llbe popping back to the club-house. Someone I want to see. "

He disappeared through the trees, running strongly. I turned toAlexander. 

"What does this mean?" I asked. "I am delighted, but what becomes ofthe test?"

My old friend smiled gently. 

"The test, " he replied, "has been eminently satisfactory. Circumstances, perhaps, have compelled me to modify the original ideaof it, but nevertheless it has been a completely successful test. Sincewe started out, I have been doing a good deal of thinking, and I havecome to the conclusion that what the Paterson Dyeing and RefiningCompany really needs is a treasurer whom I can beat at golf. And I havediscovered the ideal man. Why, " he went on, a look of holy enthusiasmon his fine old face, "do you realize that I can always lick thestuffing out of that boy, good player as he is, simply by taking alittle trouble? I can make him get the wind up every time, simply bytaking one or two extra practice-swings! That is the sort of man I needfor a responsible post in my office. "

"But what about Rupert Dixon?" I asked. 

He gave a gesture of distaste. 

"I wouldn't trust that man. Why, when I played with him, everythingwent wrong, and he just smiled and didn't say a word. A man who can dothat is not the man to trust with the control of large sums of money. It wouldn't be safe. Why, the fellow isn't honest! He can't be. " Hepaused for a moment. "Besides, " he added, thoughtfully, "he beat me bysix and five. What's the good of a treasurer who beats the boss by sixand five?"

7

_The Long Hole_

The young man, as he sat filling his pipe in the club-housesmoking-room, was inclined to be bitter. 

"If there's one thing that gives me a pain squarely in the centre ofthe gizzard, " he burst out, breaking a silence that had lasted for someminutes, "it's a golf-lawyer. They oughtn't to be allowed on thelinks. "

The Oldest Member, who had been meditatively putting himself outside acup of tea and a slice of seed-cake, raised his white eyebrows. 

"The Law, " he said, "is an honourable profession. Why should itspractitioners be restrained from indulgence in the game of games?"

"I don't mean actual lawyers, " said the young man, his acerbitymellowing a trifle under the influence of tobacco. "I mean theblighters whose best club is the book of rules. You know the sort ofexcrescences. Every time you think you've won a hole, they dig out Ruleeight hundred and fifty-three, section two, sub-section four, to provethat you've disqualified yourself by having an ingrowing toe-nail. Well, take my case. " The young man's voice was high and plaintive. "Igo out with that man Hemmingway to play an ordinary friendlyround--nothing depending on it except a measly ball--and on the seventhhe pulls me up and claims the hole simply because I happened to drop myniblick in the bunker. Oh, well, a tick's a tick, and there's nothingmore to say, I suppose. "

The Sage shook his head. 

"Rules are rules, my boy, and must be kept. It is odd that you shouldhave brought up this subject, for only a moment before you came in Iwas thinking of a somewhat curious match which ultimately turned upon aquestion of the rule-book. It is true that, as far as the actual prizewas concerned, it made little difference. But perhaps I had better tellyou the whole story from the beginning. "

The young man shifted uneasily in his chair. 

"Well, you know, I've had a pretty rotten time this afternoonalready----"

"I will call my story, " said the Sage, tranquilly, "'The Long Hole', for it involved the playing of what I am inclined to think must be thelongest hole in the history of golf. In its beginnings the story mayremind you of one I once told you about Peter Willard and James Todd, but you will find that it develops in quite a different manner. RalphBingham.... "

"I half promised to go and see a man----"

"But I will begin at the beginning, " said the Sage. "I see that you areall impatience to hear the full details. "

 * * * * *

Ralph Bingham and Arthur Jukes (said the Oldest Member) had never beenfriends--their rivalry was too keen to admit of that--but it was nottill Amanda Trivett came to stay here that a smouldering distaste foreach other burst out into the flames of actual enmity. It is ever so. One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I amunable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for thetime being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-oldsituation. The gist of his remarks is that lovely woman rarely fails tostart something. In the weeks that followed her arrival, being in thesame room with the two men was like dropping in on a reunion ofCapulets and Montagues. 

You see, Ralph and Arthur were so exactly equal in their skill on thelinks that life for them had for some time past resolved itself into asilent, bitter struggle in which first one, then the other, gained someslight advantage. If Ralph won the May medal by a stroke, Arthur wouldbe one ahead in the June competition, only to be nosed out again inJuly. It was a state of affairs which, had they been men of a moregenerous stamp, would have bred a mutual respect, esteem, and evenlove. But I am sorry to say that, apart from their golf, which was in aclass of its own as far as this neighbourhood was concerned, RalphBingham and Arthur Jukes were a sorry pair--and yet, mark you, far fromlacking in mere superficial good looks. They were handsome fellows, both of them, and well aware of the fact; and when Amanda Trivett cameto stay they simply straightened their ties, twirled their moustaches, and expected her to do the rest. 

But there they were disappointed. Perfectly friendly though she was toboth of them, the lovelight was conspicuously absent from her beautifuleyes. And it was not long before each had come independently to asolution of this mystery. It was plain to them that the whole troublelay in the fact that each neutralized the other's attractions. Arthurfelt that, if he could only have a clear field, all would be overexcept the sending out of the wedding invitations; and Ralph was of theopinion that, if he could just call on the girl one evening withoutfinding the place all littered up with Arthur, his natural charms wouldswiftly bring home the bacon. And, indeed, it was true that they had norivals except themselves. It happened at the moment that Woodhaven wasvery short of eligible bachelors. We marry young in this delightfulspot, and all the likely men were already paired off. It seemed that, if Amanda Trivett intended to get married, she would have to selecteither Ralph Bingham or Arthur Jukes. A dreadful choice. 

 * * * * *

It had not occurred to me at the outset that my position in the affairwould be anything closer than that of a detached and mildly interestedspectator. Yet it was to me that Ralph came in his hour of need. When Ireturned home one evening, I found that my man had brought him in andlaid him on the mat in my sitting-room. 

I offered him a chair and a cigar, and he came to the point withcommendable rapidity. 

"Leigh, " he said, directly he had lighted his cigar, "is too small forArthur Jukes and myself. "

"Ah, you have been talking it over and decided to move?" I said, delighted. "I think you are perfectly right. Leigh _is_ over-built. Men like you and Jukes need a lot of space. Where do you think ofgoing?"

"I'm not going. "

"But I thought you said----"

"What I meant was that the time has come when one of us must leave. "

"Oh, only one of you?" It was something, of course, but I confess I wasdisappointed, and I think my disappointment must have shown in myvoice; for he looked at me, surprised. 

"Surely you wouldn't mind Jukes going?" he said. 

"Why, certainly not. He really is going, is he?"

A look of saturnine determination came into Ralph's face. 

"He is. He thinks he isn't, but he is. "

I failed to understand him, and said so. He looked cautiously about theroom, as if to reassure himself that he could not be overheard. 

"I suppose you've noticed, " he said, "the disgusting way that man Jukeshas been hanging round Miss Trivett, boring her to death?"

"I have seen them together sometimes. "

"I love Amanda Trivett!" said Ralph. 

"Poor girl!" I sighed. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Poor girl!" I said. "I mean, to have Arthur Jukes hanging round her. "

"That's just what I think, " said Ralph Bingham. "And that's why we'regoing to play this match. "

"What match?"

"This match we've decided to play. I want you to act as one of thejudges, to go along with Jukes and see that he doesn't play any of histricks. You know what he is! And in a vital match like this----"

"How much are you playing for?"

"The whole world!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The whole world. It amounts to that. The loser is to leave Leigh forgood, and the winner stays on and marries Amanda Trivett. We havearranged all the details. Rupert Bailey will accompany me, acting asthe other judge. "

"And you want me to go round with Jukes?"

"Not round, " said Ralph Bingham. "Along. "

"What is the distinction?"

"We are not going to play a round. Only one hole. "

"Sudden death, eh?"

"Not so very sudden. It's a longish hole. We start on the first teehere and hole out in the town in the doorway of the Majestic Hotel inRoyal Square. A distance, I imagine, of about sixteen miles. "

I was revolted. About that time a perfect epidemic of freak matches hadbroken out in the club, and I had strongly opposed them from the start. George Willis had begun it by playing a medal round with the pro. , George's first nine against the pro. 's complete eighteen. After thatcame the contest between Herbert Widgeon and Montague Brown, thelatter, a twenty-four handicap man, being entitled to shout "Boo!"three times during the round at moments selected by himself. There hadbeen many more of these degrading travesties on the sacred game, and Ihad writhed to see them. Playing freak golf-matches is to my mind likeragging a great classical melody. But of the whole collection this one, considering the sentimental interest and the magnitude of the stakes, seemed to me the most terrible. My face, I imagine, betrayed mydisgust, for Bingham attempted extenuation. 

"It's the only way, " he said. "You know how Jukes and I are on thelinks. We are as level as two men can be. This, of course is due to hisextraordinary luck. Everybody knows that he is the world's championfluker. I, on the other hand, invariably have the worst luck. Theconsequence is that in an ordinary round it is always a toss-up whichof us wins. The test we propose will eliminate luck. After sixteenmiles of give-and-take play, I am certain--that is to say, the betterman is certain to be ahead. That is what I meant when I said thatArthur Jukes would shortly be leaving Leigh. Well, may I take it thatyou will consent to act as one of the judges?"

I considered. After all, the match was likely to be historic, and onealways feels tempted to hand one's name down to posterity. 

"Very well, " I said. 

"Excellent. You will have to keep a sharp eye on Jukes, I need scarcelyremind you. You will, of course, carry a book of the rules in yourpocket and refer to them when you wish to refresh your memory. We startat daybreak, for, if we put it off till later, the course at the otherend might be somewhat congested when we reached it. We want to avoidpublicity as far as possible. If I took a full iron and hit apoliceman, it would excite a remark. "

"It would. I can tell you the exact remark which it would excite. "

"We will take bicycles with us, to minimize the fatigue of covering thedistance. Well, I am glad that we have your co-operation. At daybreaktomorrow on the first tee, and don't forget to bring your rule-book. "

 * * * * *

The atmosphere brooding over the first tee when I reached it on thefollowing morning, somewhat resembled that of a duelling-ground in thedays when these affairs were sealed with rapiers or pistols. RupertBailey, an old friend of mine, was the only cheerful member of theparty. I am never at my best in the early morning, and the two rivalsglared at each other with silent sneers. I had never supposed till thatmoment that men ever really sneered at one another outside the movies, but these two were indisputably doing so. They were in the mood whenmen say "Pshaw!"

They tossed for the honour, and Arthur Jukes, having won, drove offwith a fine ball that landed well down the course. Ralph Bingham, having teed up, turned to Rupert Bailey. 

"Go down on to the fairway of the seventeenth, " he said. "I want you tomark my ball. "

Rupert stared. 

"The seventeenth!"

"I am going to take that direction, " said Ralph, pointing over thetrees. 

"But that will land your second or third shot in the lake. "

"I have provided for that. I have a fiat-bottomed boat moored close bythe sixteenth green. I shall use a mashie-niblick and chip my ballaboard, row across to the other side, chip it ashore, and carry on. Ipropose to go across country as far as Woodfield. I think it will saveme a stroke or two. "

I gasped. I had never before realized the man's devilish cunning. Histactics gave him a flying start. Arthur, who had driven straight downthe course, had as his objective the high road, which adjoins the wasteground beyond the first green. Once there, he would play the orthodoxgame by driving his ball along till he reached the bridge. While Arthurwas winding along the high road, Ralph would have cut off practicallytwo sides of a triangle. And it was hopeless for Arthur to imitate hisenemy's tactics now. From where his ball lay he would have to cross awide tract of marsh in order to reach the seventeenth fairway--animpossible feat. And, even if it had been feasible, he had no boat totake him across the water. 

He uttered a violent protest. He was an unpleasant young man, almost--it seems absurd to say so, but almost as unpleasant as RalphBingham; yet at the moment I am bound to say I sympathized with him. 

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "You can't play fast and loose withthe rules like that. "

"To what rule do you refer?" said Ralph, coldly. 

"Well, that bally boat of yours is a hazard, isn't it? And you can'trow a hazard about all over the place. "

"Why not?"

The simple question seemed to take Arthur Jukes aback. 

"Why not?" he repeated. "Why not? Well, you can't. That's why. "

"There is nothing in the rules, " said Ralph Bingham, "against moving ahazard. If a hazard can be moved without disturbing the ball, you areat liberty, I gather, to move it wherever you please. Besides, what isall this about moving hazards? I have a perfect right to go for amorning row, haven't I? If I were to ask my doctor, he would probablyactually recommend it. I am going to row my boat across the sound. Ifit happens to have my ball on board, that is not my affair. I shall notdisturb my ball, and I shall play it from where it lies. Am I right insaying that the rules enact that the ball shall be played from where itlies?"

We admitted that it was. 

"Very well, then, " said Ralph Bingham. "Don't let us waste any moretime. We will wait for you at Woodfield. "

He addressed his ball, and drove a beauty over the trees. It flashedout of sight in the direction of the seventeenth tee. Arthur and I madeour way down the hill to play our second. 

 * * * * *

It is a curious trait of the human mind that, however little personalinterest one may have in the result, it is impossible to preventoneself taking sides in any event of a competitive nature. I hadembarked on this affair in a purely neutral spirit, not caring which ofthe two won and only sorry that both could not lose. Yet, as themorning wore on, I found myself almost unconsciously becomingdistinctly pro-Jukes. I did not like the man. I objected to his face, his manners, and the colour of his tie. Yet there was something in thedogged way in which he struggled against adversity which touched me andwon my grudging support. Many men, I felt, having been so outmanoeuvredat the start, would have given up the contest in despair; but ArthurJukes, for all his defects, had the soul of a true golfer. He declinedto give up. In grim silence he hacked his ball through the rough tillhe reached the high road; and then, having played twenty-seven, sethimself resolutely to propel it on its long journey. 

It was a lovely morning, and, as I bicycled along, keeping a fatherlyeye on Arthur's activities, I realized for the first time in my lifethe full meaning of that exquisite phrase of Coleridge:

 _"Clothing the palpable and familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn, "_

for in the pellucid air everything seemed weirdly beautiful, evenArthur Jukes' heather-mixture knickerbockers, of which hitherto I hadnever approved. The sun gleamed on their seat, as he bent to make hisshots, in a cheerful and almost a poetic way. The birds were singinggaily in the hedgerows, and such was my uplifted state that I, too, burst into song, until Arthur petulantly desired me to refrain, on theplea that, though he yielded to no man in his enjoyment of farmyardimitations in their proper place, I put him off his stroke. And so wepassed through Bayside in silence and started to cover that longstretch of road which ends in the railway bridge and the gentle descentinto Woodfield. 

