I
Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes squinted along the line of his short putt, breathed hard through his prominent and highly decorative nose, concentrated his mighty intellect upon the task before him, and tapped the small white ball ever so lightly. It rolled toward the cup, wavered from the line, returned to it again, seemed about to stop short of its destination, hovered for one breathless instant on the very lip, and at last fell into the hole.
Mr. Parkes, who had been hopping up and down on one leg, urging the ball forward with inarticulate commands and violent contortions of his body, and behaving generally in the manner of a baseball fan or a financially interested spectator at a horse race, suddenly relaxed with a deep grunt of relief. He glanced at his opponent—a tall, solemn-looking gentleman—who was regarding Mr. Parkes with an unblinking stare in which disgust, chagrin and fathomless melancholy were mingled.
"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announced Parkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time. "Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and I licked you"—here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "I licked you on an even game! An even game—d'you get that, Bob? Didn't have to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on an even game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I had it in me, did you?"
The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr. Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victor became aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream of self-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. There was a short, painful silence.
"I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically; "but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn't think I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicap man before——"
"Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of one who brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off—I don't care. Give yourself a loud cheer while you're at it. I'm not paying any attention to you."
Mr. Parkes was not exactly pleased with the permission thus handsomely granted.
"No need for you to get sore about it," was the sulky comment.
The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitter undertone in his mirth.
"Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like you handed me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?"
"Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'd better haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and you look as if you'd lost your last friend."
"I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost my game. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any game to lose. It's awful—awful!"
"Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while."
"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong—my shots left me. I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the course—couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows any more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my life—and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a battle!"
"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worry too much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's a sport—a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but I never worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten; to-day——"
"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I suppose you call that good—eh?"
"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind! Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on, take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. The match is over, so you won't have that to worry about."
"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golfer yourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not being beaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and then falling down on the execution—that's what breaks my heart! If ever you get so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and your game leaves you overnight—steps right out from under you and leaves you flat—then you'll know how I feel."
"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a bad player—oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. And just to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in—no handicap—not even a bisque. What say?"
"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time tee shots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!"
Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward the clubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. He grinned from ear to ear and illustrated an animated discourse with sweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him, kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders sagged listlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of his drooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himself heavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out of the window but seeing nothing.
"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated before the stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-lustre eyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand.
"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with this double-dash-blanked game."
Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a full heart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne's friends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement was received with calmness—not to say a certain amount of levity.
"We've all been there!" chuckled one of the listeners.
"Many's the time!" supplemented another.
"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'd been slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the damned shaft. Did me a lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual, and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that has been annoying you. Try it some time."
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Coyne. "I'd have to break 'em all!"
"Maybe you don't drink enough," hazarded another.
"Cheer up!" said the first speaker. "You'll be all right this afternoon."
The afflicted one lifted his head again and gazed mournfully at his friends.
"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong. I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks—not one. I—I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you."
"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like an April zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-bad golfer—ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to my ball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-foot putt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine trimming this morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three and two without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn't make him like it. What do you think of that, eh?"
"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?" Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window.
"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight. Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just to put some life into him and stir up his—er—cupidity. I guess that's the word. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do? Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up his ball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of Hell's Half Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!"
"He has cause—if you beat him," said one of the older members.
"I wish I could win from a well man once in a while," complained Parkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on an invalid."
"Oh, shut up and let Bob alone!"
"Yes; quit riding him."
"Don't rub it in!"
Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him, and the general conversation languished until the devil himself prompted one of the veteran golfers to offer advice:
"I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Bob. You're overgolfed. You've been playing too much lately."
"You've gone stale," said another.
"Nonsense!" argued a third. "You don't go stale at golf; you simply get off your game. Now what Bob ought to do is to take one club and a dozen balls and stay with that club until he gets his shots back."
"That's no good," said a fourth. "If his wood has gone bad on him he ought to leave his driver in his bag and use an iron off the tee. Chick Evans does that."
"An iron off the tee," said the veteran, "is a confession of weakness."
"Bob, why don't you get the 'pro' to give you a lesson or two? He might be able to straighten you out."
"Oh, what does a professional know about the theory of golf? All he can do is to tell you to watch him and do the way he does. Now what Bob needs——"
Every man who plays golf, no matter how badly, feels himself competent to offer advice. For a long ten minutes the air was heavy with well-meant suggestions. Coming at the wrong time, nothing is more galling than sympathetic counsel. Bob Coyne, six-handicap man and expert in the theory of golf, hunched his shoulders and endured it all without comment or protest. Somewhere in his head an idea was taking definite shape. Slowly but surely he was being urged to the point where decision merges into action.
"I tell you," said the veteran with the calm insistence of age, "Bob ought to take a lay-off. He ought to forget golf for a while."
Coyne rose and moved toward the door. As his hand touched the knob the irrepressible Parkes hurled the last straw athwart a heavy burden.
"If ever I get so that I can't enjoy this game any more," said he, "I hope I'll have strength of character enough to quit playing it."
"Oh, you do, do you?" demanded Coyne with the cold rage of a quiet man, goaded beyond the limit of his endurance. "Well, don't flatter yourself. You haven't—and you won't!"
The door closed behind this rather cryptic remark, and the listeners looked at each other and shook their heads.
"Never knew Bob to act like this before," said one.
"Anything can happen when a man's game is in a slump," said the veteran. "Take a steady, brainy player—a first-class golfer; let him lose his shots for a week and there's no telling what he'll do. Nothing to it—this is the most interesting and the most exasperating outdoor sport in the world.
"Just when you think you've learned all there is to learn about it—bang! And there you are, flat!"
"He's been wolfing at me all morning," said Parkes. "Kind of silly to let a game get on your nerves, eh?"
"You'll never know how a real golfer feels when his shots go bad on him," was the consoling response. "There he goes with his bag of clubs. Practice won't help him any. What he needs is a lay-off."
"He's headed for the caddie shed," said Parkes. "I'd hate to carry his bag this afternoon. Be afraid he'd bite me, or something.... Say, have you fellows heard about the two Scotchmen, playing in the finals for a cup? It seems that MacNabb lost his ball on the last hole, and MacGregor was helping him look for it——"
"I always did like that yarn," interrupted the veteran. "It's just as good now as it was twenty years ago. Shoot!"
A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested they listened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carrying profession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the name of Butch:
"And you oughta seen him at the finish—all he needed was an undertaker! You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time. The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag—darned if it wasn't pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the last hole——"
"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the clubhouse. "Here he comes now!"
Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what brought him into their midst.
"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which one would you take?"
"If I had a what?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement.
"Which one of these clubs do you like the best?"
"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!"
Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag.
"It's yours," said he briefly.
"Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You—you ain't giving it to me, are you?" Coyne nodded. "But—but what's the idea? You can't get along without that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!"
"Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf."
"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the privileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get so old they can't walk!"
"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of these other boys——"
"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you meant it at first. I——"
"Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?"
"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This ain't Injun givin'? Because—me, I had my eye on that brassy for some time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, mister! Gee! What do think of that—hey? Some club!"
At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the getting was good.
"Please, can I have that driver?"
"Aw, mister, you know me!"
"The mashie would be my pick!"
"Who ast you to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old brass putter there, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a brass putter."
"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's a mighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!"
In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entire collection of golfing instruments, representing the careful and discriminating accumulation of years, passed into new hands. Everybody knows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite, once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possesses something more than proper weight and balance; it has personality and is, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver, the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, the scarred old niblick, the two putters—everything was swept away in one wild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these old friends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all," said he at length.
"Mr. Coyne," said Butch, who had been practising imaginary approach shots with the light mid-iron, "you wouldn't care if I had about an inch taken off this shaft, would you? It's a little too long for me."
"Cut a foot off it if you like."
"I just wanted to know," said Butch apologetically. "Lots of people say they're going to quit; but——"
"It isn't a case of going to quit with me," said Coyne. "I have quit! You can make kindling wood out of that shaft if you like."
Then, with the empty bag under his arm, and his bridges aflame behind him, he marched back to the clubhouse, his chin a bit higher in the air than was absolutely necessary.
Later his voice was heard in the shower room, loud and clear above the sound of running water. It suited him to sing and the ditty of his choice was a cheerful one; but the rollicking words failed to carry conviction. An expert listener might have detected a tone smacking strongly of defiance and suspected that Mr. Coyne was singing to keep up his courage.
When next seen he was clothed, presumably in his right mind, and rummaging deep in his locker. On the floor was a pile of miscellaneous garments—underwear, sweaters, shirts, jackets, knickerbockers and stockings. To his assistance came Jasper, for twenty years a fixture in the locker room and as much a part of the club as the sun porch or the front door.
"Gettin' yo' laundry out, suh? Lemme give you a hand."
