"Dangerously so."
Frederick Pilcher drew out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.
"You don't think, John, that you might ultimately come to love Agnes
Flack?"
"I do not."
"Love frequently comes after marriage, I believe."
"So does suicide."
"Then it looks to me," said Frederick Pilcher, "as if one of us was for
it. I see no way out of playing that match."
"Nor I."
"The growing tendency on the part of the modern girl to read trashy
magazine stories," said Frederick Pilcher severely, "is one that I
deplore. I view it with alarm. And I wish to goodness that you authors
wouldn't write tales about men who play golf matches for the hand of a
woman."
"Authors must live," said John Gooch. "How is your game these days,
Frederick?"
"Improved, unfortunately. I am putting better."
"I am steadier off the tee." John Gooch laughed bitterly. "When I think
of the hours of practice I have put in, little knowing that a thing
of this sort was in store for me, I appreciate the irony of life. If
I had not bought Sandy McHoots' book last spring I might now be in a
position to be beaten five and four."
"Instead of which, you will probably win the match on the twelfth."
John Gooch started.
"You can't be as bad as that!"
"I shall be on Friday."
"You mean to say you aren't going to try?"
"I do."
"You have sunk to such depths that you would deliberately play below
your proper form?"
"I have."
"Pilcher," said John Gooch, coldly, "you are a hound, and I never liked
you from the start."
* * * * *
You would have thought that, after the conversation which I have just
related, no depth of low cunning on the part of Frederick Pilcher would
have had the power to surprise John Gooch. And yet, as he saw the other
come out of the club-house to join him on the first tee on the Friday
morning, I am not exaggerating when I say that he was stunned.
John Gooch had arrived at the links early, wishing to get in a little
practice. One of his outstanding defects as a golfer was a pronounced
slice; and it seemed to him that, if he drove off a few balls before
the match began, he might be able to analyse this slice and see just
what was the best stance to take up in order that it might have full
scope. He was teeing his third ball when Frederick Pilcher appeared.
"What--what--what----!" gasped John Gooch.
For Frederick Pilcher, discarding the baggy, mustard-coloured
plus-fours in which it was his usual custom to infest the links, was
dressed in a perfectly-fitting morning-coat, yellow waistcoat, striped
trousers, spats, and patent-leather shoes. He wore a high stiff collar,
and on his head was the glossiest top-hat ever seen off the Stock
Exchange. He looked intensely uncomfortable; and yet there was on his
face a smirk which he made no attempt to conceal.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Why are you dressed like that?" John Gooch uttered an exclamation. "I
see it all. You think it will put you off your game."
"Some idea of the kind did occur to me," replied Frederick Pilcher,
airily.
"You fiend!"
"Tut, tut, John. These are hard words to use to a friend."
"You are no friend of mine."
"A pity," said Frederick Pilcher, "for I was hoping that you would
ask me to be your best man at the wedding." He took a club from his
bag and swung it. "Amazing what a difference clothes make. You would
hardly believe how this coat cramps the shoulders. I feel as if I were
a sardine trying to wriggle in its tin."
The world seemed to swim before John Gooch's eyes. Then the mist
cleared, and he fixed Frederick Pilcher with a hypnotic gaze.
"You are going to play well," he said, speaking very slowly and
distinctly. "You are going to play well. You are going to play well.
You----"
"Stop it!" cried Frederick Pilcher.
"You are going to play well. You are going----"
A heavy hand descended on his shoulder. Sidney McMurdo was regarding
him with a black scowl.
"We don't want any of your confounded chivalry," said Sidney McMurdo.
"This match is going to be played in the strictest spirit of----What
the devil are you dressed like that for?" he demanded, wheeling on
Frederick Pilcher.
"I--I have to go into the City immediately after the match," said
Pilcher. "I sha'n't have time to change."
"H'm. Well, it's your own affair. Come along," said Sidney McMurdo,
gritting his teeth. "I've been told to referee this match, and I don't
want to stay here all day. Toss for the honour, worms."
John Gooch spun a coin. Frederick Pilcher called tails. The coin fell
heads up.
"Drive off, reptile," said Sidney McMurdo.
As John Gooch addressed his ball, he was aware of a strange sensation
which he could not immediately analyse. It was only when, after
waggling two or three times, he started to draw his club back that it
flashed upon him that this strange sensation was confidence. For the
first time in his life he seemed to have no doubt that the ball, well
and truly struck, would travel sweetly down the middle of the fairway.
And then the hideous truth dawned on him. His subconscious self had
totally misunderstood the purport of his recent remarks and had got the
whole thing nicely muddled up.
Much has been written of the subconscious self, and all that has been
written goes to show that of all the thick-headed, blundering chumps
who take everything they hear literally, it is the worst. Anybody of
any intelligence would have realized that when John Gooch said, "You
are going to play well," he was speaking to Frederick Pilcher; but his
subconscious self had missed the point completely. It had heard John
Gooch say, "You are going to play well," and it was seeing that he did
so.
The unfortunate man did what he could. Realizing what had happened, he
tried with a despairing jerk to throw his swing out of gear just as the
club came above his shoulder. It was a fatal move. You may recall that
when Arnaud Massy won the British Open Championship one of the features
of his play was a sort of wiggly twiggle at the top of the swing, which
seemed to have the effect of adding yards to his drive. This wiggly
twiggle John Gooch, in his effort to wreck his shot, achieved to a
nicety. The ball soared over the bunker in which he had hoped to waste
at least three strokes; and fell so near the green that it was plain
that only a miracle could save him from getting a four.
