CHAPTER FOUR
Dick McCue started off like a jet pilot. "What's the hurry?" Mrs. Goudeket demanded. "Better go slow and we'll get there." She was feeling uneasier than ever; because though she had heard the rain pounding on the house, and seen the rain sluicing down the windows, she hadn't felt the rain until that two-yard dash from the door to the station wagon that had wet her to the skin.
"Sure, Mrs. Goudeket," he said cheerfully, and slowed down—briefly. Fast, slow—he could drive that blacktop road down to the highway in his sleep. This was what he liked; something happening. He never would have taken the agency's offer of this job if he'd known it would involve running putting contests for rained-in guests who blamed it all on him. Girls, dances, a chance to sharpen up his game for the all-important Inter-Collegiate Medalist next year—the agency had made it sound pretty great. Of course, he had a lot to offer, too—his maidenhead, for instance, as far as the world of golf was concerned; now he was definitely and permanently a pro, and some of the doors in golfing were forever closed to him. Maybe he should have held out for more money. But what was the difference; Dick McCue knew well enough that his game wasn't going to support him all his life; he had a good, powerful drive and a touch with the putter, but everything between the tee and the cup was hard work. It made him a splendid golf pro for Mrs. Goudeket's guests, most of whose future golfing would be either on a driving range or on one of those miniature courses that were coming back, but that was as far as his talents went. Dick McCue didn't kid himself—or anyway, not about his golf.
Mrs. Goudeket cried out and clutched his arm. "Look! Four hundred dollars worth of topsoil!" But it wasn't four hundred dollars worth of topsoil any more; it was a lake. She looked at it incredulously. She remembered distinctly what it had looked like when she and Mr. Goudeket had taken possession of Goudeket's Green Acres, formerly known as Holiday Hacienda: It had been a muddy cow pasture, rutted and gullied. It had taken three days with a bulldozer before they could start putting the topsoil on—
Mrs. Goudeket swallowed, as she considered where the four hundred dollars for the next batch of topsoil might be coming from. From the back seat Sharon Froman called sharply: "Watch yourself, Dick!"
"I see him," McCue said, slowing down. A battered pickup truck was wallowing around their entrance road, trying to turn around. The driver was being meticulously careful about staying off the shoulders, which made it a long process, but finally he got turned around and pulled over. As the station wagon drew close he leaned out and yelled: "This ain't the road to Hebertown, is it?"
Dick McCue leaned over his employer to roll the window down and yell back: "No! You have to turn left at the road, then the second right, left at the bridge—Look, just follow me." He barely got his head out of the window before Mrs. Goudeket rolled it up again.
"Follow him! Jeez, I ought to have an airplane!"
Mickey Groff said, "We ought to be nearly there by now. Does it look familiar?"