I
When the returns were all in, a lot of people congratulated the winners of the mixed-foursome cups, after which the weak-minded ones sympathised with Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson.
Sympathy is a wonderful thing, and so rare that it should not be wasted. Any intelligent person might have seen at a glance that Mary didn't need sympathy; and as for Russell Davidson, there never was a time when he deserved it.
And in all this outpouring of sentiment, this hand-shaking and back-patting, nobody thought to offer a kind word to old Waddles. Nobody shook him by the hand and told him that he was six of the seven wonders of the world. It seems a pity, now that I look back on it.
Possibly you remember Waddles. He was, is, and probably always will be, an extremely important member of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club. Important, did I say? That doesn't begin to express it. Omnipotent—that's better.
To begin with, he is chairman of the Greens Committee, holding dominion over every blade of grass which grows on the course. He is intimately acquainted with every gopher hole, hoofprint and drain cover on the club property. Policing two hundred broad acres is a strong man's job, but Waddles attends to it in his spare moments. He waves his pudgy hand and says: "Let there be a bunker here," and lo! the bunker springs up as if by magic. He abolishes sand traps which displease him, and creates new ones. The heathen may rage, and sometimes they do, but Waddles holds on the even tenor of his way, hearing only one vote, and that vote his own.
Then again, he is the official handicapper—another strong man's job—with powers which cannot be overestimated. Some handicappers are mild and apologetic creatures who believe in tempering justice with mercy and pleasing as many people as possible, but not our Waddles.
Heaven pity the wily cup hunter who keeps an improved game under cover in order that he may ease himself into a competition and clean up the silverware!
Waddles hates a cup hunter with a deep and abiding hatred and deals with him accordingly. There was once an 18-handicap man who waltzed blithely through our Spring Handicap, and his worst medal round was something like 85. His fat allowance made all his opponents look silly and he took home a silver water pitcher worth seventy-five dollars.
This was bad enough, but he crowned his infamy by boasting openly that he had outwitted Waddles. The next time the cup hunter had occasion to glance at the handicap list he received a terrible shock.
"Waddy," said this person—and there were tears in his eyes and a sob in his voice—"you know that I'll never be able to play to a four handicap, don't you?"
"Certainly," was the calm response.
"Then what was the idea of putting me at such a low mark?"
"Well," said Waddles with a sweet smile, "I don't mind telling you, in strict confidence: I cut you down to four to keep you honest."
The wretched cup hunter howled like a wolf, but it got him nothing. He is still a four man, and if he lives to be as old as the Dingbats he will never take home another trophy.
Not only is Waddles supreme on the golf course but he dominates the clubhouse as well. He writes us tart letters about shaking dice for money and signs them "House Committee, per W." Really serious matters are dealt with in letters signed "Board of Directors, per W." The old boy is the law and the prophets, the fine Italian hand, the mailed fist, the lord high executioner and the chief justice, and if he misses you with one barrel he is sure to get you with the other.
You might think that this would be power enough for one weak mortal. You might think that there are some things which Waddles would regard as beyond his jurisdiction. You might think that the little god of love would come under another dispensation—you might think all these things, but you don't know our Waddles. He is afflicted with that strange malady described by the immortal Cap'n Prowse as "the natural gift of authority," and such a man recognises no limits, knows no boundaries, and wouldn't care two whoops if he did. Come to think of it, the Kaiser is now under treatment for the same ailment.
Since I have given you some faint conception of Waddles and his character I will proceed with the plain and simple tale of Mary Brooke, Bill Hawley and Russell Davidson. Beth Rogers was in the foursome too, but she doesn't really count, not being in love with any one but herself.