The Clicking of Cuthbert Read online

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  _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 ha
s 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?"

&n
bsp; "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.