“Some speed,” murmured Garrigan. “It's Bartlett and Poland,” he went on, as a shift of wind blew the dust to one side and revealed the gray roadster and the Spanish Omelet. “The rivals are at it again.”
Bruce Garrigan, who had a name among the golf club members as a human encyclopaedia, and who, at times, would inform his companions on almost any subject that chanced to come uppermost, tossed away his cigarette and, with Tom Sharwell, watched the oncoming automobile racers.
“They're rivals in more ways than one,” remarked Sharwell. “And it looks, now, as though the captain rather had the edge on Harry, in spite of the fast color of Harry's car.”
“That's right,” admitted Garrigan. “Is it true what I've heard about both of them-that each hopes to place the diamond hoop of proprietorship on the fair Viola?”
“I guess if you've heard that they're both trying for her, it's true enough,” answered Sharwell. “And it also happens, if that old lady, Mrs. G. 0. 5. Sipp, is to be believed, that there, also, the captain has the advantage.”
“How's that? I thought Harry had made a tidy sum on that ship-building project he put through.”
“He did, but it seems that he and his family have a penchant for doing that sort of thing, and, some years ago, in one of the big mergers in which his family took a prominent part, they, or some one connected with them, pinched the Honorable Horace Carwell so that he squealed for mercy like a lamb led to the Wall street slaughter house.”
“So that's the game, is it?”
“Yes. And ever since then, though Viola Carwell has been just as nice to Harry as she has to Gerry—as far as any one can tell-there has been talk that Harry is persona non grata as far as her father goes. He never forgives any business beat, I understand.”
“Was it anything serious?” asked Garrigan, as they watched the racing automobiles swing around the turn of the road that led to the clubhouse.