IV
One week ago last Saturday, Sam Totten staged his annual show. Totten Day is ringed with red on all calendars belonging to Class-B golfers. It is the day when men win cups who never won cups before. All Class-A men are barred; it is strictly a Class-B party. Those with handicaps from twelve to twenty-four are eligible, and there are cups for all sorts of things—the best gross, the best first nine, the best second nine, the best score with one hole out, the best score with two holes out, and so on. Sam always buys the big cup himself—the one for the best gross score—and he sandbags his friends into contributing at least a dozen smaller trophies. The big cup is placed on exhibition before play begins, but the others, as well as the conditions of award, remain under cover, thus introducing the element of the unexpected. The conditions are made known as the cups are awarded and the ceremony of presentation is worth going a long way to see and a longer way to hear.
On Totten Day three of us were looking for a fourth man, and we encountered Henry Peacock, in his chronic state of loneliness. The Bish is sometimes a very secretive person, but he might have spared my feelings by giving me a hint of his intentions. Henry advanced on us, expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, but convinced that there was no harm in the asking. He used the threadbare formula:
"Any vacancy this afternoon, gentlemen?"
"Why, yes!" said the Bish. "Yes, we're one man short. Want to go round with us?"
Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell all over himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time would suit him—just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he would be at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of the players, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was a twelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not. Yes, anything would suit him—and he scuttled away toward the dining-room.
I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listened without so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip.
"All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. I took him in with us because this is Totten Day."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. If he tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. I want to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts and has his card turned in."
"But you don't want that old stiff to win a cup, do you?"
"I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it. That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is a frightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kicking about? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, and you can have Dale."
When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple of subdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken into Class-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten, Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Sam was acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodson who came forward and patted Henry on the back.
"Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get another eighty-two!"
"I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"—here he addressed Henry—"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we go along. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can."
"I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I need pointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated."
"That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back and almost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount to anything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!"
Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one of his justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made room for Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interest shown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henry change his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ball entirely, topping it into the bunker.
"Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, taking Henry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot."
Arriving at the bunker Henry armed himself with his niblick.
"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can't you play your jigger at all?"
"My jigger!" exclaimed Henry. "But—it's a niblick shot, isn't it?"
"That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a good lie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it up clean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball."
Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get away with it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dub like Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting under instructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit the sand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely.
"Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-class excavating. Scoop her out with the niblick."
Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassy wall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged.
"Now your wood," said he.
"But I play a cleek better."
"Nonsense! Take a good hard poke at it with the brassy!"
And poke it he did—a nasty slice into rough grass.
"I could have kept it straight with an iron," said Henry reproachfully.
"Well, of course," said the Bish, "if you don't want me to advise you——"
"But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!"
"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels. By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he could do better than that.
"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you, Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny."
"Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now."
"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen competition—and advice."
Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and the advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself, nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots. If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum.
"He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?"
I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing out of that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the first time since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of the scores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head—and when you find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's score would have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and double figures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottom of the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots he amassed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleated plaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised him to put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on his shots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone, but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrate on anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the last hole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades.
"You'll be all right, Peacock, if you just remember what I've told you. The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendency to underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of getting too much distance."
"I—I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all you gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you again soon—er—quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything you can tell me——"
Henry continued to babble and the Bish drew me aside.
"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talk to him about his game—anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep him there!"
Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard him demanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail.
The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usual ceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms, escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selecting an obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but when the jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke of needing a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my good fairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup. Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famous victory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice of clubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh hole when Totten made his last speech.
"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashie and not quite far enough for the——"
There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over the sea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a large green felt bag under his arm.
"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen—if you are gentlemen!—I crave your indulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an added trophy—a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!"
He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by cries of "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprised expression on his face told me that this part of the programme was not of his making.
"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awarded for a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me that this is manifestly one-sided and unfair."
"Hear! Hear!" cried a voice.
"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cup which I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever made by a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America."
Henry Peacock jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laid my hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door.
"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar had subsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a double distinction. He is the holder of two records—one for the lowest net score on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peacock shot the course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes.... Bring the gentleman forward, please!"
There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of the confusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surrounded him, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to the table, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him and surged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over and placed the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lip was trembling with rage.
"Open it up! Come on, let's see it!"
Mr. Peacock cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged his hand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but it was a cup, sure enough—a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feeble imitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents. And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was the record of Mr. Peacock's activities for the afternoon, in gross and detail, as follows:
| HOLES | PAR | PEACOCK |
| 1 | 4 | 11 |
| 2 | 4 | 9 |
| 3 | 4 | 8 |
| 4 | 5 | 8 |
| 5 | 3 | 7 |
| 6 | 6 | 15 |
| 7 | 5 | 9 |
| 8 | 4 | 8 |
| 9 | 4 | 12 |
| 10 | 5 | 12 |
| 11 | 3 | 7 |
| 12 | 4 | 8 |
| 13 | 4 | 9 |
| 14 | 3 | 7 |
| 15 | 4 | 8 |
| 16 | 4 | 9 |
| 17 | 5 | 11 |
| 18 | 5 | 9 |
| — | —— | |
| Total | 76 | 167 |
As Henry gazed at this work of art a shout came from the back of the room. Waddles had come to life.
"Winner buys, Henry! Winner always buys! It's a rule of the club!"
"The club be damned!" cried Henry Peacock as he fought his way to the door.
"Bish," said Frank Woodson, "that was a rotten trick to play on anybody. You shouldn't have done it."
"A rotten case," replied the Bish, "requires a rotten remedy. It's kill or cure; even money and take your pick."
As it turned out it was a cure.
Henry Peacock is once more a member of the Old Guard, in good standing and entitled to all privileges. Totten, Woodson and Miller received him with open arms, and they actually treat the old reprobate as if nothing had happened. I believe it will be a long time before he reminds them that he once shot an eighty-two, and a longer time before he breaks a ninety.