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.