The only sensible thing for us to do was to put the clubs—those that remained of them—back in the bag and refuse to take another swing. But no one is ever sensible at golf. We still kept hoping that the next shot would reveal the superb natural genius for the game that we had possessed only a few days before. And now and then a shot really would go right—usually when we lost our temper completely and simply took a savage swing at the ball without any formalities whatever. But the next stroke always plunged us into more horrible depths than ever. When we had finally managed to dribble and stagger our way to the last green, we felt so sick and lonesome and helpless that we could have lain right down there on the velvet sward and cried into the little cup—only we probably would have missed it even with our tears.
The only hole we could have played in really masterly fashion was the nineteenth—the one they used to keep in the club-house. Only it wasn't there any more. The Prohibitionists have seen to that. Driving right on to the green carpet, we would have putted discreetly with our right hand, and would have holed out with a quart bottle and a glass in two. Vardon himself couldn't play it any better than we would have done if—oh, those "ifs!"
We might moralize easily and at great length on this experience of ours, but what's the use? Besides, the moral is obvious. It is this. Once you have made a fine drive in a moment of reckless inspiration, either keep your hands off golf-clubs for the rest of your life, or go away somewhere and practice in secret for several years with an instructor to whom you have given hush money, before you display yourself and your golfing skill on the links. Otherwise, you will fill the caddy's soul with loathing—-we did.
ON KEEPING COOL
On Keeping Cool
The worst of hot spells is that they always occur in the summer. Now a nice hot spell in the middle of winter or the beginning of March, when we are all getting sick of the snow and heavy woollens, would be—but enough of this! We are not the man to fly in the face of Divine Providence and suggest changes in the climatic arrangements. We leave that to the parsons.
It is quite possible, of course—in fact, with our usual luck in such matters, it is highly probable—that by the time this has been printed, bound, and inflicted on the public, the public will be sitting in front of a grate-fire with a shawl and a cold in the head, having been caught in the sleet on the way home from the office. The public will therefore regard our advice on the best way to keep cool as an impertinence and an imposition. And we hate to have the public think us a jackanapes or a darn fool. Of course, the public is bound to find us out some time, but we would like to postpone the dread day as long as possible.
Whatever the weather may be like at the time of reading, at the time of writing and for some days back we have been going through a period of torridity during which keeping cool has been an art—a lost art, we regret to state. Having devoted to it all the powers of our mind and all the energy we had left after the business of perspiring, we feel qualified to speak on the subject with assurance and authority. Not that we have ever considered it necessary for us to feel qualified before speaking, but it is just as well.
As soon as the heat-wave hit us in our office-chair, we took off our coat, vest, collar and tie, and knotting our suspenders around our editorial waist, we sent out for all the heat-literature that could be obtained for love or money—preferably for love. And then we plunged with characteristic impetuosity into the task of mastering this subtle science or esoteric philosophy or whatever it is. Only we didn't master it.