Now Jasper was what is known as a character; and, moreover, he was a privileged one. He was on intimate terms with every member of the Country Club and entitled to speak his mind at all times. He had made a close study of the male golfing animal in all his varying moods; he knew when to sympathise with a loser, when to congratulate a winner, and when to remain silent. Jasper was that rare thing known as the perfect locker room servant.
"This isn't laundry," explained Coyne. "I'm just cleaning house—that's all.... Think you can use these rubber-soled golf shoes?"
"Misteh Coyne, suh," said Jasper, "them shoes is as good as new. Whut you want to give 'em away faw?"
"Because I won't be wearing 'em any more."
"H-m-m! Too small, maybe?"
"No; they fit all right. Fact of the matter is, Jasper, I'm sick of this game and I'm going to quit it."
Jasper's eyes oscillated rapidly.
"Aw, no, Misteh Coyne!" said he in the tone one uses when soothing a peevish child. "You jus' think you goin' to quit—tha's all!"
"You never heard me say I was going to quit before, did you?" demanded Coyne.
"No, suh; no."
"Well, when I say I'm going to quit, you can bet I mean it!" Jasper reflected on this statement.
"Yes, suh," said he gently. "Betteh let me put them things back, Misteh Coyne. They in the way here."
"What's the use of putting 'em back in the locker? They're no good to me. Make a bundle of 'em and give 'em to the poor."
"Mph! Po' folks ain't wearin' them shawt pants much—not this season, nohow!"
"I don't care what you do with 'em! Throw 'em away—burn 'em up—pitch 'em out. I don't care!"
"Yes, suh. All right, suh. Jus' as you say." Jasper rolled the heap into a bundle and began tying it with the sleeves of a shirt. "I'll look afteh 'em, suh."
"Never mind looking after 'em. Get rid of the stuff. I'm through, I tell you—done—finished—quit!"
"Yes, suh. I heard you the firs' time you said it."
The negro was on his knees fumbling with the knot. Something in his tone irritated Coyne—caused him to feel that he was not being taken seriously.
"I suppose a lot of members quit—eh?" said he.
"Yes, suh," replied Jasper with a flash of ivory. "Some of 'em quits oncet a month, reg'leh."
"But you never heard of a case where a player gave all his clubs away, did you?" demanded Coyne.
"Some of 'em breaks clubs," said Jasper; "but they always gits new shafts put in. Some of 'em th'ow 'em in the lake; but they fish 'em out ag'in. But—give 'em away? No, suh! They don' neveh do that."
"Well," said Coyne, "when I make up my mind to do a thing I do it right. I've given away every club I owned."
Jasper lifted his head and stared upward, mouth open and eyelids fluttering rapidly.
"You—you given yo' clubs away!" he ejaculated. "Who'd you give 'em to, suh?"
"Oh, to the caddies," was the airy response. "Made a sort of general distribution. One club to each kid."
"Misteh Coyne," said Jasper earnestly, "tha's foolishness—jus' plain foolishness. S'pose you ain' been playin' yo' reg'leh game lately—s'pose you had a lot o' bad luck—that ain' no reason faw you to do a thing like that. Givin' all them expensible clubs to them pin-headed li'l' boys! Lawd! Lawd! They don't know how to treat 'em! They'll be splittin' the shafts, an' crackin' the heads, an' nickin' up the irons, an'——"
"Well," interrupted Coyne, "what of it? I hope they do break 'em!"
Jasper shook his head sorrowfully and returned to the bundle. While studying golfers he had come to know the value placed on golfing tools.
"O' course," said he slowly, "yo' own business is yo' own business, Misteh Coyne. Only, suh, it seem like a awful shame to me. Seem like bustin' up housekeepin' afteh you been married a long time.... Why not wait a few days an' see how you feel then?"
"No! I'm through."
Jasper jerked his head in the direction of the lounging room.
"You tol' the otheh gen'lemen whut you goin' to do?" he asked.
"What's the use? They'd only laugh. They wouldn't believe me. Let 'em find it out for themselves. And, by the way—there's my empty bag in the corner. Dispose of it somehow. Give it away—sell it. You can have whatever you get for it."
"Thank you, suh. You comin' back to see us once in a while?"
"Oh, I suppose so. With the wife and the kids. Well, take care of yourself."
Jasper followed him to the door and watched until the little runabout disappeared down the driveway.
"All foolishness—tha's whut it is!" soliloquised the negro.
"This golf game—she's sutny a goat getteh when she ain' goin' right. Me, I ratheh play this Af'ican golf with two dice. That's some goat getteh, too, an' lots of people quits it; but I notice they always comes back. Yes, suh; they always comes back."