Arthur was not doing badly. He was at least keeping them straight. Andin the circumstances straightness was to be preferred to distance. Soonafter leaving Little Hadley he had become ambitious and had used hisbrassey with disastrous results, slicing his fifty-third into the roughon the right of the road. It had taken him ten with the niblick to getback on to the car tracks, and this had taught him prudence. 

He was now using his putter for every shot, and, except when he gottrapped in the cross-lines at the top of the hill just before reachingBayside, he had been in no serious difficulties. He was playing a niceeasy game, getting the full face of the putter on to each shot. 

At the top of the slope that drops down into Woodfield High Street hepaused. 

"I think I might try my brassey again here, " he said. "I have a nicelie. "

"Is it wise?" I said. 

He looked down the hill. 

"What I was thinking, " he said, "was that with it I might wing that manBingham. I see he is standing right out in the middle of the fairway. "

I followed his gaze. It was perfectly true. Ralph Bingham was leaningon his bicycle in the roadway, smoking a cigarette. Even at thisdistance one could detect the man's disgustingly complacent expression. Rupert Bailey was sitting with his back against the door of theWoodfield Garage, looking rather used up. He was a man who liked tokeep himself clean and tidy, and it was plain that the cross-countrytrip had done him no good. He seemed to be scraping mud off his face. Ilearned later that he had had the misfortune to fall into a ditch justbeyond Bayside. 

"No, " said Arthur. "On second thoughts, the safe game is the one toplay. I'll stick to the putter. "

We dropped down the hill, and presently came up with the opposition. Ihad not been mistaken in thinking that Ralph Bingham looked complacent. The man was smirking. 

"Playing three hundred and ninety-six, " he said, as we drew near. "Howare you?"

I consulted my score-card. 

"We have played a snappy seven hundred and eleven. " I said. 

Ralph exulted openly. Rupert Bailey made no comment. He was too busywith the alluvial deposits on his person. 

"Perhaps you would like to give up the match?" said Ralph to Arthur. 

"Tchah!" said Arthur. 

"Might just as well. "

"Pah!" said Arthur. 

"You can't win now. "

"Pshaw!" said Arthur. 

I am aware that Arthur's dialogue might have been brighter, but he hadbeen through a trying time. 

Rupert Bailey sidled up to me. 

"I'm going home, " he said. 

"Nonsense!" I replied. "You are in an official capacity. You must stickto your post. Besides, what could be nicer than a pleasant morningramble?"

"Pleasant morning ramble my number nine foot!" he replied, peevishly. "I want to get back to civilization and set an excavating party withpickaxes to work on me. "

"You take too gloomy a view of the matter. You are a little dusty. Nothing more. "

"And it's not only the being buried alive that I mind. I cannot stickRalph Bingham much longer. "

"You have found him trying?"

"Trying! Why, after I had fallen into that ditch and was coming up forthe third time, all the man did was simply to call to me to admire aninfernal iron shot he had just made. No sympathy, mind you! Wrapped upin himself. Why don't you make your man give up the match? He can'twin. "

"I refuse to admit it. Much may happen between here and Royal Square. "

I have seldom known a prophecy more swiftly fulfilled. At this momentthe doors of the Woodfield Garage opened and a small car rolled outwith a grimy young man in a sweater at the wheel. He brought themachine out into the road, and alighted and went back into the garage, where we heard him shouting unintelligibly to someone in the rearpremises. The car remained puffing and panting against the kerb. 

Engaged in conversation with Rupert Bailey, I was paying littleattention to this evidence of an awakening world, when suddenly I hearda hoarse, triumphant cry from Arthur Jukes, and, turned, I perceivedhis ball dropping neatly into the car's interior. Arthur himself, brandishing a niblick, was dancing about in the fairway. 

"Now what about your moving hazards?" he cried. 

At this moment the man in the sweater returned, carrying a spanner. Arthur Jukes sprang towards him. 

"I'll give you five pounds to drive me to Royal Square, " he said. 

I do not know what the sweater-clad young man's engagements for themorning had been originally, but nothing could have been more obligingthan the ready way in which he consented to revise them at a moment'snotice. I dare say you have noticed that the sturdy peasantry of ourbeloved land respond to an offer of five pounds as to a bugle-call. 

"You're on, " said the youth. 

"Good!" said Arthur Jukes. 

"You think you're darned clever, " said Ralph Bingham. 

"I know it, " said Arthur. 

"Well, then, " said Ralph, "perhaps you will tell us how you propose toget the ball out of the car when you reach Royal Square?"

"Certainly, " replied Arthur. "You will observe on the side of thevehicle a convenient handle which, when turned, opens the door. Thedoor thus opened, I shall chip my ball out!"

"I see, " said Ralph. "Yes, I never thought of that. "

There was something in the way the man spoke that I did not like. Hismildness seemed to me suspicious. He had the air of a man who hassomething up his sleeve. I was still musing on this when Arthur calledto me impatiently to get in. I did so, and we drove off. Arthur was ingreat spirits. He had ascertained from the young man at the wheel thatthere was no chance of the opposition being able to hire another car atthe garage. This machine was his own property, and the only other oneat present in the shop was suffering from complicated trouble of theoiling-system and would not be able to be moved for at least anotherday. 

I, however, shook my head when he pointed out the advantages of hisposition. I was still wondering about Ralph. 

"I don't like it, " I said. 

"Don't like what?"

"Ralph Bingham's manner. "

"Of course not, " said Arthur. "Nobody does. There have been complaintson all sides. "

"I mean, when you told him how you intended to get the ball out of thecar. "

"What was the matter with him?"

"He was too--ha!"

"How do you mean he was too--ha?"

"I have it!"

"What?"

"I see the trap he was laying for you. It has just dawned on me. Nowonder he didn't object to your opening the door and chipping the ballout. By doing so you would forfeit the match. "

"Nonsense! Why?"

"Because, " I said, "it is against the rules to tamper with a hazard. Ifyou had got into a sand-bunker, would you smooth away the sand? If youhad put your shot under a tree, could your caddie hold up the branchesto give you a clear shot? Obviously you would disqualify yourself ifyou touched that door. "

Arthur's jaw dropped. 

"What! Then how the deuce am I to get it out?"

"That, " I said, gravely, "is a question between you and your Maker. "

It was here that Arthur Jukes forfeited the sympathy which I had begunto feel for him. A crafty, sinister look came into his eyes. 

"Listen!" he said. "It'll take them an hour to catch up with us. Suppose, during that time, that door happened to open accidentally, asit were, and close again? You wouldn't think it necessary to mentionthe fact, eh? You would be a good fellow and keep your mouth shut, yes?You might even see your way to go so far as to back me up in astatement to the effect that I hooked it out with my----?"

I was revolted. 

"I am a golfer, " I said, coldly, "and I obey the rules. "

"Yes, but----"

"Those rules were drawn up by----"--I bared my head reverently--"by theCommittee of the Royal and Ancient at St. Andrews. I have alwaysrespected them, and I shall not deviate on this occasion from thepolicy of a lifetime. "

Arthur Jukes relapsed into a moody silence. He broke it once, crossingthe West Street Bridge, to observe that he would like to know if Icalled myself a friend of his--a question which I was able to answerwith a whole-hearted negative. After that he did not speak till the cardrew up in front of the Majestic Hotel in Royal Square. 

Early as the hour was, a certain bustle and animation already prevailedin that centre of the city, and the spectacle of a man in a golf-coatand plus-four knickerbockers hacking with a niblick at the floor of acar was not long in collecting a crowd of some dimensions. Threemessenger-boys, four typists, and a gentleman in full evening-dress, who obviously possessed or was friendly with someone who possessed alarge cellar, formed the nucleus of it; and they were joined about thetime when Arthur addressed the ball in order to play his nine hundredand fifteenth by six news-boys, eleven charladies, and perhaps a dozenassorted loafers, all speculating with the liveliest interest as towhich particular asylum had had the honour of sheltering Arthur beforehe had contrived to elude the vigilance of his custodians. 

Arthur had prepared for some such contingency. He suspended hisactivities with the niblick, and drew from his pocket a large poster, which he proceeded to hang over the side of the car. It read:

 COME TO McCLURG AND MACDONALD, 18, WEST STREET, FOR ALL GOLFING SUPPLIES. 

His knowledge of psychology had not misled him. Directly they gatheredthat he was advertising something, the crowd declined to look at it;they melted away, and Arthur returned to his work in solitude. 

He was taking a well-earned rest after playing his eleven hundred andfifth, a nice niblick shot with lots of wrist behind it, when out ofBridle Street there trickled a weary-looking golf-ball, followed in theorder named by Ralph Bingham, resolute but going a trifle at the knees, and Rupert Bailey on a bicycle. The latter, on whose face and limbs themud had dried, made an arresting spectacle. 

"What are you playing?" I inquired. 

"Eleven hundred, " said Rupert. "We got into a casual dog. "

"A casual dog?"

"Yes, just before the bridge. We were coming along nicely, when a straydog grabbed our nine hundred and ninety-eighth and took it nearly backto Woodfield, and we had to start all over again. How are you gettingon?"

"We have just played our eleven hundred and fifth. A nice even game. " Ilooked at Ralph's ball, which was lying close to the kerb. "You arefarther from the hole, I think. Your shot, Bingham. "

Rupert Bailey suggested breakfast. He was a man who was altogether toofond of creature comforts. He had not the true golfing spirit. 

"Breakfast!" I exclaimed. 

"Breakfast, " said Rupert, firmly. "If you don't know what it is, I canteach you in half a minute. You play it with a pot of coffee, a knifeand fork, and about a hundred-weight of scrambled eggs. Try it. It's apastime that grows on you. "

I was surprised when Ralph Bingham supported the suggestion. He was sonear holing out that I should have supposed that nothing would havekept him from finishing the match. But he agreed heartily. 

"Breakfast, " he said, "is an excellent idea. You go along in. I'llfollow in a moment. I want to buy a paper. "

We went into the hotel, and a few minutes later he joined us. Now thatwe were actually at the table, I confess that the idea of breakfast wasby no means repugnant to me. The keen air and the exercise had given mean appetite, and it was some little time before I was able to assurethe waiter definitely that he could cease bringing orders of scrambledeggs. The others having finished also, I suggested a move. I wasanxious to get the match over and be free to go home. 

We filed out of the hotel, Arthur Jukes leading. When I had passedthrough the swing-doors, I found him gazing perplexedly up and down thestreet. 

"What is the matter?" I asked. 

"It's gone!"

"What has gone?"

"The car!"

"Oh, the car?" said Ralph Bingham. "That's all right. Didn't I tell youabout that? I bought it just now and engaged the driver as mychauffeur, I've been meaning to buy a car for a long time. A man oughtto have a car. "

"Where is it?" said Arthur, blankly. The man seemed dazed. 

"I couldn't tell you to a mile or two, " replied Ralph. "I told the manto drive to Glasgow. Why? Had you any message for him?"

"But my ball was inside it!"

"Now that, " said Ralph, "is really unfortunate! Do you mean to tell meyou hadn't managed to get it out yet? Yes, that is a little awkward foryou. I'm afraid it means that you lose the match. "

"Lose the match?"

"Certainly. The rules are perfectly definite on that point. A period offive minutes is allowed for each stroke. The player who fails to makehis stroke within that time loses the hole. Unfortunate, but there itis!"

Arthur Jukes sank down on the path and buried his face in his hands. Hehad the appearance of a broken man. Once more, I am bound to say, Ifelt a certain pity for him. He had certainly struggled gamely, and itwas hard to be beaten like this on the post. 

"Playing eleven hundred and one, " said Ralph Bingham, in his odiouslyself-satisfied voice, as he addressed his ball. He laughed jovially. Amessenger-boy had paused close by and was watching the proceedingsgravely. Ralph Bingham patted him on the head. 

"Well, sonny, " he said, "what club would _you_ use here?"

"I claim the match!" cried Arthur Jukes, springing up. Ralph Binghamregarded him coldly. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"I claim the match!" repeated Arthur Jukes. "The rules say that aplayer who asks advice from any person other than his caddie shall losethe hole. "

"This is absurd!" said Ralph, but I noticed that he had turned pale. 

"I appeal to the judges. "

"We sustain the appeal, " I said, after a brief consultation with RupertBailey. "The rule is perfectly clear. "

"But you had lost the match already by not playing within fiveminutes, " said Ralph, vehemently. 

"It was not my turn to play. You were farther from the pin. "

"Well, play now. Go on! Let's see you make your shot. "

"There is no necessity, " said Arthur, frigidly. "Why should I play whenyou have already disqualified yourself?"

"I claim a draw!"

"I deny the claim. "

"I appeal to the judges. "

"Very well. We will leave it to the judges. "

I consulted with Rupert Bailey. It seemed to me that Arthur Jukes wasentitled to the verdict. Rupert, who, though an amiable and delightfulcompanion, had always been one of Nature's fat-heads, could not see it. We had to go back to our principals and announce that we had beenunable to agree. 

"This is ridiculous, " said Ralph Bingham. "We ought to have had a thirdjudge. "

At this moment, who should come out of the hotel but Amanda Trivett! Averitable goddess from the machine. 

"It seems to me, " I said, "that you would both be well advised to leavethe decision to Miss Trivett. You could have no better referee. "

"I'm game, " said Arthur Jukes. 

"Suits _me_, " said Ralph Bingham. 

"Why, whatever are you all doing here with your golf-clubs?" asked thegirl, wonderingly. 

"These two gentlemen, " I explained, "have been playing a match, and apoint has arisen on which the judges do not find themselves inagreement. We need an unbiased outside opinion, and we should like toput it up to you. The facts are as follows:... "

Amanda Trivett listened attentively, but, when I had finished, sheshook her head. 

"I'm afraid I don't know enough about the game to be able to decide aquestion like that, " she said. 

"Then we must consult St. Andrews, " said Rupert Bailey. 

"I'll tell you who might know, " said Amanda Trivett, after a moment'sthought. 

"Who is that?" I asked. 

"My _fiance_. He has just come back from a golfing holiday. That'swhy I'm in town this morning. I've been to meet him. He is very good atgolf. He won a medal at Little-Mudbury-in-the-Wold the day before heleft. "

There was a tense silence. I had the delicacy not to look at Ralph orArthur. Then the silence was broken by a sharp crack. Ralph Bingham hadbroken his mashie-niblick across his knee. From the direction whereArthur Jukes was standing there came a muffled gulp. 

"Shall I ask him?" said Amanda Trivett. 

"Don't bother, " said Ralph Bingham. 

"It doesn't matter, " said Arthur Jukes. 

8

_The Heel of Achilles_

On the young man's face, as he sat sipping his ginger-ale in theclub-house smoking-room, there was a look of disillusionment. "Neveragain!" he said. 

The Oldest Member glanced up from his paper. 

