It happened the other morning when this match was to be played, that a great disappointment was in store for the little party, as they took train from Charing Cross bound for that fine inland course some twenty miles away to which they were all most devoted. Heavy clouds of ominous complexion were above at nine o’clock, and there was a suspicious look and feel about the atmosphere; but, like all good golfers, these men were optimists all, and would not mention to one another the fear that was in their hearts.
“I daresay we shall have a very nice day after all,” murmured the Parson, and the Colonel stated that he was nearly certain that the glass was rising when he last looked at it. A fine fellow is your golfing optimist. But when London had been left some ten miles behind, the hideous truth was exposed beyond any denial. It was snowing, and the chill of it went to the hearts of the golfers.
“Oh, this won’t be much,” said the M.P., “and it is certain to melt quickly, anyhow; see how watery are the flakes.”
But when they arrived at the course it was snowing more than ever, and big dry flakes were whirling in eddies all about, while the course already lay an inch beneath a white covering. It was a bad case. Unless there was a great change in an hour or so there could be no golf that day, and indeed the idea of it was already almost given up. The four sat in the smoke-room looking exceeding glum. Attempts to make congenial conversation failed. The Parson felt that it was incumbent on him to cheer up his friends, and after other kind efforts he bethought himself of what he considered to be an excellent story.
“Upon my word, you fellows,” he said, “I nearly forgot to tell you of the most extraordinary [occurrence] that I have ever heard of, and one in which a strange point of golfing law is involved. The case must be sent to St. Andrews.”
Everybody was alert at this announcement. It is an excellent thing to know that a poser of sorts is going to be put to that autocratic assembly in Fifeshire.
“Splendid!” ejaculated the Colonel, “we must hear this story of yours, Septimus; but I hope you are not going to pitch us that yarn you once told me about your wife’s brother having once played a low push shot across a river, and a salmon leaping at the ball as it skimmed across and being carried with it on to the bank! We have heard that, you know.”
“As I told you at the time,” responded the Parson, “I only repeated what my wife’s brother told me, and I certainly did not say that I had seen the fish dragged on to the bank in that manner. But this story was told me by my son Richard, when he was down from Oxford last time, and he declares the incident happened on the course at Radley. One of the men was engaged in a match, and going to the tenth he played a beautiful run up from forty yards off the putting green, that actually made the ball hit the pin and then it rolled into the hole; but it had no sooner got into the hole than out it flew again, and after it came a large frog! It was clear that the ball had rolled on the back of the frog in the hole, and that this frog, startled, no doubt, jumped up and out of the hole, ejecting the ball at the same time. The ball came to rest on the green, and my son’s friend thereupon claimed that he had holed out.”
For a few seconds there was a stony silence, and then the Colonel burst out with a loud guffaw.
“My dear old boy,” he exclaimed, “I am sure that you will find that story, or one very like it, in the Old Testament somewhere if you look sufficiently. It is as old as the hills! You really should not tell us these things. You know what the American did when he was told that story? He put a recommendation in the suggestion book that the club should urge upon the St. Andrews authorities that they should make an addition to the rules to something like this effect: