I
“NO, sir,” said Mr. Wellaway, positively, “this is not the club at all. This is not the sort of club. The club I mean has a heavier head—heavier and flatter.”
The clerk looked here and there among the racks of golf-clubs, but his general manner was that of hopelessness. There seemed to be thousands of golf-clubs in the racks, and he had shown Mr. Wellaway club after club, each seeming to fit the description Mr. Wellaway had given, but in vain. Mr. Wellaway looked up and down the shop.
“If I could remember the name of the clerk,” he said, “he would know the club. He sold one of them to Mr. ——” He hesitated. “Now I can’t remember his name. A rather large man with a smooth face. He has a small wart or a wen just at the side of his nose. You didn’t wait on such a man last week, did you?”
“I can’t recall him by the description,” said the clerk.
“Pshaw, now!” said Mr. Wellaway, with vexation. “I know his name as well as I know my own! I would forget my own if people didn’t mention it to me once in a while. It is peculiar how a man can remember faces and forget names, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” said the clerk. “If you just look through these clubs yourself, you may be able to find what you want. Was the name of the clerk you had in mind Mills? Or Waterson? Or Frazer?”
“It might be Frazer,” said Mr. Wellaway, doubtfully.
“If it was Frazer,” said the clerk, “he left here last Saturday.”
“But couldn’t you look up Frazer’s sales and see what kind of driver he sold? But of course you can’t if I don’t remember the name of the man he sold it to, can you?”
“Not very well,” admitted the clerk, with a polite smile. “Now, if you like a heavy club—”
He was interrupted by another customer. The golf goods were on the basement floor, and a short flight of steps led to the basement from the main floor, and the new customer had come down the stairs. He was a big, bluff, hearty man, with a cheerful manner and a rather red face, and Mr. Wellaway immediately remembered having met him sometime and somewhere. He nodded his head with the ready comradeship of a fellow-golfer.
“Hello!” exclaimed the new-comer, heartily. “Well! well! so you are at it too, are you? Got the golf fever?” Then to the clerk: “Got my brassy mended?”
“What name, sir?” asked the clerk.
“Didn’t leave any name,” said the big man. “It’s a mahogany brassy, the only real mahogany brassy you ever saw. I had it made to order,” he said to Mr. Wellaway, as the clerk hurried away to the repair department. “So you’ve taken up golf, have you? It’s a great game.”
“It is a great game,” said Mr. Wellaway; “but I’ve been at it a long time. Not that I’m much good at it.”
“No one is ever any good at it except the crack players,” said the other. “I’m as bad as they make ’em; but I love it. Where do you play?”
“Van Cortlandt,” said Mr. Wellaway.
“Ever play Westcote?”
“No,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I’ve been in the village, but I didn’t know there was a course there.”
“Best little course you ever saw,” said the hearty man. “Nine holes, but all beauties. I want you to play it sometime. Look here,” he added suddenly, “what have you got on for this afternoon?”
“Well, I was going up to Van Cortlandt,” said Mr. Wellaway, hesitatingly.
“That’s all off now! You’re coming out with me and have a try at our Westcote course. Yes, you are. You know I never take ‘No’ for an answer when I make up my mind. And, look here, we have just time to get a train.”
Mr. Wellaway’s host beckoned violently to the clerk.
“But my clubs—” protested Mr. Wellaway.
“That’s all right, too. Our professional can fit you out.”
“I ought to telephone my wife.”
“Oh, do it from the club.”
The temptation was too much for Mr. Wellaway. It was a hot day, and he knew the public links at Van Cortlandt would be crowded to the limit. He imagined the cool green of the little course at Westcote and let himself be persuaded, and in four minutes he was aboard the commuters’ train, being whirled under the East River.
It was not until the train was out of the tunnel and speeding along over the Long Island right of way that he felt the first qualm of uneasiness; but it was a very slight qualm. He was ashamed that he could not remember the name of his host. The man’s face was certainly familiar enough, and the man evidently knew Mr. Wellaway well enough to invite him to play golf, or Mr. Wellaway would not have been invited; but the name would not make itself known. But, after all, that was an easily remedied matter. The first friend they met would call Mr. Wellaway’s host by name.
At Woodside they left the electric train and boarded the steam train, but no one had spoken to Mr. Wellaway’s host on the platform. One or two men had nodded to him in a manner that showed they liked him, but none mentioned his name. Mr. Wellaway smiled. He would use a little very simple Sherlock Holmes work when the conductor came through for the fares.
Mr. Wellaway had noticed that his host used a fifty-trip ticket-book when the conductor asked for the fare on the electric, and now he waited until the new conductor tore the trip leaves from the book and returned the book to its owner.
“I see you use a book,” said Mr. Wellaway. “Do you find it cheaper than buying mileage?”
He held out his hand for the book. It was an ordinary gesture of curiosity, and his host surrendered the book.
“No, I don’t, not usually,” he said. “And a commutation-ticket is cheaper than either. Now, a commutation-ticket costs—”
He entered into the commuter’s usual closely computed average of cost per trip, and Mr. Wellaway nodded his acquiescence in the figures; but his mind was elsewhere. He read as though interested the face of the book, and then turned it over. There on the back, in a bold hand, under the contract the thrifty railroads make book-holders sign, was the signature, “Geo. P. Garris.” Mr. Wellaway stared at the name while he ransacked his memory to recall a George P. Garris. He not only could not recall a George P. Garris, but he could not remember ever having heard or seen the name of Garris. If the second “r” was meant for a “v,” the name might be “Garvis,” but that did not help. He could not recall a Garvis. At any rate, it was some satisfaction to know his host was George P. Garris or George P. Garvis. When and how he had met him would probably soon appear.
Drawn by Henry Raleigh
“‘LOOK HERE,’ HE ADDED SUDDENLY, ‘WHAT HAVE YOU GOT ON FOR THIS AFTERNOON?’”
“I see you are looking at that name,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host, “and I don’t wonder. Matter of fact, I have no business to have that book; but Garvis was a good fellow, and he needed the money, so I bought it of him when he left Westcote.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Wellaway, blankly, and then: “So that’s why you are not using a commutation-ticket this month.” He had to say something.
“That’s the reason,” said his host; “and this is Westcote.”