"You are proposing to give up golf once more?" he queried. 

"Not golf. Betting on golf. " The Young Man frowned. "I've just been letdown badly. Wouldn't you have thought I had a good thing, laying sevento one on McTavish against Robinson?"

"Undoubtedly, " said the Sage. "The odds, indeed, generous as they are, scarcely indicate the former's superiority. Do you mean to tell me thatthe thing came unstitched?"

"Robinson won in a walk, after being three down at the turn. 

"Strange! What happened?"

"Why, they looked in at the bar to have a refresher before starting forthe tenth, " said the young man, his voice quivering, "and McTavishsuddenly discovered that there was a hole in his trouser-pocket andsixpence had dropped out. He worried so frightfully about it that onthe second nine he couldn't do a thing right. Went completely off hisgame and didn't win a hole. "

The Sage shook his head gravely. 

"If this is really going to be a lesson to you, my boy, never to bet onthe result of a golf-match, it will be a blessing in disguise. There isno such thing as a certainty in golf. I wonder if I ever told you arather curious episode in the career of Vincent Jopp?"

"_The_ Vincent Jopp? The American multi-millionaire?"

"The same. You never knew he once came within an ace of winning theAmerican Amateur Championship, did you?"

"I never heard of his playing golf. "

"He played for one season. After that he gave it up and has not toucheda club since. Ring the bell and get me a small lime-juice, and I willtell you all. "

 * * * * *

It was long before your time (said the Oldest Member) that the eventswhich I am about to relate took place. I had just come down fromCambridge, and was feeling particularly pleased with myself because Ihad secured the job of private and confidential secretary to VincentJopp, then a man in the early thirties, busy in laying the foundationsof his present remarkable fortune. He engaged me, and took me with himto Chicago. 

Jopp was, I think, the most extraordinary personality I haveencountered in a long and many-sided life. He was admirably equippedfor success in finance, having the steely eye and square jaw withoutwhich it is hopeless for a man to enter that line of business. Hepossessed also an overwhelming confidence in himself, and the abilityto switch a cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other withoutwiggling his ears, which, as you know, is the stamp of the true Monarchof the Money Market. He was the nearest approach to the financier onthe films, the fellow who makes his jaw-muscles jump when he istelephoning, that I have ever seen. 

Like all successful men, he was a man of method. He kept a pad on hisdesk on which he would scribble down his appointments, and it was myduty on entering the office each morning to take this pad and type itscontents neatly in a loose-leaved ledger. Usually, of course, theseentries referred to business appointments and deals which he wascontemplating, but one day I was interested to note, against the dateMay 3rd, the entry:

 "_Propose to Amelia_"

I was interested, as I say, but not surprised. Though a man of steeland iron, there was nothing of the celibate about Vincent Jopp. He wasone of those men who marry early and often. On three separate occasionsbefore I joined his service he had jumped off the dock, to scrambleback to shore again later by means of the Divorce Court lifebelt. Scattered here and there about the country there were three ex-Mrs. Jopps, drawing their monthly envelope, and now, it seemed, hecontemplated the addition of a fourth to the platoon. 

I was not surprised, I say, at this resolve of his. What did seem alittle remarkable to me was the thorough way in which he had thoughtthe thing out. This iron-willed man recked nothing of possibleobstacles. Under the date of June 1st was the entry:

 "_Marry Amelia_";

while in March of the following year he had arranged to have hisfirst-born christened Thomas Reginald. Later on, the short-coating ofThomas Reginald was arranged for, and there was a note about sendinghim to school. Many hard things have been said of Vincent Jopp, butnobody has ever accused him of not being a man who looked ahead. 

On the morning of May 4th Jopp came into the office, looking, Ifancied, a little thoughtful. He sat for some moments staring beforehim with his brow a trifle furrowed; then he seemed to come to himself. He rapped his desk. 

"Hi! You!" he said. It was thus that he habitually addressed me. 

"Mr. Jopp?" I replied. 

"What's golf?"

I had at that time just succeeded in getting my handicap down intosingle figures, and I welcomed the opportunity of dilating on thenoblest of pastimes. But I had barely begun my eulogy when he stoppedme. 

"It's a game, is it?"

"I suppose you could call it that, " I said, "but it is an offhand wayof describing the holiest----"

"How do you play it?"

"Pretty well, " I said. "At the beginning of the season I didn't seemable to keep 'em straight at all, but lately I've been doing fine. Getting better every day. Whether it was that I was moving my head orgripping too tightly with the right hand----"

"Keep the reminiscences for your grandchildren during the long winterevenings, " he interrupted, abruptly, as was his habit. "What I want toknow is what a fellow does when he plays golf. Tell me in as few wordsas you can just what it's all about. "

"You hit a ball with a stick till it falls into a hole. "

"Easy!" he snapped. "Take dictation. "

I produced my pad. 

"May the fifth, take up golf. What's an Amateur Championship?"

"It is the annual competition to decide which is the best player amongthe amateurs. There is also a Professional Championship, and an Openevent. "

"Oh, there are golf professionals, are there? What do they do?"

"They teach golf. "

"Which is the best of them?"

"Sandy McHoots won both British and American Open events last year. "

"Wire him to come here at once. "

"But McHoots is in Inverlochty, in Scotland. "

"Never mind. Get him; tell him to name his own terms. When is theAmateur Championship?"

"I think it is on September the twelfth this year. "

"All right, take dictation. September twelfth win AmateurChampionship. "

I stared at him in amazement, but he was not looking at me. 

"Got that?" he said. "September thir--Oh, I was forgetting! AddSeptember twelfth, corner wheat. September thirteenth, marry Amelia. "

"Marry Amelia, " I echoed, moistening my pencil. 

"Where do you play this--what's-its-name--golf?"

"There are clubs all over the country. I belong to the WissahickyGlen. "

"That a good place?"

"Very good. "

"Arrange today for my becoming a member. "

 * * * * *

Sandy McHoots arrived in due course, and was shown into the privateoffice. 

"Mr. McHoots?" said Vincent Jopp. 

"Mphm!" said the Open Champion. 

"I have sent for you, Mr. McHoots, because I hear that you are thegreatest living exponent of this game of golf. "

"Aye, " said the champion, cordially. "I am that. "

"I wish you to teach me the game. I am already somewhat behind scheduleowing to the delay incident upon your long journey, so let us start atonce. Name a few of the most important points in connection with thegame. My secretary will make notes of them, and I will memorize them. In this way we shall save time. Now, what is the most important thingto remember when playing golf?"

"Keep your heid still. "

"A simple task. "

"Na sae simple as it soonds. "

"Nonsense!" said Vincent Jopp, curtly. "If I decide to keep my headstill, I shall keep it still. What next?"

"Keep yer ee on the ba'. "

"It shall be attended to. And the next?"

"Dinna press. "

"I won't. And to resume. "

Mr. McHoots ran through a dozen of the basic rules, and I took themdown in shorthand. Vincent Jopp studied the list. 

"Very good. Easier than I had supposed. On the first tee at WissahickyGlen at eleven sharp tomorrow, Mr. McHoots. Hi! You!"

"Sir?" I said. 

"Go out and buy me a set of clubs, a red jacket, a cloth cap, a pair ofspiked shoes, and a ball. "

"One ball?"

"Certainly. What need is there of more?"

"It sometimes happens, " I explained, "that a player who is learning thegame falls to hit his ball straight, and then he often loses it in therough at the side of the fairway. "

"Absurd!" said Vincent Jopp. "If I set out to drive my ball straight, Ishall drive it straight. Good morning, Mr. McHoots. You will excuse menow. I am busy cornering Woven Textiles. "

 * * * * *

Golf is in its essence a simple game. You laugh in a sharp, bitter, barking manner when I say this, but nevertheless it is true. Where theaverage man goes wrong is in making the game difficult for himself. Observe the non-player, the man who walks round with you for the sakeof the fresh air. He will hole out with a single care-free flick of hisumbrella the twenty-foot putt over which you would ponder and hesitatefor a full minute before sending it right off the line. Put a driver inhis hands and he pastes the ball into the next county without athought. It is only when he takes to the game in earnest that hebecomes self-conscious and anxious, and tops his shots even as you andI. A man who could retain through his golfing career the almostscornful confidence of the non-player would be unbeatable. Fortunatelysuch an attitude of mind is beyond the scope of human nature. 

It was not, however, beyond the scope of Vincent Jopp, the superman. Vincent Jopp, was, I am inclined to think, the only golfer who everapproached the game in a spirit of Pure Reason. I have read of men who, never having swum in their lives, studied a text-book on their way downto the swimming bath, mastered its contents, and dived in and won thebig race. In just such a spirit did Vincent Jopp start to play golf. Hecommitted McHoots's hints to memory, and then went out on the links andput them into practice. He came to the tee with a clear picture in hismind of what he had to do, and he did it. He was not intimidated, likethe average novice, by the thought that if he pulled in his hands hewould slice, or if he gripped too tightly with the right he would pull. Pulling in the hands was an error, so he did not pull in his hands. Gripping too tightly was a defect, so he did not grip too tightly. Withthat weird concentration which had served him so well in business hedid precisely what he had set out to do--no less and no more. Golf withVincent Jopp was an exact science. 

The annals of the game are studded with the names of those who havemade rapid progress in their first season. Colonel Quill, we read inour Vardon, took up golf at the age of fifty-six, and by devising aningenious machine consisting of a fishing-line and a sawn-down bedpostwas enabled to keep his head so still that he became a scratch playerbefore the end of the year. But no one, I imagine, except Vincent Jopp, has ever achieved scratch on his first morning on the links. 

The main difference, we are told, between the amateur and theprofessional golfer is the fact that the latter is always aiming at thepin, while the former has in his mind a vague picture of gettingsomewhere reasonably near it. Vincent Jopp invariably went for the pin. He tried to hole out from anywhere inside two hundred and twenty yards. The only occasion on which I ever heard him express any chagrin ordisappointment was during the afternoon round on his first day out, when from the tee on the two hundred and eighty yard seventh he laidhis ball within six inches of the hole. 

"A marvellous shot!" I cried, genuinely stirred. 

"Too much to the right, " said Vincent Jopp, frowning. 

He went on from triumph to triumph. He won the monthly medal in May, June, July, August, and September. Towards the end of May he was heardto complain that Wissahicky Glen was not a sporting course. The GreensCommittee sat up night after night trying to adjust his handicap so asto give other members an outside chance against him. The golf expertsof the daily papers wrote columns about his play. And it was prettygenerally considered throughout the country that it would be a pureformality for anyone else to enter against him in the AmateurChampionship--an opinion which was borne out when he got through intothe final without losing a hole. A safe man to have betted on, youwould have said. But mark the sequel. 

 * * * * *

The American Amateur Championship was held that year in Detroit. I hadaccompanied my employer there; for, though engaged on thisnerve-wearing contest, he refused to allow his business to beinterfered with. As he had indicated in his schedule, he was busy atthe time cornering wheat; and it was my task to combine the duties ofcaddy and secretary. Each day I accompanied him round the links with mynote-book and his bag of clubs, and the progress of his various matcheswas somewhat complicated by the arrival of a stream of telegraph-boysbearing important messages. He would read these between the strokes anddictate replies to me, never, however, taking more than the fiveminutes allowed by the rules for an interval between strokes. I aminclined to think that it was this that put the finishing touch on hisopponents' discomfiture. It is not soothing for a nervous man to havethe game hung up on the green while his adversary dictates to his caddya letter beginning "Yours of the 11th inst. Received and contentsnoted. In reply would state----" This sort of thing puts a man off hisgame. 

I was resting in the lobby of our hotel after a strenuous day's work, when I found that I was being paged. I answered the summons, and wasinformed that a lady wished to see me. Her card bore the name "MissAmelia Merridew. " Amelia! The name seemed familiar. Then I remembered. Amelia was the name of the girl Vincent Jopp intended to marry, thefourth of the long line of Mrs. Jopps. I hurried to present myself, andfound a tall, slim girl, who was plainly labouring under a considerableagitation. 

"Miss Merridew?" I said. 

"Yes, " she murmured. "My name will be strange to you. "

"Am I right, " I queried, "in supposing that you are the lady to whomMr. Jopp----"

"I am! I am!" she replied. "And, oh, what shall I do?"

"Kindly give me particulars, " I said, taking out my pad from force ofhabit. 

She hesitated a moment, as if afraid to speak. 

"You are caddying for Mr. Jopp in the Final tomorrow?" she said atlast. 

"I am. "

"Then could you--would you mind--would it be giving you too muchtrouble if I asked you to shout 'Boo!' at him when he is making hisstroke, if he looks like winning?"

I was perplexed. 

"I don't understand. "

"I see that I must tell you all. I am sure you will treat what I say asabsolutely confidential. "

"Certainly. "

"I am provisionally engaged to Mr. Jopp. "

"Provisionally?"

She gulped. 

"Let me tell you my story. Mr. Jopp asked me to marry him, and I wouldrather do anything on earth than marry him. But how could I say 'No!'with those awful eyes of his boring me through? I knew that if I said'No', he would argue me out of it in two minutes. I had an idea. Igathered that he had never played golf, so I told him that I wouldmarry him if he won the Amateur Championship this year. And now I findthat he has been a golfer all along, and, what is more, a plus man! Itisn't fair!"

"He was not a golfer when you made that condition, " I said. "He took upthe game on the following day. "

"Impossible! How could he have become as good as he is in this shorttime?"

"Because he is Vincent Jopp! In his lexicon there is no such word asimpossible. "

She shuddered. 

"What a man! But I can't marry him, " she cried. "I want to marrysomebody else. Oh, won't you help me? Do shout 'Boo!' at him when he isstarting his down-swing!"

I shook my head. 

"It would take more than a single 'boo' to put Vincent Jopp off hisstroke. "

"But won't you try it?"

"I cannot. My duty is to my employer. "

"Oh, do!"

"No, no. Duty is duty, and paramount with me. Besides, I have a bet onhim to win. "

The stricken girl uttered a faint moan, and tottered away. 

 * * * * *

I was in our suite shortly after dinner that night, going over some ofthe notes I had made that day, when the telephone rang. Jopp was out atthe time, taking a short stroll with his after-dinner cigar. I unhookedthe receiver, and a female voice spoke. 

"Is that Mr. Jopp?"

"Mr. Jopp's secretary speaking. Mr. Jopp is out. "

"Oh, it's nothing important. Will you say that Mrs. Luella MainpriceJopp called up to wish him luck? I shall be on the course tomorrow tosee him win the final. "

I returned to my notes. Soon afterwards the telephone rang again. 

"Vincent, dear?"

"Mr. Jopp's secretary speaking. "

"Oh, will you say that Mrs. Jane Jukes Jopp called up to wish him luck?I shall be there tomorrow to see him play. "

I resumed my work. I had hardly started when the telephone rang for thethird time. 

