I couldn't resist the temptation of slipping a torpedo under his bows. I thought it might wake him up a trifle.
"Mary is playing a better game now. Davidson has been teaching her some shots."
Bill wanted to open up and say something, but he didn't know how to go about it. He looked at me almost piteously and I felt ashamed of myself.
"I'll be going now," he mumbled. "Haven't had much sleep the last few nights. Never sleep on a train anyway. See you later."
That was all I got out of him, but it was enough. It wasn't any of my affair, of course, but from the bottom of my heart I pitied the big, clumsy fellow. I felt certain that Mary was giving him the worst of it, and taking the worst of it herself, but what could I do? Absolutely nothing. In life's most important game the spectators are not encouraged to sit on the side lines and shout advice to the players.
As for Bill, I think he fought it out with himself that night and decided to return to his boyhood policy of watchful waiting. It wasn't the first time that he had lost the front-porch privilege, and in the past he had won it back again by keeping under cover and giving the incumbent a chance to become tiresome. Bill declined to play the second-fiddle parts; he took himself out of Mary's orchestra entirely. He did not call on her any more; but I am willing to bet any sum of money, up to ten dollars, that Bill knew how many times a week Russell's runabout stood in front of the Brooke place. Five would have been a fair average.
Russell had things all his own way, and before long we began to hear the same vague whisperings of a wedding, coupled with expressions of sympathy for Bill. Bill heard those whisperings too—trust the dear ladies for that—but he listened to everything with a good-natured grin, and even succeeded in fooling a portion of the female population; but he didn't fool Waddles and he didn't fool me. Bill met Mary at dinner parties and dances now and then, and whenever this happened the women watched every move that he made, and were terribly disappointed because he failed to register deep grief; but Bill never was the sort to wear his heart outside his vest. Russell was very much in evidence at all these meetings, for he took Mary everywhere, and Bill was scrupulously polite to him—the particular brand of politeness which makes a real man want to fight. And thus the summer waned, and the winter season came on—for in our country we have only two seasons—and it was in November that old Waddles finally unbuttoned his lip and informed me that young Mr. Davidson would never do.
It was in the lounging room at the country club. We had finished our round, and I had paid Waddles three balls as usual. It never costs less than three balls to play with him. We were sitting by the window, acquiring nourishment and looking out upon the course. In the near foreground Russell Davidson was teaching Mary Brooke the true inwardness of the chip shot. He wasn't having a great deal of luck. Waddles broke the silence by grunting. It was a grunt of infinite disgust. I searched my pockets and put a penny on the table.
"For your thoughts," said I.
"They're worth more than that," said Waddles.