THAT GLORIOUS FIRST DRIVE
That Glorious First Drive
Safety lies only in complete absence—we hope the printer won't make this "a couple of absinthes," though they might help if one could get them. But, remember, if you really wish to escape the infection, stay away from golf-courses. Touch not a single club, not a blooming ball. Above all, resist that desire to swing one of the darn sticks—"just to see how it feels." That way madness lies. As soon as you touch the leather end of the thing, the malignant animal magnetism gets to work and you are lost. After that there is nothing for your family to do but appoint a guardian for you.
Do as we say, don't do as we did. For we, who write this in sack-cloth and ashes—we speak metaphorically, of course, though we do notice a little cigar-ash on our vest—we neglected this simple precaution and are suffering accordingly. We let ourself be lured to the links. We picked up a driver and waggled it about a few times, and now we are suffering from an acute and very distressing form of the disease. This is how the calamity occurred.
An old and esteemed friend of ours, for whom we feel the respect which one able man feels for another, said to us not long ago: "Doing anything Saturday afternoon, old man?" He spoke with an affected carelessness, but we have since had reason to suspect that his casual manner covered a seething ocean of vindictive purpose. It was his intention to infect us with the virus of dementia golfiana.
"Oh, nothing special," we said, after pausing for a few moments to give the impression that we were mentally conning over a long list of important social engagements. "Oh, nothing special"—fatal words!
"Good! Come on down and walk around the course with me at Barborough"—that isn't the name exactly, but it will serve—"they're getting it into nice shape now. It'll do you good to get out into the country a bit. Will you come?"
He spoke with an appearance of cordial good-fellowship. We believed in the entire friendliness of his intentions—alas, ours has always been a trusting nature! We said we'd go.
"All right—catch the two-fifteen radial. I'll be waiting for you at the club-house. You can't miss it."
We caught it, along with two hundred and sixty-seven children, women, and men, who were likewise wooing the country breezes at points along the road. Several of the children made the trip in our lap. The little dears seemed to know instinctively how much we hated it. When we got there our trousers had a large number of creases, in addition to those which our valet puts in them. But fortunately we were wearing our other suit.