"Mr. Jopp?"

"Mr. Jopp's secretary speaking. "

"This is Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp. I just called up to wish him luck. Ishall be looking on tomorrow. "

I shifted my work nearer to the telephone-table so as to be ready forthe next call. I had heard that Vincent Jopp had only been marriedthree times, but you never knew. 

Presently Jopp came in. 

"Anybody called up?" he asked. 

"Nobody on business. An assortment of your wives were on the wirewishing you luck. They asked me to say that they will be on the coursetomorrow. "

For a moment it seemed to me that the man's iron repose was shaken. 

"Luella?" he asked. 

"She was the first. "

"Jane?"

"And Jane. "

"And Agnes?"

"Agnes, " I said, "is right. "

"H'm!" said Vincent Jopp. And for the first time since I had known himI thought that he was ill at ease. 

 * * * * *

The day of the final dawned bright and clear. At least, I was not awakeat the time to see, but I suppose it did; for at nine o'clock, when Icame down to breakfast, the sun was shining brightly. The firsteighteen holes were to be played before lunch, starting at eleven. Until twenty minutes before the hour Vincent Jopp kept me busy takingdictation, partly on matters connected with his wheat deal and partlyon a signed article dealing with the Final, entitled "How I Won. " Ateleven sharp we were out on the first tee. 

Jopp's opponent was a nice-looking young man, but obviously nervous. Hegiggled in a distraught sort of way as he shook hands with my employer. 

"Well, may the best man win, " he said. 

"I have arranged to do so, " replied Jopp, curtly, and started toaddress his ball. 

There was a large crowd at the tee, and, as Jopp started hisdown-swing, from somewhere on the outskirts of this crowd there camesuddenly a musical "Boo!" It rang out in the clear morning air like abugle. 

I had been right in my estimate of Vincent Jopp. His forceful strokenever wavered. The head of his club struck the ball, despatching it agood two hundred yards down the middle of the fairway. As we left thetee I saw Amelia Merridew being led away with bowed head by two membersof the Greens Committee. Poor girl! My heart bled for her. And yet, after all, Fate had been kind in removing her from the scene, even incustody, for she could hardly have borne to watch the proceedings. Vincent Jopp made rings round his antagonist. Hole after hole he won inhis remorseless, machine-like way, until when lunch-time came at theend of the eighteenth he was ten up. All the other holes had beenhalved. 

It was after lunch, as we made our way to the first tee, that theadvance-guard of the Mrs. Jopps appeared in the person of LuellaMainprice Jopp, a kittenish little woman with blond hair and aPekingese dog. I remembered reading in the papers that she had divorcedmy employer for persistent and aggravated mental cruelty, callingwitnesses to bear out her statement that he had said he did not likeher in pink, and that on two separate occasions had insisted on her dogeating the leg of a chicken instead of the breast; but Time, the greathealer, seemed to have removed all bitterness, and she greeted himaffectionately. 

"Wassums going to win great big championship against nasty rough strongman?" she said. 

"Such, " said Vincent Jopp, "is my intention. It was kind of you, Luella, to trouble to come and watch me. I wonder if you know Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp?" he said, courteously, indicating a kind-looking, motherly woman who had just come up. "How are you, Agnes?"

"If you had asked me that question this morning, Vincent, " replied Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp, "I should have been obliged to say that I felt farfrom well. I had an odd throbbing feeling in the left elbow, and I amsure my temperature was above the normal. But this afternoon I am alittle better. How are you, Vincent?"

Although she had, as I recalled from the reports of the case, beencompelled some years earlier to request the Court to sever her maritalrelations with Vincent Jopp on the ground of calculated and inhumanbrutality, in that he had callously refused, in spite of her pleadings, to take old Dr. Bennett's Tonic Swamp-Juice three times a day, hervoice, as she spoke, was kind and even anxious. Badly as this man hadtreated her--and I remember hearing that several of the jury had beenunable to restrain their tears when she was in the witness-box givingher evidence--there still seemed to linger some remnants of the oldaffection. 

"I am quite well, thank you, Agnes, " said Vincent Jopp. 

"Are you wearing your liver-pad?"

A frown flitted across my employer's strong face. 

"I am not wearing my liver-pad, " he replied, brusquely. 

"Oh, Vincent, how rash of you!"

He was about to speak, when a sudden exclamation from his rear checkedhim. A genial-looking woman in a sports coat was standing there, eyeinghim with a sort of humorous horror. 

"Well, Jane, " he said. 

I gathered that this was Mrs. Jane Jukes Jopp, the wife who haddivorced him for systematic and ingrowing fiendishness on the groundthat he had repeatedly outraged her feelings by wearing a whitewaistcoat with a dinner-jacket. She continued to look at him dumbly, and then uttered a sort of strangled, hysterical laugh. 

"Those legs!" she cried. "Those legs!"

Vincent Jopp flushed darkly. Even the strongest and most silent of ushave our weaknesses, and my employer's was the rooted idea that helooked well in knickerbockers. It was not my place to try to dissuadehim, but there was no doubt that they did not suit him. Nature, inbestowing upon him a massive head and a jutting chin, had forgotten tofinish him off at the other end. Vincent Jopp's legs were skinny. 

"You poor dear man!" went on Mrs. Jane Jukes Jopp. "What practicaljoker ever lured you into appearing in public in knickerbockers?"

"I don't object to the knickerbockers, " said Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp, "but when he foolishly comes out in quite a strong east wind withouthis liver-pad----"

"Little Tinky-Ting don't need no liver-pad, he don't, " said Mrs. LuellaMainprice Jopp, addressing the animal in her arms, "because he was hismuzzer's pet, he was. "

I was standing quite near to Vincent Jopp, and at this moment I saw abead of perspiration spring out on his forehead, and into his steelyeyes there came a positively hunted look. I could understand andsympathize. Napoleon himself would have wilted if he had found himselfin the midst of a trio of females, one talking baby-talk, anotherfussing about his health, and the third making derogatory observationson his lower limbs. Vincent Jopp was becoming unstrung. 

"May as well be starting, shall we?"

It was Jopp's opponent who spoke. There was a strange, set look on hisface--the look of a man whose back is against the wall. Ten down on themorning's round, he had drawn on his reserves of courage and wasdetermined to meet the inevitable bravely. 

Vincent Jopp nodded absently, then turned to me. 

"Keep those women away from me, " he whispered tensely. "They'll put meoff my stroke!"

"Put _you_ off your stroke!" I exclaimed, incredulously. 

"Yes, me! How the deuce can I concentrate, with people babbling aboutliver-pads, and--and knickerbockers all round me? Keep them away!"

He started to address his ball, and there was a weak uncertainty in theway he did it that prepared me for what was to come. His club rose, wavered, fell; and the ball, badly topped, trickled two feet and sankinto a cuppy lie. 

"Is that good or bad?" inquired Mrs. Luella Mainprice Jopp. 

A sort of desperate hope gleamed in the eye of the other competitor inthe final. He swung with renewed vigour. His ball sang through the air, and lay within chip-shot distance of the green. 

"At the very least, " said Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp, "I hope, Vincent, that you are wearing flannel next your skin. "

I heard Jopp give a stifled groan as he took his spoon from the bag. Hemade a gallant effort to retrieve the lost ground, but the ball strucka stone and bounded away into the long grass to the side of the green. His opponent won the hole. 

We moved to the second tee. 

"Now, that young man, " said Mrs. Jane Jukes Jopp, indicating her latehusband's blushing antagonist, "is quite right to wear knickerbockers. He can carry them off. But a glance in the mirror must have shown youthat you----"

"I'm sure you're feverish, Vincent, " said Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp, solicitously. "You are quite flushed. There is a wild gleam in youreyes. "

"Muzzer's pet got little buttons of eyes, that don't never have no wildgleam in zem because he's muzzer's own darling, he was!" said Mrs. Luella Mainprice Jopp. 

A hollow groan escaped Vincent Jopp's ashen lips. 

I need not recount the play hole by hole, I think. There are somesubjects that are too painful. It was pitiful to watch Vincent Jopp inhis downfall. By the end of the first nine his lead had been reduced toone, and his antagonist, rendered a new man by success, was playingmagnificent golf. On the next hole he drew level. Then with asuperhuman effort Jopp contrived to halve the eleventh, twelfth, andthirteenth. It seemed as though his iron will might still assertitself, but on the fourteenth the end came. 

He had driven a superb ball, outdistancing his opponent by a full fiftyyards. The latter played a good second to within a few feet of thegreen. And then, as Vincent Jopp was shaping for his stroke, LuellaMainprice gave tongue. 

"Vincent!"

"Well?"

"Vincent, that other man--bad man--not playing fair. When your back wasturned just now, he gave his ball a great bang. _I_ was watchinghim. "

"At any rate, " said Mrs. Agnes Parsons Jopp, "I do hope, when the gameis over, Vincent, that you will remember to cool slowly. "

"Flesho!" cried Mrs. Jane Jukes Jopp triumphantly. "I've been trying toremember the name all the afternoon. I saw about it in one of thepapers. The advertisements speak most highly of it. You take it beforebreakfast and again before retiring, and they guarantee it to producefirm, healthy flesh on the most sparsely-covered limbs in next to notime. Now, _will_ you remember to get a bottle tonight? It comesin two sizes, the five-shilling (or large size) and the smaller athalf-a-crown. G. K. Chesterton writes that he used it regularly foryears. "

Vincent Jopp uttered a quavering moan, and his hand, as he took themashie from his bag, was trembling like an aspen. 

Ten minutes later, he was on his way back to the club-house, a beatenman. 

 * * * * *

And so (concluded the Oldest Member) you see that in golf there is nosuch thing as a soft snap. You can never be certain of the finestplayer. Anything may happen to the greatest expert at any stage of thegame. In a recent competition George Duncan took eleven shots over ahole which eighteen-handicap men generally do in five. No! Back horsesor go down to Throgmorton Street and try to take it away from theRothschilds, and I will applaud you as a shrewd and cautious financier. But to bet at golf is pure gambling. 

9

_The Rough Stuff_

Into the basking warmth of the day there had crept, with the approachof evening, that heartening crispness which heralds the advent ofautumn. Already, in the valley by the ninth tee, some of the trees hadbegun to try on strange colours, in tentative experiment against thecoming of nature's annual fancy dress ball, when the soberest treecasts off its workaday suit of green and plunges into a riot of redsand yellows. On the terrace in front of the club-house an occasionalwithered leaf fluttered down on the table where the Oldest Member sat, sipping a thoughtful seltzer and lemon and listening with courteousgravity to a young man in a sweater and golf breeches who occupied theneighbouring chair. 

"She is a dear girl, " said the young man a little moodily, "a dear girlin every respect. But somehow--I don't know--when I see her playinggolf I can't help thinking that woman's place is in the home. "

The Oldest Member inclined his frosted head. 

"You think, " he said, "that lovely woman loses in queenly dignity whenshe fails to slam the ball squarely on the meat?"

"I don't mind her missing the pill, " said the young man. "But I thinkher attitude toward the game is too light-hearted. "

"Perhaps it cloaks a deeper feeling. One of the noblest women I everknew used to laugh merrily when she foozled a short putt. It was onlylater, when I learned that in the privacy of her home she would weepbitterly and bite holes in the sofa cushions, that I realized that shedid but wear the mask. Continue to encourage your _fiancee_ toplay the game, my boy. Much happiness will reward you. I could tell youa story----"

A young woman of singular beauty and rather statuesque appearance cameout of the club-house carrying a baby swaddled in flannel. As she drewnear the table she said to the baby:

"Chicketty wicketty wicketty wipsey pop!"

In other respects her intelligence appeared to be above the ordinary. 

"Isn't he a darling!" she said, addressing the Oldest Member. 

The Sage cast a meditative eye upon the infant. Except to the eye oflove, it looked like a skinned poached egg. 

"Unquestionably so, " he replied. 

"Don't you think he looks more like his father every day?"

For a brief instant the Oldest Member seemed to hesitate. 

"Assuredly!" he said. "Is your husband out on the links today?"

"Not today. He had to see Wilberforce off on the train to Scotland. "

"Your brother is going to Scotland?"

"Yes. Ramsden has such a high opinion of the schools up there. I didsay that Scotland was a long way off, and he said yes, that hadoccurred to him, but that we must make sacrifices for Willie's good. Hewas very brave and cheerful about it. Well, I mustn't stay. There'squite a nip in the air, and Rammikins will get a nasty cold in hisprecious little button of a nose if I don't walk him about. Say'Bye-bye' to the gentleman, Rammy!"

The Oldest Member watched her go thoughtfully. 

"There is a nip in the air, " he said, "and, unlike our lateacquaintance in the flannel, I am not in my first youth. Come with me, I want to show you something. "

He led the way into the club-house, and paused before the wall of thesmoking-room. This was decorated from top to bottom with boldcaricatures of members of the club. 

"These, " he said, "are the work of a young newspaper artist who belongshere. A clever fellow. He has caught the expressions of these menwonderfully. His only failure, indeed, is that picture of myself. " Heregarded it with distaste, and a touch of asperity crept into hismanner. "I don't know why the committee lets it stay there, " he said, irritably. "It isn't a bit like. " He recovered himself. "But all theothers are excellent, excellent, though I believe many of the subjectsare under the erroneous impression that they bear no resemblance to theoriginals. Here is the picture I wished to show you. That is RamsdenWaters, the husband of the lady who has just left us. "

The portrait which he indicated was that of a man in the earlythirties. Pale saffron hair surmounted a receding forehead. Pale blueeyes looked out over a mouth which wore a pale, weak smile, from thecentre of which protruded two teeth of a rabbit-like character. 

"Golly! What a map!" exclaimed the young man at his side. 

"Precisely!" said the Oldest Member. "You now understand my momentaryhesitation in agreeing with Mrs. Waters that the baby was like itsfather. I was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one hand, politenessdemanded that I confirm any statement made by a lady. Common humanity, on the other hand, made it repugnant to me to knock an innocent child. Yes, that is Ramsden Waters. Sit down and take the weight off yourfeet, and I will tell you about him. The story illustrates a favouritetheory of mine, that it is an excellent thing that women should beencouraged to take up golf. There are, I admit, certain drawbacksattendant on their presence on the links. I shall not readily forgetthe occasion on which a low, raking drive of mine at the eleventhstruck the ladies' tee box squarely and came back and stunned mycaddie, causing me to lose stroke and distance. Nevertheless, I holdthat the advantages outnumber the drawbacks. Golf humanizes women, humbles their haughty natures, tends, in short, to knock out of theirsystems a certain modicum of that superciliousness, that swank, whichmakes wooing a tough proposition for the diffident male. You may havefound this yourself?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, " admitted the young man, "now I come tothink of it I have noticed that Genevieve has shown me a bit morerespect since she took up the game. When I drive 230 yards after shehad taken six sloshes to cover fifty, I sometimes think that a newlight comes into her eyes. "

"Exactly, " said the Sage. 

