III
Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player is very well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot. It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, rough to the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guarding the green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee.
"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts. I always drive best when people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, they say. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when I address the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this: 'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! And the little white devil certainly took a ride—long, low, and straight up the middle of the course—the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it to make it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixty yards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pill beside that one—if you think you can!"
"You're a 12-handicap man—and you drive like that!" said Kitts, which was, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot.
"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. I really play to a 6."
Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversational leads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberate players who must make just so many motions before they pull off their shots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he moved up on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forth over it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out a nice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all, he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker.
"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot! Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of a contest——"
"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windy winked at the rest of us.
"His goat is loose already!" said he in a stage whisper. "He can't stand the gaff!"
Adolphus got out of the tall grass on his third shot, but dropped his fourth into a deep sand pit short of the green.
"With a lot of luck," said Windy, reaching for his brassy, "you may get an 8—but I doubt it. Pretty soft for me, pretty soft!" And with the sole of his club he patted the turf behind his ball, smoothing it down—three gentle little pats. "Pret-ty soft!" murmured Windy, and sent the ball whistling straight on to the green for a sure 4. Then he turned to Kitts. "D'you give up?" said he. "Might just as well; you haven't got a burglar's chance!"
"I claim the hole," said Adolphus calmly, fishing out the book of rules.
"You—what?"
"Rule No. 10," said Kitts, beginning to read. "'In playing through the green, irregularities of surface which could in any way affect the player's stroke shall not be removed nor pressed down by the player——' You patted the grass behind your ball and improved the lie by smoothing it down. I claim the hole."
Windy went about the colour of a nice ripe Satsuma plum. His neck swelled so much that his ears moved outward. "You don't mean to say that you're goin' to call a thing like that on me when you're already licked for the hole?" He spoke slowly, as if he found it hard to believe that the situation was real.
"I claim it," repeated Adolphus monotonously. "You can appeal to Mr. Cutts, as chairman of the greens committee."
"Hey, Fatty! All I did was pat the grass a few times with my club, and this—this gentleman here says he claims the hole."
"You violated the rule," shortly answered Cupid, who may be fat but does not like to be reminded of it so publicly.
"And you're goin' to let him get away with that?" demanded Windy. "I'm on the green in two, and he's neck-deep in the sand on his fourth——"
"Makes no difference," said Cupid, turning away. "You ought to know the rules by now. Kitts wins the hole."
Well, Windy finally accepted the situation, but he was in a savage frame of mind—so savage that he walked all the way to the second tee without opening his mouth. There he stepped aside, with a low bow to Kitts.
"Your honour, I believe," said he with nasty emphasis.
No. 2 is a short hole—a drive and a pitch. Windy got a good ball, and it rolled almost to the edge of the green. Kitts's drive was short but straight, and he pitched his second to the green, some thirty feet from the pin, and the advantage seemed to be with Windy until it was discovered that his ball was lying in a cuppy depression of the turf.
"That's lovely, ain't it?" growled Windy. "A fine drive—and look at this for a lie! I was goin' to use a putter, but a putter won't get the ball out of there. Hey, Fatty, had I better use a niblick here?"
"I claim the hole," said Kitts, reaching for the book.
"But I haven't done anything!" howled Windy. "How can you claim the hole when I haven't played the shot?"
"You asked advice," said Kitts, reading. "'A player may not ask for nor willingly receive advice from any one except his own caddie, his partner, or his partner's caddie.' This is not a foursome, so you have no partner. Advice is defined as any suggestion which could influence a player in determining the line of play, in the choice of a club, or in the method of making a stroke. You asked whether you should use a niblick—and you lose the hole."
Windy, knocked speechless for once in his life, looked over at Cupid, and Cupid nodded his head.
"The match is now all square," said Kitts as he started for the third tee.
"And squared by a couple of petty larceny protests!" said Windy. "Hey, Mister Bookworm, wait a minute! I want to tell you something for your own good!"
"Oh, play golf!" said Kitts, over his shoulder.
Windy strode after him and took him by the arm. It wasn't a gentle grasp either.
"That's exactly what I want to say. You play golf, Mr. Kitts! Play it with your clubs, and forget that book in your hip pocket. If you pull it on me again, I'll—I'll——"
Adolphus tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort.
"You can't intimidate me," said he.
"Maybe not," said Windy, quite earnestly, "but I can lick you within an inch of your life—and I will. Is there anything in the book about that? If you read me out of this cup, you better make arrangements to have it sent direct to the hospital. It'll make a nice flower holder—if you've got any friends that think enough of you to send flowers!"
"You gentlemen are witnesses to these threats," said Kitts, appealing to the gallery.
"We didn't hear a word," said Cupid. "Not a word. Go on and play your match and stop squabbling. You act like a couple of fishwives!"
The contestants walked off in the direction of the tee, with Windy still rubbing it in.
"A word to the wise. Keep that damn' book in your pocket, if you don't want to eat it—cover and all!"
"Suppose they do mix it?" said Cupid, mopping his brow. "Sweet little golfing scandal, eh? Can't you see the headlines in the newspapers? 'Country Club finalists in fist fight on links!' And some of these roughneck humourists will congratulate us on golf becoming one of the vital, red-blooded sports! Oh, lovely!"
"Bah!" said I. "There will be no fight. No man will fight who smiles like a coyote when he is getting a call down."
"But a coyote will fight if you put it up to him, don't make any mistake about that. And Kitts will spring the book on Windy again, I feel it in my bones, and if he does—choose your partners for the one-step! Oh, why did we ever let these rotters into the club?"