“And so ends our great reunion,” said Vaughan, mopping his heated forehead. “Jack ought to feel pleased with himself; he’s certainly succeeded in knocking all the pleasure out of it for everybody, about as well as any one could. And I think, on the whole, that I’m inclined to agree with him about where he’s bound.”
Helmar sighed, a sigh of honest disappointment and anxiety. “Jack’s a mighty good fellow,” he answered, “but he’s certainly in a bad way now. If he ever means to amount to anything, he’s got to fight, and fight hard, too. Well, come on, Arthur, I suppose we’d better get to bed,” and thus the long-planned quinquennial reunion came sadly and dismally to an end.
CHAPTER IV
A FOOL AND HIS MONEY
“Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances.”
Shakespeare.
Jack Carleton stood in front of the ticker in Turner and Driver’s office, letting the narrow white ribbon run lightly through his fingers. For the moment he was alone. The big clock over on the post-office building had just boomed slowly the hour of twelve, and the little knot of customers, calmly or hurriedly, according to their several temperaments, had one by one gone out to lunch, for man must eat, though black care sit at his elbow. And indeed, though the little ticker still buzzed and whirred unceasingly, and the tape, with scarcely a halt or pause in its onward course, still ran as smoothly and persistently as ever, for the moment the worst of the drive seemed really to be over. So that presently Carleton lifted his eyes, red-rimmed and tired from the blur of black and white beneath them, letting the quotations run on unheeded, and stood with eyes fixed on the spot where, just visible through the very top of the tall window, framed in with line and bar of blackened roof and dingy chimney top, there smiled cheerfully down into the gloom of the darkened office a cloudless patch of bright blue sky.
Imperceptibly the sound of the ticker ceased, and the white ribbon began fantastically to curl and twist in his hand, for all unconsciously his fingers had closed upon it, checking the smoothness of its onward flow. The little patch of blue sky had sent his thoughts wandering far afield. A moment before he had been standing there in the office, wondering miserably whether to try to pull out, while there was yet time, with a good part of his little fortune gone, or whether, with anchors grappling desperately for holding ground, to strive somehow to ride out the storm. And now, so long had his mind run upon things trivial and unimportant, that despite the panic, despite the danger he was in, thanks to that casual upward glance, he stood already in imagination at the first tee at the Country Club, the green of the valley lying smooth and fair beneath him, the couple ahead just disappearing over the farther dip of the hill, and he himself, well-limbered up, driver in hand, in the act of placing the new white ball on the well-made tee, properly confident of smashing it out a hundred and eighty yards away, amid the close-cropped velvet of the rolling turf. Absolutely a perfect day, he reflected, for the medal round; no wind, a bright sun, greens quick, yet true—and above all, he felt that he could win. Barnes was entered, of course, and Henderson himself—he was paired with him—and Henderson had told Jake Rogers that since he had changed his grip he could “put it all over” Carleton, match or medal, any time they met. Rogers, with his little crooked smile, had taken pains, of course, to repeat the remark, and while Jack had laughed and said, “Oh, sure, he can lick me all right,” in his own heart of hearts, nevertheless, he knew that he could trim Henderson, and somewhat grimly had awaited his chance. About a hundred and sixty would do it, he figured; say a seventy-nine to-day and an eighty-one to-morrow—two such perfect days in succession could hardly be—yes, about a couple of eighties would do the trick.