 * * * * *

From earliest youth (said the Oldest Member) Ramsden Waters had alwaysbeen of a shrinking nature. He seemed permanently scared. Possibly hisnurse had frightened him with tales of horror in his babyhood. If so, she must have been the Edgar Allan Poe of her sex, for, by the time hereached men's estate, Ramsden Waters had about as much ferocity andself-assertion as a blanc mange. Even with other men he was noticeablytimid, and with women he comported himself in a manner that rousedtheir immediate scorn and antagonism. He was one of those men who fallover their feet and start apologizing for themselves the moment theysee a woman. His idea of conversing with a girl was to perspire and tiehimself into knots, making the while a strange gurgling sound like thelanguage of some primitive tribe. If ever a remark of any coherenceemerged from his tangled vocal cords it dealt with the weather, and heimmediately apologized and qualified it. To such a man women aremerciless, and it speedily became an article of faith with the femininepopulation of this locality that Ramsden Waters was an unfortunateincident and did not belong. Finally, after struggling for a time tokeep up a connection in social circles, he gave it up and became a sortof hermit. 

I think that caricature I just showed you weighed rather heavily on thepoor fellow. Just as he was nerving himself to make another attempt toenter society, he would catch sight of it and say to himself, "Whathope is there for a man with a face like that?" These caricaturists aretoo ready to wound people simply in order to raise a laugh. PersonallyI am broad-minded enough to smile at that portrait of myself. It hasgiven me great enjoyment, though why the committee permits it to--Butthen, of course, it isn't a bit like, whereas that of Ramsden Watersnot only gave the man's exact appearance, very little exaggerated, butlaid bare his very soul. That portrait is the portrait of a chump, andsuch Ramsden Waters undeniably was. 

By the end of the first year in the neighbourhood, Ramsden, as I say, had become practically a hermit. He lived all by himself in a housenear the fifteenth green, seeing nobody, going nowhere. His only solacewas golf. His late father had given him an excellent education, and, even as early as his seventeenth year, I believe, he was going rounddifficult courses in par. Yet even this admirable gift, which mighthave done him social service, was rendered negligible by the fact thathe was too shy and shrinking to play often with other men. As a rule, he confined himself to golfing by himself in the mornings and lateevenings when the links were more or less deserted. Yes, in histwenty-ninth year, Ramsden Waters had sunk to the depth of becoming asecret golfer. 

One lovely morning in summer, a scented morning of green and blue andgold, when the birds sang in the trees and the air had that limpidclearness which makes the first hole look about 100 yards long insteadof 345, Ramsden Waters, alone as ever, stood on the first teeaddressing his ball. For a space he waggled masterfully, then, drawinghis club back with a crisp swish, brought it down. And, as he did so, avoice behind him cried:

"Bing!"

Ramsden's driver wabbled at the last moment. The ball flopped weaklyamong the trees on the right of the course. Ramsden turned to perceive, standing close beside him, a small fat boy in a sailor suit. There wasa pause. 

"Rotten!" said the boy austerely. 

Ramsden gulped. And then suddenly he saw that the boy was not alone. About a medium approach-putt distance, moving gracefully and languidlytowards him, was a girl of such pronounced beauty that Ramsden Waters'sheart looped the loop twice in rapid succession. It was the first timethat he had seen Eunice Bray, and, like most men who saw her for thefirst time, he experienced the sensations of one in an express lift atthe tenth floor going down who has left the majority of his internalorgans up on the twenty-second. He felt a dazed emptiness. The worldswam before his eyes. 

You yourself saw Eunice just now: and, though you are in a senseimmune, being engaged to a charming girl of your own, I noticed thatyou unconsciously braced yourself up and tried to look twice ashandsome as nature ever intended you to. You smirked and, if you had amoustache, you would have twiddled it. You can imagine, then, theeffect which this vision of loveliness had on lonely, diffident RamsdenWaters. It got right in amongst him. 

"I'm afraid my little brother spoiled your stroke, " said Eunice. Shedid not speak at all apologetically, but rather as a goddess might havespoken to a swineherd. 

Ramsden yammered noiselessly. As always in the presence of the oppositesex, and more than ever now, his vocal cords appeared to have tiedthemselves in a knot which would have baffled a sailor and might haveperplexed Houdini. He could not even gargle. 

"He is very fond of watching golf, " said the girl. 

She took the boy by the hand, and was about to lead him off, whenRamsden miraculously recovered speech. 

"Would he like to come round with me?" he croaked. How he had managedto acquire the nerve to make the suggestion he could never understand. I suppose that in certain supreme moments a sort of desperaterecklessness descends on nervous men. 

"How very kind of you!" said the girl indifferently. "But I'm afraid----"

"I want to go!" shrilled the boy. "I want to go!"

Fond as Eunice Bray was of her little brother, I imagine that theprospect of having him taken off her hands on a fine summer morning, when all nature urged her to sit in the shade on the terrace and read abook, was not unwelcome. 

"It would be very kind of you if you would let him, " said Eunice. "Hewasn't able to go to the circus last week, and it was a greatdisappointment; this will do instead. "

She turned toward the terrace, and Ramsden, his head buzzing, totteredinto the jungle to find his ball, followed by the boy. 

I have never been able to extract full particulars of that morning'sround from Ramsden. If you speak of it to him, he will wince and changethe subject. Yet he seems to have had the presence of mind to pumpWilberforce as to the details of his home life, and by the end of theround he had learned that Eunice and her brother had just come to visitan aunt who lived in the neighbourhood. Their house was not far fromthe links; Eunice was not engaged to be married; and the aunt made ahobby of collecting dry seaweed, which she pressed and pasted in analbum. One sometimes thinks that aunts live entirely for pleasure. 

At the end of the round Ramsden staggered on to the terrace, trippingover his feet, and handed Wilberforce back in good condition. Eunice, who had just reached the chapter where the hero decides to give up allfor love, thanked him perfunctorily without looking up from her book;and so ended the first spasm of Ramsden Waters's life romance. 

 * * * * *

There are few things more tragic than the desire of the moth for thestar; and it is a curious fact that the spectacle of a star almostinvariably fills the most sensible moth with thoughts above hisstation. No doubt, if Ramsden Waters had stuck around and waited longenough there might have come his way in the fullness of time some nice, homely girl with a squint and a good disposition who would have beenabout his form. In his modest day dreams he had aspired to nothinghigher. But the sight of Eunice Bray seemed to have knocked all thesense out of the man. He must have known that he stood no chance ofbecoming anything to her other than a handy means of getting rid oflittle Wilberforce now and again. Why, the very instant that Euniceappeared in the place, every eligible bachelor for miles around hertossed his head with a loud, snorting sound, and galloped madly in herdirection. Dashing young devils they were, handsome, well-knit fellowswith the figures of Greek gods and the faces of movie heroes. Any oneof them could have named his own price from the advertisers of collars. They were the sort of young men you see standing grandly beside thefull-page picture of the seven-seater Magnifico car in the magazines. And it was against this field that Ramsden Waters, the man with theunshuffled face, dared to pit his feeble personality. One weeps. 

Something of the magnitude of the task he had undertaken must have comehome to Ramsden at a very early point in the proceedings. At Eunice'shome, at the hour when women receive callers, he was from the start amere unconsidered unit in the mob scene. While his rivals clusteredthickly about the girl, he was invariably somewhere on the outskirtslistening limply to the aunt. I imagine that seldom has any young manhad such golden opportunities of learning all about dried seaweed. Indeed, by the end of the month Ramsden Waters could not have knownmore about seaweed if he had been a deep sea fish. And yet he was nothappy. He was in a position, if he had been at a dinner party andthings had got a bit slow, to have held the table spellbound with thefirst hand information about dried seaweed, straight from the stable;yet nevertheless he chafed. His soul writhed and sickened within him. He lost weight and went right off his approach shots. I confess that myheart bled for the man. 

His only consolation was that nobody else, not even the fellows whoworked their way right through the jam and got seats in the front rowwhere they could glare into her eyes and hang on her lips and all thatsort of thing, seemed to be making any better progress. 

And so matters went on till one day Eunice decided to take up golf. Hermotive for doing this was, I believe, simply because Kitty Manders, whohad won a small silver cup at a monthly handicap, receiving thirty-six, was always dragging the conversation round to this trophy, and if therewas one firm article in Eunice Bray's simple creed it was that shewould be hanged if she let Kitty, who was by way of being a rival on asmall scale, put anything over on her. I do not defend Eunice, butwomen are women, and I doubt if any of them really take up golf in thatholy, quest-of-the-grail spirit which animates men. I have known girlsto become golfers as an excuse for wearing pink jumpers, and one atleast who did it because she had read in the beauty hints in theevening paper that it made you lissome. Girls will be girls. 

Her first lessons Eunice received from the professional, but after thatshe saved money by distributing herself among her hordes of admirers, who were only too willing to give up good matches to devote themselvesto her tuition. By degrees she acquired a fair skill and a confidencein her game which was not altogether borne out by results. From RamsdenWaters she did not demand a lesson. For one thing it never occurred toher that so poor-spirited a man could be of any use at the game, andfor another Ramsden was always busy tooling round with littleWilberforce. 

Yet it was with Ramsden that she was paired in the first competitionfor which she entered, the annual mixed foursomes. And it was on thesame evening that the list of the draw went up on the notice board thatRamsden proposed. 

The mind of a man in love works in strange ways. To you and to me therewould seem to be no reason why the fact that Eunice's name and his ownhad been drawn out of a hat together should so impress Ramsden, but helooked on it as an act of God. It seemed to him to draw them closetogether, to set up a sort of spiritual affinity. In a word, it actedon the poor fellow like a tonic, and that very night he went around toher house, and having, after a long and extremely interestingconversation with her aunt, contrived to get her alone, coughed eleventimes in a strangled sort of way, and suggested that the wedding bellsshould ring out. 

Eunice was more startled than angry. 

"Of course, I'm tremendously complimented, Mr. ----" She had to pause torecall the name. "Mr. ----"

"Waters, " said Ramsden, humbly. 

"Of course, yes. Mr. Waters. As I say, it's a great compliment----"

"Not at all!"

"A great compliment----"

"No, no!" murmured Ramsden obsequiously. 

"I wish you wouldn't interrupt!" snapped Eunice with irritation. Nogirl likes to have to keep going back and trying over her speeches. "It's a great compliment, but it is quite impossible. "

"Just as you say, of course, " agreed Ramsden. 

"What, " demanded Eunice, "have you to offer me? I don't mean money. Imean something more spiritual. What is there in you, Mr. Walter----"

"Waters. "

"Mr. Waters. What is there in you that would repay a girl for giving upthe priceless boon of freedom?"

"I know a lot about dried seaweed, " suggested Ramsden hopefully. 

Eunice shook her head. 

"No, " she said, "it is quite impossible. You have paid me the greatestcompliment a man can pay a woman, Mr. Waterson----"

"Waters, " said Ramsden. "I'll write it down for you. "

"Please don't trouble. I am afraid we shall never meet again----"

"But we are partners in the mixed foursomes tomorrow. "

"Oh, yes, so we are!" said Eunice. "Well, mind you play up. I want towin a cup more than anything on earth. "

"Ah!" said Ramsden, "if only I could win what I want to win more thananything else on earth! You, I mean, " he added, to make his meaningclear. "If I could win you----" His tongue tied itself in a bow knotround his uvula, and he could say no more. He moved slowly to the door, paused with his fingers on the handle for one last look over hisshoulder, and walked silently into the cupboard where Eunice's auntkept her collection of dried seaweed. 

His second start was favoured with greater luck, and he found himselfout in the hall, and presently in the cool air of the night, with thestars shining down on him. Had those silent stars ever shone down on amore broken-hearted man? Had the cool air of the night ever fanned amore fevered brow? Ah, yes! Or, rather, ah no!

There was not a very large entry for the mixed foursomes competition. In my experience there seldom is. Men are as a rule idealists, and wishto keep their illusions regarding women intact, and it is difficult forthe most broad-minded man to preserve a chivalrous veneration for thesex after a woman has repeatedly sliced into the rough and left him adifficult recovery. Women, too--I am not speaking of the occasionalchampions, but of the average woman, the one with the handicap of 33, who plays in high-heeled shoes--are apt to giggle when they foozle outof a perfect lie, and this makes for misogyny. Only eight couplesassembled on the tenth tee (where our foursomes matches start) on themorning after Ramsden Waters had proposed to Eunice. Six of these werenegligible, consisting of males of average skill and young women whoplayed golf because it kept them out in the fresh air. Looking over thefield, Ramsden felt that the only serious rivalry was to be feared fromMarcella Bingley and her colleague, a 16-handicap youth named GeorgePerkins, with whom they were paired for the opening round. George was apretty indifferent performer, but Marcella, a weather-beaten femalewith bobbed hair and the wrists of a welterweight pugilist, had onceappeared in the women's open championship and swung a nasty iron. 

Ramsden watched her drive a nice, clean shot down the middle of thefairway, and spoke earnestly to Eunice. His heart was in thiscompetition, for, though the first prize in the mixed foursomes doesnot perhaps entitle the winners to a place in the hall of fame, Ramsdenhad the soul of the true golfer. And the true golfer wants to winwhenever he starts, whether he is playing in a friendly round or in theopen championship. 

"What we've got to do is to play steadily, " he said. "Don't try anyfancy shots. Go for safety. Miss Bingley is a tough proposition, butGeorge Perkins is sure to foozle a few, and if we play safe we've got'em cold. The others don't count. "

You notice something odd about this speech. Something in it strikes youas curious. Precisely. It affected Eunice Bray in the same fashion. Inthe first place, it contains forty-four words, some of them of twosyllables, others of even greater length. In the second place, it wasspoken crisply, almost commandingly, without any of that hesitation andstammering which usually characterized Ramsden Waters's utterances. Eunice was puzzled. She was also faintly resentful. True, there was nota word in what he had said that was calculated to bring the blush ofshame to the cheek of modesty; nevertheless, she felt vaguely thatRamsden Waters had exceeded the limits. She had been prepared for agurgling Ramsden Waters, a Ramsden Waters who fell over his large feetand perspired; but here was a Ramsden Waters who addressed her notmerely as an equal, but with more than a touch of superiority. She eyedhim coldly, but he had turned to speak to little Wilberforce, who wasto accompany them on the round. 

"And you, my lad, " said Ramsden curtly, "you kindly remember that thisis a competition, and keep your merry flow of conversation as much aspossible to yourself. You've got a bad habit of breaking into smalltalk when a man's addressing the ball. "

"If you think that my brother will be in the way----" began Eunicecoldly. 

