"Waddy," said this person—and there were tears in his eyes and a sob in his voice—"you know that I'll never be able to play to a four handicap, don't you?"
"Certainly," was the calm response.
"Then what was the idea of putting me at such a low mark?"
"Well," said Waddles with a sweet smile, "I don't mind telling you, in strict confidence: I cut you down to four to keep you honest."
The wretched cup hunter howled like a wolf, but it got him nothing. He is still a four man, and if he lives to be as old as the Dingbats he will never take home another trophy.
Not only is Waddles supreme on the golf course but he dominates the clubhouse as well. He writes us tart letters about shaking dice for money and signs them "House Committee, per W." Really serious matters are dealt with in letters signed "Board of Directors, per W." The old boy is the law and the prophets, the fine Italian hand, the mailed fist, the lord high executioner and the chief justice, and if he misses you with one barrel he is sure to get you with the other.
You might think that this would be power enough for one weak mortal. You might think that there are some things which Waddles would regard as beyond his jurisdiction. You might think that the little god of love would come under another dispensation—you might think all these things, but you don't know our Waddles. He is afflicted with that strange malady described by the immortal Cap'n Prowse as "the natural gift of authority," and such a man recognises no limits, knows no boundaries, and wouldn't care two whoops if he did. Come to think of it, the Kaiser is now under treatment for the same ailment.
Since I have given you some faint conception of Waddles and his character I will proceed with the plain and simple tale of Mary Brooke, Bill Hawley and Russell Davidson. Beth Rogers was in the foursome too, but she doesn't really count, not being in love with any one but herself.
II
Ladies first is a safe rule, so we will start with Mary. My earliest recollection of this young woman dates back twenty-and-I-won't-say-how-many-more years, at which time she entertained our neighbourhood by reciting nursery rimes—"Twinka, twinka, yitty tar," and all the rest of that stuff.