Under our rules a competitor in a club tournament has a week in which to play his man, and it so happened that we agreed on Wednesday for our meeting. Wally called for me in his new runabout, and we had lunch together—I shook him and stuck him for it, and he grinned and remarked that a man couldn't be lucky at everything. While we were dressing he chattered like a magpie, talking about everything in the world but golf, which was a sign that he wasn't worrying much. He expected easy picking, and under normal conditions he would have had it.
We left the first tee promptly at one-forty-five p.m., our caddies carrying the little red flags which demand the right of way over everything. I might have suggested starting at Number Ten if I had thought of it, but to tell the truth I was a wee mite nervous and was wondering whether I had my drive with me or not. You know how the confounded thing comes and goes. So we started at Number One, and my troubles began. Wally opened up on me with a four-four-three, making the third hole in a stroke under par, and when we reached the fourth tee we were all square and my handicap was gone.
It was on the fourth tee that we first began to notice signs of congestion ahead of us. One foursome had just driven off and beckoned us to come through, another was waiting to go, and the fair green on the way to the fifth looked like the advance of the Mexican standing army.
"Somebody has lost the transmission out of his wheel chair," said Wally. "Well, we should worry—we've got the red flags and the right of way. Fore!" And he proceeded to smack a perfect screamer down the middle of the course—two hundred and fifty yards if it was an inch. I staggered into one and laid my ball some distance behind his, but on the direct line to the pin. Then we had to wait a bit while another foursome putted out.
"There oughtn't to be any congestion on a day like this," said Wally. "Must be a bunch of old men ahead."
"It's the Big Four," said I. "Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. They always take their time."
From where we were we could see the seventh and eighth fair greens. There wasn't a player in sight on either one.
"Good Lord!" said Wally. "They've got the whole United States wide open ahead of 'em. They're not holding their place on the course."
"They never do," said I, and just then the foursome moved off the putting green.
"Give her a ride, old top!" said Wally.