"Oh, I don't mind him coming round, " said Ramsden, "if he keeps quiet. "

Eunice gasped. She had not played enough golf to understand how thatnoblest of games changes a man's whole nature when on the links. Shewas thinking of something crushing to say to him, when he advanced tothe tee to drive off. 

He drove a perfect ball, hard and low with a lot of roll. Even Eunicewas impressed. 

"Good shot, partner!" she said. 

Ramsden was apparently unaware that she had spoken. He was gazing downthe fairway with his club over his left shoulder in an attitude almostidentical with that of Sandy McBean in the plate labelled "TheDrive--Correct Finish", to face page twenty-four of his monumentalwork, "How to Become a Scratch Player Your First Season by StudyingPhotographs". Eunice bit her lip. She was piqued. She felt as if shehad patted the head of a pet lamb, and the lamb had turned and bittenher in the finger. 

"I said, 'Good shot, partner!'" she repeated coldly. 

"Yes, " said Ramsden, "but don't talk. It prevents one concentrating. "He turned to Wilberforce. "And don't let me have to tell you thatagain!" he said. 

"Wilberforce has been like a mouse!"

"That is what I complain of, " said Ramsden. "Mice make a beastlyscratching sound, and that's what he was doing when I drove that ball. "

"He was only playing with the sand in the tee box. "

"Well, if he does it again, I shall be reluctantly compelled to takesteps. "

They walked in silence to where the ball had stopped. It was nicelyperched up on the grass, and to have plunked it on to the green with aniron should have been for any reasonable golfer the work of a moment. Eunice, however, only succeeded in slicing it feebly into the rough. 

Ramsden reached for his niblick and plunged into the bushes. And, presently, as if it had been shot up by some convulsion of nature, theball, accompanied on the early stages of its journey by about a poundof mixed mud, grass, and pebbles, soared through the air and fell onthe green. But the mischief had been done. Miss Bingley, puttingforcefully, put the opposition ball down for a four and won the hole. 

Eunice now began to play better, and, as Ramsden was on the top of hisgame, a ding-dong race ensued for the remainder of the first nineholes. The Bingley-Perkins combination, owing to some inspired work bythe female of the species, managed to keep their lead up to the trickyravine hole, but there George Perkins, as might have been expected ofhim, deposited the ball right in among the rocks, and Ramsden andEunice drew level. The next four holes were halved and they reached theclub-house with no advantage to either side. Here there was a pausewhile Miss Bingley went to the professional's shop to have a tack putinto the leather of her mashie, which had worked loose. George Perkinsand little Wilberforce, who believed in keeping up their strength, melted silently away in the direction of the refreshment bar, andRamsden and Eunice were alone. 

 * * * * *

The pique which Eunice had felt at the beginning of the game hadvanished by now. She was feeling extremely pleased with her performanceon the last few holes, and would have been glad to go into the matterfully. Also, she was conscious of a feeling not perhaps of respect somuch as condescending tolerance towards Ramsden. He might be a prettyminus quantity in a drawing-room or at a dance, but in a bunker or outin the open with a cleek, Eunice felt, you'd be surprised. She was justabout to address him in a spirit of kindliness, when he spoke. 

"Better keep your brassey in the bag on the next nine, " he said. "Stickto the iron. The great thing is to keep 'em straight!"

Eunice gasped. Indeed, had she been of a less remarkable beauty onewould have said that she snorted. The sky turned black, and all heramiability was swept away in a flood of fury. The blood left her faceand surged back in a rush of crimson. You are engaged to be married andI take it that there exists between you and your _fiancee_ theutmost love and trust and understanding; but would you have the nerve, could you summon up the cold, callous gall to tell your Genevieve thatshe wasn't capable of using her wooden clubs? I think not. Yet this waswhat Ramsden Waters had told Eunice, and the delicately nurtured girlstaggered before the coarse insult. Her refined, sensitive nature wasall churned up. 

Ever since she had made her first drive at golf, she had prided herselfon her use of the wood. Her brother and her brassey were the onlythings she loved. And here was this man deliberately.... Eunice choked. 

"Mr. Waters!"

Before they could have further speech George Perkins and littleWilberforce ambled in a bloated way out of the clubhouse. 

"I've had three ginger ales, " observed the boy. "Where do we go fromhere?"

"Our honour, " said Ramsden. "Shoot!"

Eunice took out her driver without a word. Her little figure was tensewith emotion. She swung vigorously, and pulled the ball far out on tothe fairway of the ninth hole. 

"Even off the tee, " said Ramsden, "you had better use an iron. You mustkeep 'em straight. "

Their eyes met. Hers were glittering with the fury of a woman scorned. His were cold and hard. And, suddenly, as she looked at his awful, pale, set golf face, something seemed to snap in Eunice. A strangesensation of weakness and humility swept over her. So might the cavewoman have felt when, with her back against a cliff and unable tododge, she watched her suitor take his club in the interlocking grip, and, after a preliminary waggle, start his back swing. 

The fact was that, all her life, Eunice had been accustomed to thehomage of men. From the time she had put her hair up every man she hadmet had grovelled before her, and she had acquired a mental attitudetoward the other sex which was a blend of indifference and contempt. For the cringing specimens who curled up and died all over thehearthrug if she spoke a cold word to them she had nothing but scorn. She dreamed wistfully of those brusque cavemen of whom she read in thenovels which she took out of the village circulating library. Thefemale novelist who was at that time her favourite always supplied witheach chunk of wholesome and invigorating fiction one beetle-browed herowith a grouch and a scowl, who rode wild horses over the countrysidetill they foamed at the mouth, and treated women like dirt. That, Eunice had thought yearningly, as she talked to youths whose spinesturned to gelatine at one glance from her bright eyes, was the sort ofman she wanted to meet and never seemed to come across. 

Of all the men whose acquaintance she had made recently she haddespised Ramsden Waters most. Where others had grovelled he had tiedhimself into knots. Where others had gazed at her like sheep he hadgoggled at her like a kicked spaniel. She had only permitted him tohang round because he seemed so fond of little Wilberforce. And here hewas, ordering her about and piercing her with gimlet eyes, for all theworld as if he were Claude Delamere, in the thirty-second chapter of"The Man of Chilled Steel", the one where Claude drags Lady Matildaaround the smoking-room by her hair because she gave the rose from herbouquet to the Italian count. 

She was half-cowed, half-resentful. 

"Mr Winklethorpe told me I was very good with the wooden clubs, " shesaid defiantly. 

"He's a great kidder, " said Ramsden. 

He went down the hill to where his ball lay. Eunice proceeded directfor the green. Much as she told herself that she hated this man, shenever questioned his ability to get there with his next shot. 

George Perkins, who had long since forfeited any confidence which hispartner might have reposed in him, had topped his drive, leaving MissBingley a difficult second out of a sandy ditch. The hole was halved. 

The match went on. Ramsden won the short hole, laying his ball deadwith a perfect iron shot, but at the next, the long dog-leg hole, MissBingley regained the honour. They came to the last all square. 

As the match had started on the tenth tee, the last hole to benegotiated was, of course, what in the ordinary run of human affairs isthe ninth, possibly the trickiest on the course. As you know, it isnecessary to carry with one's initial wallop that combination of streamand lake into which so many well meant drives have flopped. This done, the player proceeds up the face of a steep slope, to find himselfultimately on a green which looks like the sea in the storm scene of amelodrama. It heaves and undulates, and is altogether a nasty thing tohave happen to one at the end of a gruelling match. But it is the firstshot, the drive, which is the real test, for the water and the treesform a mental hazard of unquestionable toughness. 

George Perkins, as he addressed his ball for the vital stroke, manifestly wabbled. He was scared to the depths of his craven soul. Hetried to pray, but all he could remember was the hymn for those inperil on the deep, into which category, he feared, his ball wouldshortly fall. Breathing a few bars of this, he swung. There was amusical click, and the ball, singing over the water like a bird, breasted the hill like a homing aeroplane and fell in the centre of thefairway within easy distance of the plateau green. 

"Nice work, partner, " said Miss Bingley, speaking for the first andlast time in the course of the proceedings. 

George unravelled himself with a modest simper. He felt like a gamblerwho has placed his all on a number at roulette and sees the white balltumble into the correct compartment. 

Eunice moved to the tee. In the course of the last eight holes thegirl's haughty soul had been rudely harrowed. She had foozled twodrives and three approach shots and had missed a short putt on the lastgreen but three. She had that consciousness of sin which afflicts thegolfer off his game, that curious self-loathing which humbles theproudest. Her knees felt weak and all nature seemed to bellow at herthat this was where she was going to blow up with a loud report. 

Even as her driver rose above her shoulder she was acutely aware thatshe was making eighteen out of the twenty-three errors which complicatethe drive at golf. She knew that her head had swayed like somebeautiful flower in a stiff breeze. The heel of her left foot waspointing down the course. Her grip had shifted, and her wrists feltlike sticks of boiled asparagus. As the club began to descend sheperceived that she had underestimated the total of her errors. And whenthe ball, badly topped, bounded down the slope and entered the muddywater like a timid diver on a cold morning she realized that she had afull hand. There are twenty-three things which it is possible to dowrong in the drive, and she had done them all. 

Silently Ramsden Waters made a tee and placed thereon a new ball. Hewas a golfer who rarely despaired, but he was playing three, and hisopponents' ball would undoubtedly be on the green, possibly even dead, in two. Nevertheless, perhaps, by a supreme drive, and one or twomiracles later on, the game might be saved. He concentrated his wholesoul on the ball. 

I need scarcely tell you that Ramsden Waters pressed.... 

Swish came the driver. The ball, fanned by the wind, rocked a little onthe tee, then settled down in its original position. Ramsden Waters, usually the most careful of players, had missed the globe. 

For a moment there was a silence--a silence which Ramsden had to strivewith an effort almost physically painful not to break. Rich oathssurged to his lips, and blistering maledictions crashed against theback of his clenched teeth. 

The silence was broken by little Wilberforce. 

One can only gather that there lurks in the supposedly innocuous amberof ginger ale an elevating something which the temperance reformershave overlooked. Wilberforce Bray had, if you remember, tucked away nofewer than three in the spot where they would do most good. Onepresumes that the child, with all that stuff surging about inside him, had become thoroughly above himself. He uttered a merry laugh. 

"Never hit it!" said little Wilberforce. 

He was kneeling beside the tee box as he spoke, and now, as one who hasseen all that there is to be seen and turns, sated, to otheramusements, he moved round and began to play with the sand. Thespectacle of his alluring trouser seat was one which a stronger manwould have found it hard to resist. To Ramsden Waters it had the aspectof a formal invitation. For one moment his number II golf shoe, assupplied to all the leading professionals, wavered in mid-air, thencrashed home. 

Eunice screamed. 

"How dare you kick my brother!"

Ramsden faced her, stern and pale. 

"Madam, " he said, "in similar circumstances I would have kicked theArchangel Gabriel!"

Then, stooping to his ball, he picked it up. 

"The match is yours, " he said to Miss Bingley, who, having paid noattention at all to the drama which had just concluded, was practisingshort chip shots with her mashie-niblick. 

He bowed coldly to Eunice, cast one look of sombre satisfaction atlittle Wilberforce, who was painfully extricating himself from a bed ofnettles into which he had rolled, and strode off. He crossed the bridgeover the water and stalked up the hill. 

Eunice watched him go, spellbound. Her momentary spurt of wrath at thekicking of her brother had died away, and she wished she had thought ofdoing it herself. 

How splendid he looked, she felt, as she watched Ramsden striding up tothe club-house--just like Carruthers Mordyke after he had flungErmyntrude Vanstone from him in chapter forty-one of "Gray Eyes ThatGleam". Her whole soul went out to him. This was the sort of man shewanted as a partner in life. How grandly he would teach her to playgolf. It had sickened her when her former instructors, prefacing theircriticism with glutinous praise, had mildly suggested that some peoplefound it a good thing to keep the head still when driving and thatthough her methods were splendid it might be worth trying. They hadspoken of her keeping her eye on the ball as if she were doing the balla favour. What she wanted was a great, strong, rough brute of a fellowwho would tell her not to move her damned head; a rugged Viking of achap who, if she did not keep her eye on the ball, would black it forher. And Ramsden Waters was such a one. He might not look like aViking, but after all it is the soul that counts and, as thisafternoon's experience had taught her, Ramsden Waters had a soul thatseemed to combine in equal proportions the outstanding characteristicsof Nero, a wildcat, and the second mate of a tramp steamer. 

 * * * * *

That night Ramsden Walters sat in his study, a prey to the gloomiestemotions. The gold had died out of him by now, and he was reproachinghimself bitterly for having ruined for ever his chance of winning theonly girl he had ever loved. How could she forgive him for hisbrutality? How could she overlook treatment which would have causedcomment in the stokehold of a cattle ship? He groaned and tried toforget his sorrows by forcing himself to read. 

But the choicest thoughts of the greatest writers had no power to griphim. He tried Vardon "On the Swing", and the words swam before hiseyes. He turned to Taylor "On the Chip Shot", and the master's purestyle seemed laboured and involved. He found solace neither in Braid"On the Pivot" nor in Duncan "On the Divot". He was just about to giveit up and go to bed though it was only nine o'clock, when the telephonebell rang. 

"Hello!"

"Is that you, Mr. Waters? This is Eunice Bray. " The receiver shook inRamsden's hand. "I've just remembered. Weren't we talking aboutsomething last night? Didn't you ask me to marry you or something? Iknow it was something. "

Ramsden gulped three times. 

"I did, " he replied hollowly. 

"We didn't settle anything, did we?"

"Eh?"

"I say, we sort of left it kind of open. "

"Yuk!"

"Well, would it bore you awfully, " said Eunice's soft voice, "to comeround now and go on talking it over?"

Ramsden tottered. 

"We shall be quite alone, " said Eunice. "Little Wilberforce has gone tobed with a headache. "

Ramsden paused a moment to disentangle his tongue from the back of hisneck. 

"I'll be right over!" he said huskily. 

10

_The Coming of Gowf_

PROLOGUE

After we had sent in our card and waited for a few hours in the marbledante-room, a bell rang and the major-domo, parting the pricelesscurtains, ushered us in to where the editor sat writing at his desk. Weadvanced on all fours, knocking our head reverently on the Aubussoncarpet. 

"Well?" he said at length, laying down his jewelled pen. 

"We just looked in, " we said, humbly, "to ask if it would be all rightif we sent you an historical story. "

"The public does not want historical stories, " he said, frowningcoldly. 

"Ah, but the public hasn't seen one of ours!" we replied. 

The editor placed a cigarette in a holder presented to him by areigning monarch, and lit it with a match from a golden box, the giftof the millionaire president of the Amalgamated League of WorkingPlumbers. 

"What this magazine requires, " he said, "is red-blooded, one-hundred-per-cent dynamic stuff, palpitating with warm humaninterest and containing a strong, poignant love-motive. "

"That, " we replied, "is us all over, Mabel. "

"What I need at the moment, however, is a golf story. "

"By a singular coincidence, ours is a golf story. "

"Ha! say you so?" said the editor, a flicker of interest passing overhis finely-chiselled features. "Then you may let me see it. "

He kicked us in the face, and we withdrew. 

THE STORY

On the broad terrace outside his palace, overlooking the fair expanseof the Royal gardens, King Merolchazzar of Oom stood leaning on the lowparapet, his chin in his hand and a frown on his noble face. The daywas fine, and a light breeze bore up to him from the garden below afragrant scent of flowers. But, for all the pleasure it seemed to givehim, it might have been bone-fertilizer. 

The fact is, King Merolchazzar was in love, and his suit was notprospering. Enough to upset any man. 

Royal love affairs in those days were conducted on the correspondencesystem. A monarch, hearing good reports of a neighbouring princess, would despatch messengers with gifts to her Court, beseeching aninterview. The Princess would name a date, and a formal meeting wouldtake place; after which everything usually buzzed along prettysmoothly. But in the case of King Merolchazzar's courtship of thePrincess of the Outer Isles there had been a regrettable hitch. She hadacknowledged the gifts, saying that they were just what she had wantedand how had he guessed, and had added that, as regarded a meeting, shewould let him know later. Since that day no word had come from her, anda gloomy spirit prevailed in the capital. At the Courtiers' Club, themeeting-place of the aristocracy of Oom, five to one in _pazazas_was freely offered against Merolchazzar's chances, but found no takers;while in the taverns of the common people, where less conservative oddswere always to be had, you could get a snappy hundred to eight. "For ingood sooth, " writes a chronicler of the time on a half-brick and acouple of paving-stones which have survived to this day, "it did indeedbegin to appear as though our beloved monarch, the son of the sun andthe nephew of the moon, had been handed the bitter fruit of thecitron. "

The quaint old idiom is almost untranslatable, but one sees what hemeans. 

 * * * * *

As the King stood sombrely surveying the garden, his attention wasattracted by a small, bearded man with bushy eyebrows and a face like awalnut, who stood not far away on a gravelled path flanked by rosebushes. For some minutes he eyed this man in silence, then he called tothe Grand Vizier, who was standing in the little group of courtiers andofficials at the other end of the terrace. The bearded man, apparentlyunconscious of the Royal scrutiny, had placed a rounded stone on thegravel, and was standing beside it making curious passes over it withhis hoe. It was this singular behaviour that had attracted the King'sattention. Superficially it seemed silly, and yet Merolchazzar had acurious feeling that there was a deep, even a holy, meaning behind theaction. 

"Who, " he inquired, "is that?"

"He is one of your Majesty's gardeners, " replied the Vizier. 

"I don't remember seeing him before. Who is he?"

The Vizier was a kind-hearted man, and he hesitated for a moment. 

"It seems a hard thing to say of anyone, your Majesty, " he replied, "but he is a Scotsman. One of your Majesty's invincible admiralsrecently made a raid on the inhospitable coast of that country at aspot known to the natives as S'nandrews and brought away this man. "

"What does he think he's doing?" asked the King, as the bearded oneslowly raised the hoe above his right shoulder, slightly bending theleft knee as he did so. 

"It is some species of savage religious ceremony, your Majesty. According to the admiral, the dunes by the seashore where he landedwere covered with a multitude of men behaving just as this man isdoing. They had sticks in their hands and they struck with these atsmall round objects. And every now and again----"

"Fo-o-ore!" called a gruff voice from below. 

"And every now and again, " went on the Vizier, "they would utter thestrange melancholy cry which you have just heard. It is a species ofchant. "

The Vizier broke off. The hoe had descended on the stone, and thestone, rising in a graceful arc, had sailed through the air and fallenwithin a foot of where the King stood. 

"Hi!" exclaimed the Vizier. 

The man looked up. 

"You mustn't do that! You nearly hit his serene graciousness the King!"

"Mphm!" said the bearded man, nonchalantly, and began to wave his hoemystically over another stone. 

Into the King's careworn face there had crept a look of interest, almost of excitement. 

"What god does he hope to propitiate by these rites?" he asked. 

"The deity, I learn from your Majesty's admiral is called Gowf. "

"Gowf? Gowf?" King Merolchazzar ran over in his mind the muster-roll ofthe gods of Oom. There were sixty-seven of them, but Gowf was not oftheir number. "It is a strange religion, " he murmured. "A strangereligion, indeed. But, by Belus, distinctly attractive. I have an ideathat Oom could do with a religion like that. It has a zip to it. A sortof fascination, if you know what I mean. It looks to me extraordinarilylike what the Court physician ordered. I will talk to this fellow andlearn more of these holy ceremonies. "

And, followed by the Vizier, the King made his way into the garden. TheVizier was now in a state of some apprehension. He was exercised in hismind as to the effect which the embracing of a new religion by the Kingmight have on the formidable Church party. It would be certain to causedispleasure among the priesthood; and in those days it was a ticklishbusiness to offend the priesthood, even for a monarch. And, ifMerolchazzar had a fault, it was a tendency to be a little tactless inhis dealings with that powerful body. Only a few mornings back the HighPriest of Hec had taken the Vizier aside to complain about the qualityof the meat which the King had been using lately for his sacrifices. Hemight be a child in worldly matters, said the High Priest, but if theKing supposed that he did not know the difference between home-growndomestic and frozen imported foreign, it was time his Majesty wasdisabused of the idea. If, on top of this little unpleasantness, KingMerolchazzar were to become an adherent of this new Gowf, the Vizierdid not know what might not happen. 

The King stood beside the bearded foreigner, watching him closely. Thesecond stone soared neatly on to the terrace. Merolchazzar uttered anexcited cry. His eyes were glowing, and he breathed quickly. 

"It doesn't look difficult, " he muttered. 

"Hoo's!" said the bearded man. 

"I believe I could do it, " went on the King, feverishly. "By the eightgreen gods of the mountain, I believe I could! By the holy fire thatburns night and day before the altar of Belus, I'm _sure_ I could!By Hec, I'm going to do it now! Gimme that hoe!"

"Toots!" said the bearded man. 

It seemed to the King that the fellow spoke derisively, and his bloodboiled angrily. He seized the hoe and raised it above his shoulder, bracing himself solidly on widely-parted feet. His pose was an exactreproduction of the one in which the Court sculptor had depicted himwhen working on the life-size statue ("Our Athletic King") which stoodin the principal square of the city; but it did not impress thestranger. He uttered a discordant laugh. 

"Ye puir gonuph!" he cried, "whitkin' o' a staunce is that?"

The King was hurt. Hitherto the attitude had been generally admired. 

"It's the way I always stand when killing lions, " he said. "'In killinglions, '" he added, quoting from the well-known treatise of Nimrod, therecognized text-book on the sport, "'the weight at the top of the swingshould be evenly balanced on both feet. '"

"Ah, weel, ye're no killing lions the noo. Ye're gowfing. "

A sudden humility descended upon the King. He felt, as so many men wereto feel in similar circumstances in ages to come, as though he were achild looking eagerly for guidance to an all-wise master--a child, moreover, handicapped by water on the brain, feet three sizes too largefor him, and hands consisting mainly of thumbs. 

"O thou of noble ancestors and agreeable disposition!" he said, humbly. "Teach me the true way. "

"Use the interlocking grup and keep the staunce a wee bit open and slowback, and dinna press or sway the heid and keep yer e'e on the ba'. "

"My which on the what?" said the King, bewildered. 

"I fancy, your Majesty, " hazarded the Vizier, "that he is respectfullysuggesting that your serene graciousness should deign to keep your eyeon the ball. "

"Oh, ah!" said the King. 

The first golf lesson ever seen in the kingdom of Oom had begun. 

 * * * * *

Up on the terrace, meanwhile, in the little group of courtiers andofficials, a whispered consultation was in progress. Officially, theKing's unfortunate love affair was supposed to be a strict secret. Butyou know how it is. These things get about. The Grand Vizier tells theLord High Chamberlain; the Lord High Chamberlain whispers it inconfidence to the Supreme Hereditary Custodian of the Royal Pet Dog;the Supreme Hereditary Custodian hands it on to the Exalted Overseer ofthe King's Wardrobe on the understanding that it is to go no farther;and, before you know where you are, the varlets and scurvy knaves aregossiping about it in the kitchens, and the Society journalists havestarted to carve it out on bricks for the next issue of _PalacePrattlings_. 

"The long and short of it is, " said the Exalted Overseer of the King'sWardrobe, "we must cheer him up. "

There was a murmur of approval. In those days of easy executions it wasno light matter that a monarch should be a prey to gloom. 

"But how?" queried the Lord High Chamberlain. 

"I know, " said the Supreme Hereditary Custodian of the Royal Pet Dog. "Try him with the minstrels. "

"Here! Why us?" protested the leader of the minstrels. 

"Don't be silly!" said the Lord High Chamberlain. "It's for your goodjust as much as ours. He was asking only last night why he never gotany music nowadays. He told me to find out whether you supposed he paidyou simply to eat and sleep, because if so he knew what to do aboutit. "

"Oh, in that case!" The leader of the minstrels started nervously. Collecting his assistants and tip-toeing down the garden, he took uphis stand a few feet in Merolchazzar's rear, just as that much-enduringmonarch, after twenty-five futile attempts, was once more addressinghis stone. 

Lyric writers in those days had not reached the supreme pitch ofexcellence which has been produced by modern musical comedy. The artwas in its infancy then, and the best the minstrels could do wasthis--and they did it just as Merolchazzar, raising the hoe withpainful care, reached the top of his swing and started down:

 _"Oh, tune the string and let us sing Our godlike, great, and glorious King! He's a bear! He's a bear! He's a bear!"_

There were sixteen more verses, touching on their ruler's prowess inthe realms of sport and war, but they were not destined to be sung onthat circuit. King Merolchazzar jumped like a stung bullock, lifted hishead, and missed the globe for the twenty-sixth time. He spun round onthe minstrels, who were working pluckily through their song of praise:

 _"Oh, may his triumphs never cease! He has the strength of ten! First in war, first in peace, First in the hearts of his countrymen. "_

"Get out!" roared the King. 

"Your Majesty?" quavered the leader of the minstrels. 

"Make a noise like an egg and beat it!" (Again one finds thechronicler's idiom impossible to reproduce in modern speech, and mustbe content with a literal translation. ) "By the bones of my ancestors, it's a little hard! By the beard of the sacred goat, it's tough! Whatin the name of Belus and Hec do you mean, you yowling misfits, bystarting that sort of stuff when a man's swinging? I was just shapingto hit it right that time when you butted in, you----"

The minstrels melted away. The bearded man patted the fermentingmonarch paternally on the shoulder. 

"Ma mannie, " he said, "ye may no' be a gowfer yet, but hoots! ye'relearning the language fine!"

King Merolchazzar's fury died away. He simpered modestly at these wordsof commendation, the first his bearded preceptor had uttered. Withexemplary patience he turned to address the stone for thetwenty-seventh time. 

That night it was all over the city that the King had gone crazy over anew religion, and the orthodox shook their heads. 

 * * * * *

We of the present day, living in the midst of a million marvels of acomplex civilization, have learned to adjust ourselves to conditionsand to take for granted phenomena which in an earlier and less advancedage would have caused the profoundest excitement and even alarm. Weaccept without comment the telephone, the automobile, and the wirelesstelegraph, and we are unmoved by the spectacle of our fellow humanbeings in the grip of the first stages of golf fever. Far otherwise wasit with the courtiers and officials about the Palace of Oom. Theobsession of the King was the sole topic of conversation. 

Every day now, starting forth at dawn and returning only with thefalling of darkness, Merolchazzar was out on the Linx, as the outdoortemple of the new god was called. In a luxurious house adjoining thisexpanse the bearded Scotsman had been installed, and there he could befound at almost any hour of the day fashioning out of holy wood theweird implements indispensable to the new religion. As a recognition ofhis services, the King had bestowed upon him a large pension, innumerable _kaddiz_ or slaves, and the title of Promoter of theKing's Happiness, which for the sake of convenience was generallyshortened to The Pro. 

At present, Oom being a conservative country, the worship of the newgod had not attracted the public in great numbers. In fact, except forthe Grand Vizier, who, always a faithful follower of his sovereign'sfortunes, had taken to Gowf from the start, the courtiers held aloof toa man. But the Vizier had thrown himself into the new worship with suchvigour and earnestness that it was not long before he won from the Kingthe title of Supreme Splendiferous Maintainer of the Twenty-FourHandicap Except on Windy Days when It Goes Up to Thirty--a title whichin ordinary conversation was usually abbreviated to The Dub. 

All these new titles, it should be said, were, so far as the courtierswere concerned, a fruitful source of discontent. There were black looksand mutinous whispers. The laws of precedence were being disturbed, andthe courtiers did not like it. It jars a man who for years has had hissocial position all cut and dried--a man, to take an instance atrandom, who, as Second Deputy Shiner of the Royal Hunting Boots, knowsthat his place is just below the Keeper of the Eel-Hounds and justabove the Second Tenor of the Corps of Minstrels--it jars him, we say, to find suddenly that he has got to go down a step in favour of theHereditary Bearer of the King's Baffy. 

But it was from the priesthood that the real, serious opposition was tobe expected. And the priests of the sixty-seven gods of Oom were up inarms. As the white-bearded High Priest of Hec, who by virtue of hisoffice was generally regarded as leader of the guild, remarked in aglowing speech at an extraordinary meeting of the Priests' EquityAssociation, he had always set his face against the principle of theClosed Shop hitherto, but there were moments when every thinking manhad to admit that enough was sufficient, and it was his opinion thatsuch a moment had now arrived. The cheers which greeted the wordsshowed how correctly he had voiced popular sentiment. 

 * * * * *

Of all those who had listened to the High Priest's speech, none hadlistened more intently than the King's half-brother, Ascobaruch. Asinister, disappointed man, this Ascobaruch, with mean eyes and acrafty smile. All his life he had been consumed with ambition, anduntil now it had looked as though he must go to his grave with thisambition unfulfilled. All his life he had wanted to be King of Oom, andnow he began to see daylight. He was sufficiently versed in Courtintrigues to be aware that the priests were the party that reallycounted, the source from which all successful revolutions sprang. Andof all the priests the one that mattered most was the venerable HighPriest of Hec. 

It was to this prelate, therefore, that Ascobaruch made his way at theclose of the proceedings. The meeting had dispersed after passing aunanimous vote of censure on King Merolchazzar, and the High Priest wasrefreshing himself in the vestry--for the meeting had taken place inthe Temple of Hec--with a small milk and honey. 

"Some speech!" began Ascobaruch in his unpleasant, crafty way. Noneknew better than he the art of appealing to human vanity. 

The High Priest was plainly gratified. 

"Oh, I don't know, " he said, modestly. 

"Yessir!" said Ascobaruch. "Considerable oration! What I can neverunderstand is how you think up all these things to say. I couldn't doit if you paid me. The other night I had to propose the Visitors at theOld Alumni dinner of Oom University, and my mind seemed to go allblank. But you just stand up and the words come fluttering out of youlike bees out of a barn. I simply cannot understand it. The thing getspast me. "

"Oh, it's just a knack. "

"A divine gift, I should call it. "

"Perhaps you're right, " said the High Priest, finishing his milk andhoney. He was wondering why he had never realized before what a capitalfellow Ascobaruch was. 

"Of course, " went on Ascobaruch, "you had an excellent subject. I meanto say, inspiring and all that. Why, by Hec, even I--though, of course, I couldn't have approached your level--even I could have done somethingwith a subject like that. I mean, going off and worshipping a new godno one has ever heard of. I tell you, my blood fairly boiled. Nobodyhas a greater respect and esteem for Merolchazzar than I have, but Imean to say, what! Not right, I mean, going off worshipping gods no onehas ever heard of! I'm a peaceable man, and I've made it a rule neverto mix in politics, but if you happened to say to me as we were sittinghere, just as one reasonable man to another--if you happened to say, 'Ascobaruch, I think it's time that definite steps were taken, ' Ishould reply frankly, 'My dear old High Priest, I absolutely agree withyou, and I'm with you all the way. ' You might even go so far as tosuggest that the only way out of the muddle was to assassinateMerolchazzar and start with a clean slate. "

The High Priest stroked his beard thoughtfully. 

"I am bound to say I never thought of going quite so far as that. "

"Merely a suggestion, of course, " said Ascobaruch. "Take it or leaveit. I shan't be offended. If you know a superior excavation, go to it. But as a sensible man--and I've always maintained that you are the mostsensible man in the country--you must see that it would be a solution. Merolchazzar has been a pretty good king, of course. No one deniesthat. A fair general, no doubt, and a plus-man at lion-hunting. But, after all--look at it fairly--is life all battles and lion-hunting?Isn't there a deeper side? Wouldn't it be better for the country tohave some good orthodox fellow who has worshipped Hec all his life, andcould be relied on to maintain the old beliefs--wouldn't the fact thata man like that was on the throne be likely to lead to more generalprosperity? There are dozens of men of that kind simply waiting to beasked. Let us say, purely for purposes of argument, that you approached_me_. I should reply, 'Unworthy though I know myself to be of suchan honour, I can tell you this. If you put me on the throne, you canbet your bottom _pazaza_ that there's one thing that won't suffer, and that is the worship of Hec!' That's the way I feel about it. "

The High Priest pondered. 

"O thou of unshuffled features but amiable disposition!" he said, "thydiscourse soundeth good to me. Could it be done?"

"Could it!" Ascobaruch uttered a hideous laugh. "Could it! Arouse me inthe night-watches and ask me! Question me on the matter, having stoppedme for that purpose on the public highway! What I would suggest--I'mnot dictating, mind you; merely trying to help you out--what I wouldsuggest is that you took that long, sharp knife of yours, the one youuse for the sacrifices, and toddled out to the Linx--you're sure tofind the King there; and just when he's raising that sacrilegious stickof his over his shoulder----"

"O man of infinite wisdom, " cried the High Priest, warmly, "verily hastthem spoken a fullness of the mouth!"

"Is it a wager?" said Ascobaruch. 

"It is a wager!" said the High Priest. 

"That's that, then, " said Ascobaruch. "Now, I don't want to be mixed upin any unpleasantness, so what I think I'll do while what you mightcall the preliminaries are being arranged is to go and take a littletrip abroad somewhere. The Middle Lakes are pleasant at this time ofyear. When I come back, it's possible that all the formalities willhave been completed, yes?"

"Rely on me, by Hec!" said the High Priest grimly, as he fingered hisweapon. 

 * * * * *

The High Priest was as good as his word. Early on the morrow he madehis way to the Linx, and found the King holing-out on the second green. Merolchazzar was in high good humour. 

"Greetings, O venerable one!" he cried, jovially. "Hadst thou come amoment sooner, them wouldst have seen me lay my ball dead--aye, dead asmutton, with the sweetest little half-mashie-niblick chip-shot everseen outside the sacred domain of S'nandrew, on whom"--he bared hishead reverently--"be peace! In one under bogey did I do the hole--yea, and that despite the fact that, slicing my drive, I became ensnared inyonder undergrowth. "

The High Priest had not the advantage of understanding one word of whatthe King was talking about, but he gathered with satisfaction thatMerolchazzar was pleased and wholly without suspicion. He clasped anunseen hand more firmly about the handle of his knife, and accompaniedthe monarch to the next altar. Merolchazzar stooped, and placed a smallround white object on a little mound of sand. In spite of his austereviews, the High Priest, always a keen student of ritual, becameinterested. 

"Why does your Majesty do that?"

"I tee it up that it may fly the fairer. If I did not, then would it beapt to run a long the ground like a beetle instead of soaring like abird, and mayhap, for thou seest how rough and tangled is the grassbefore us, I should have to use a niblick for my second. "

The High Priest groped for his meaning. 

"It is a ceremony to propitiate the god and bring good luck?"

"You might call it that. "

The High Priest shook his head. 

"I may be old-fashioned, " he said, "but I should have thought that, topropitiate a god, it would have been better to have sacrificed one ofthese _kaddiz_ on his altar. "

"I confess, " replied the King, thoughtfully, "that I have often feltthat it would be a relief to one's feelings to sacrifice one or two_kaddiz_, but The Pro for some reason or other has set his faceagainst it. " He swung at the ball, and sent it forcefully down thefairway. "By Abe, the son of Mitchell, " he cried, shading his eyes, "abird of a drive! How truly is it written in the book of the prophetVadun, 'The left hand applieth the force, the right doth but guide. Grip not, therefore, too closely with the right hand!' Yesterday I waspulling all the time. "

The High Priest frowned. 

"It is written in the sacred book of Hec, your Majesty, 'Thou shalt notfollow after strange gods'. "

"Take thou this stick, O venerable one, " said the King, paying noattention to the remark, "and have a shot thyself. True, thou art wellstricken in years, but many a man has so wrought that he was able togive his grandchildren a stroke a hole. It is never too late to begin. "

The High Priest shrank back, horrified. The King frowned. 

"It is our Royal wish, " he said, coldly. 

The High Priest was forced to comply. Had they been alone, it ispossible that he might have risked all on one swift stroke with hisknife, but by this time a group of _kaddiz_ had drifted up, andwere watching the proceedings with that supercilious detachment socharacteristic of them. He took the stick and arranged his limbs as theKing directed. 

"Now, " said Merolchazzar, "slow back and keep your e'e on the ba'!"

 * * * * *

A month later, Ascobaruch returned from his trip. He had received noword from the High Priest announcing the success of the revolution, butthere might be many reasons for that. It was with unruffled contentmentthat he bade his charioteer drive him to the palace. He was glad to getback, for after all a holiday is hardly a holiday if you have left yourbusiness affairs unsettled. 

As he drove, the chariot passed a fair open space, on the outskirts ofthe city. A sudden chill froze the serenity of Ascobaruch's mood. Heprodded the charioteer sharply in the small of the back. 

"What is that?" he demanded, catching his breath. 

All over the green expanse could be seen men in strange robes, movingto and fro in couples and bearing in their hands mystic wands. Somesearched restlessly in the bushes, others were walking briskly in thedirection of small red flags. A sickening foreboding of disaster fellupon Ascobaruch. 

The charioteer seemed surprised at the question. 

"Yon's the muneecipal linx, " he replied. 

"The what?"

"The muneecipal linx. "

"Tell me, fellow, why do you talk that way?"

"Whitway?"

"Why, like that. The way you're talking. "

"Hoots, mon!" said the charioteer. "His Majesty King Merolchazzar--mayhis handicap decrease!--hae passit a law that a' his soobjects shall doit. Aiblins, 'tis the language spoken by The Pro, on whom be peace!Mphm!"

Ascobaruch sat back limply, his head swimming. The chariot drove on, till now it took the road adjoining the royal Linx. A wall lined aportion of this road, and suddenly, from behind this wall, there rentthe air a great shout of laughter. 

"Pull up!" cried Ascobaruch to the charioteer. 

He had recognized that laugh. It was the laugh of Merolchazzar. 

Ascobaruch crept to the wall and cautiously poked his head over it. Thesight he saw drove the blood from his face and left him white andhaggard. 

The King and the Grand Vizier were playing a foursome against the Proand the High Priest of Hec, and the Vizier had just laid the HighPriest a dead stymie. 

Ascobaruch tottered to the chariot. 

"Take me back, " he muttered, pallidly. "I've forgotten something!"

 * * * * *

And so golf came to Oom, and with it prosperity unequalled in the wholehistory of the land. Everybody was happy. There was no moreunemployment. Crime ceased. The chronicler repeatedly refers to it inhis memoirs as the Golden Age. And yet there remained one man on whomcomplete felicity had not descended. It was all right while he wasactually on the Linx, but there were blank, dreary stretches of thenight when King Merolchazzar lay sleepless on his couch and mournedthat he had nobody to love him. 

Of course, his subjects loved him in a way. A new statue had beenerected in the palace square, showing him in the act of getting out ofcasual water. The minstrels had composed a whole cycle of up-to-datesongs, commemorating his prowess with the mashie. His handicap was downto twelve. But these things are not all. A golfer needs a loving wife, to whom he can describe the day's play through the long evenings. Andthis was just where Merolchazzar's life was empty. No word had comefrom the Princess of the Outer Isles, and, as he refused to be put offwith just-as-good substitutes, he remained a lonely man. 

But one morning, in the early hours of a summer day, as he lay sleepingafter a disturbed night, Merolchazzar was awakened by the eager hand ofthe Lord High Chamberlain, shaking his shoulder. 

"Now what?" said the King. 

"Hoots, your Majesty! Glorious news! The Princess of the Outer Isleswaits without--I mean wi'oot!"

The King sprang from his couch. 

"A messenger from the Princess at last!"

"Nay, sire, the Princess herself--that is to say, " said the LordChamberlain, who was an old man and had found it hard to accustomhimself to the new tongue at his age, "her ain sel'! And believe me, orrather, mind ah'm telling ye, " went on the honest man, joyfully, for hehad been deeply exercised by his monarch's troubles, "her Highness isthe easiest thing to look at these eyes hae ever seen. And you can sayI said it!"

"She is beautiful?"

"Your majesty, she is, in the best and deepest sense of the word, apippin!"

King Merolchazzar was groping wildly for his robes. 

"Tell her to wait!" he cried. "Go and amuse her. Ask her riddles! Tellher anecdotes! Don't let her go. Say I'll be down in a moment. Where inthe name of Zoroaster is our imperial mesh-knit underwear?"

 * * * * *

A fair and pleasing sight was the Princess of the Outer Isles as shestood on the terrace in the clear sunshine of the summer morning, looking over the King's gardens. With her delicate little nose shesniffed the fragrance of the flowers. Her blue eyes roamed over therose bushes, and the breeze ruffled the golden curls about her temples. Presently a sound behind her caused her to turn, and she perceived agodlike man hurrying across the terrace pulling up a sock. And at thesight of him the Princess's heart sang within her like the birds downin the garden. 

"Hope I haven't kept you waiting, " said Merolchazzar, apologetically. He, too, was conscious of a strange, wild exhilaration. Truly was thismaiden, as his Chamberlain had said, noticeably easy on the eyes. Herbeauty was as water in the desert, as fire on a frosty night, asdiamonds, rubies, pearls, sapphires, and amethysts. 

"Oh, no!" said the princess, "I've been enjoying myself. How passingbeautiful are thy gardens, O King!"

"My gardens may be passing beautiful, " said Merolchazzar, earnestly, "but they aren't half so passing beautiful as thy eyes. I have dreamedof thee by night and by day, and I will tell the world I was nowherenear it! My sluggish fancy came not within a hundred and fifty-sevenmiles of the reality. Now let the sun dim his face and the moon hideherself abashed. Now let the flowers bend their heads and the gazelleof the mountains confess itself a cripple. Princess, your slave!"

And King Merolchazzar, with that easy grace so characteristic ofRoyalty, took her hand in his and kissed it. 

As he did so, he gave a start of surprise. 

"By Hec!" he exclaimed. "What hast thou been doing to thyself? Thy handis all over little rough places inside. Has some malignant wizard laida spell upon thee, or what is it?"

The Princess blushed. 

"If I make that clear to thee, " she said, "I shall also make clear whyit was that I sent thee no message all this long while. My time was sooccupied, verily I did not seem to have a moment. The fact is, thesesorenesses are due to a strange, new religion to which I and mysubjects have but recently become converted. And O that I might makethee also of the true faith! 'Tis a wondrous tale, my lord. Some twomoons back there was brought to my Court by wandering pirates a captiveof an uncouth race who dwell in the north. And this man has taughtus----"

King Merolchazzar uttered a loud cry. 

"By Tom, the son of Morris! Can this truly be so? What is thyhandicap?"

The Princess stared at him, wide-eyed. 

"Truly this is a miracle! Art thou also a worshipper of the greatGowf?"

"Am I!" cried the King. "Am I!" He broke off. "Listen!"

From the minstrels' room high up in the palace there came the sound ofsinging. The minstrels were practising a new paean of praise--words bythe Grand Vizier, music by the High Priest of Hec--which they were torender at the next full moon at the banquet of the worshippers of Gowf. The words came clear and distinct through the still air:

 _"Oh, praises let us utter To our most glorious King! It fairly makes you stutter To see him start his swing! Success attend his putter! And luck be with his drive! And may he do each hole in two, Although the bogey's five!"_

The voices died away. There was a silence. 

"If I hadn't missed a two-foot putt, I'd have done the long fifteenthin four yesterday, " said the King. 

"I won the Ladies' Open Championship of the Outer Isles last week, "said the Princess. 

They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment. And then, hand inhand, they walked slowly into the palace. 

EPILOGUE

"Well?" we said, anxiously. 

"I like it, " said the editor. 

"Good egg!" we murmured. 

The editor pressed a bell, a single ruby set in a fold of the tapestryupon the wall. The major-domo appeared. 

"Give this man a purse of gold, " said the editor, "and throw him out. "

THE END