There was a sardonic smile on Frederick Pilcher's face as he stepped
on to the tee. In a few moments he would be one down, and it would not
be his fault if he failed to maintain the advantage. He drew back the
head of his club. His coat, cut by a fashionable tailor who, like all
fashionable tailors, resented it if the clothes he made permitted his
customers to breathe, was so tight that he could not get the club-head
more than half-way up. He brought it to this point, then brought it
down in a lifeless semi-circle.
"Nice!" said Sidney McMurdo, involuntarily. He despised and disliked
Frederick Pilcher, but he was a golfer. And a golfer cannot refrain
from giving a good shot its meed of praise.
For the ball, instead of trickling down the hill as Frederick Pilcher
had expected, was singing through the air like a shell. It fell near
John Gooch's ball and, bounding past it, ran on to the green.
The explanation was, of course, simple. Frederick Pilcher was a man
who, in his normal golfing costume, habitually overswung. This fault
the tightness of his coat had now rendered impossible. And his other
pet failing, the raising of the head, had been checked by the fact that
he was wearing a top-hat. It had been Pilcher's intention to jerk his
head till his spine cracked; but the unseen influence of generations of
ancestors who had devoted the whole of their intellect to the balancing
of top-hats on windy days was too much for him.
* * * * *
A minute later the two men had halved the hole in four.
The next hole, the water-hole, they halved in three. The third, long
and over the hill, they halved in five.
And it was as they moved to the fourth tee that a sort of madness came
upon both Frederick Pilcher and John Gooch simultaneously.
* * * * *
These two, you must remember, were eighteen-handicap men. That is to
say, they thought well of themselves if they could get sixes on the
first, sevens on the third, and anything from fours to elevens on
the second--according to the number of balls they sank in the water.
And they had done these three holes in twelve. John Gooch looked at
Frederick Pilcher and Frederick Pilcher looked at John Gooch. Their
eyes were gleaming, and they breathed a little stertorously through
their noses.
"Pretty work," said John Gooch.
"Nice stuff," said Frederick Pilcher.
"Get a move on, blisters," growled Sidney McMurdo.
It was at this point that the madness came upon these two men.
* * * * *
Picture to yourself their position. Each felt that by continuing to
play in this form he was running a deadly risk of having to marry
Agnes Flack. Each felt that his opponent could not possibly keep up
so hot a pace much longer, and the prudent course, therefore, was for
himself to ease off a bit before the crash came. And each, though fully
aware of all this, felt that he was dashed if he wasn't going to have
a stab at doing the round of his life. It might well be that, having
started off at such a clip, he would find himself finishing somewhere
in the eighties. And that, surely, would compensate for everything.
After all, felt John Gooch, suppose he did marry Agnes Flack, what
of it? He had faith in his star, and it seemed to him that she might
quite easily get run over by a truck or fall off a cliff during the
honeymoon. Besides, with all the facilities for divorce which modern
civilization so beneficently provides, what was there to be afraid of
in marriage, even with an Agnes Flack?
Frederick Pilcher's thoughts were equally optimistic. Agnes Flack, he
reflected, was undeniably a pot of poison; but so much the better.
Just the wife to keep an artist up to the mark. Hitherto he had had
a tendency to be a little lazy. He had avoided his studio and loafed
about the house. Married to Agnes Flack, his studio would see a lot
more of him. He would spend all day in it--probably have a truckle
bed put in and never leave it at all. A sensible man, felt Frederick
Pilcher, can always make a success of marriage if he goes about it in
the right spirit.
John Gooch's eyes gleamed. Frederick Pilcher's jaw protruded. And neck
and neck, fighting grimly for their sixes and sometimes even achieving
fives, they came to the ninth green, halved the hole, and were all
square at the turn.
It was at this point that they perceived Agnes Flack standing on the
club-house terrace.
"Yoo-hoo!" cried Agnes in a voice of thunder.
And John Gooch and Frederick Pilcher stopped dead in their tracks,
blinking like abruptly-awakened somnambulists.
She made a singularly impressive picture, standing there with her
tweed-clad form outlined against the white of the club-house wall. She
had the appearance of one who is about to play Boadicea in a pageant;
and John Gooch, as he gazed at her, was conscious of a chill that ran
right down his back and oozed out at the soles of his feet.
"How's the match coming along?" she yelled, cheerily.
"All square," replied Sidney McMurdo, with a sullen scowl. "Wait where
you are for a minute, germs," he said. "I wish to have a word with Miss
Flack."
He drew Agnes aside and began to speak to her in a low rumbling voice.
And presently it was made apparent to all within a radius of half a
mile that he had been proposing to her once again, for suddenly she
threw her head back and there went reverberating over the countryside
that old familiar laugh.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, HA!" laughed Agnes Flack.
John Gooch shot a glance at his opponent. The artist, pale to the lips,
was removing his coat and hat and handing them to his caddie. And, even
as John Gooch looked, he unfastened his braces and tied them round his
waist. It was plain that from now on Frederick Pilcher intended to run
no risk of not overswinging.
John Gooch could appreciate his feelings. The thought of how that laugh
would sound across the bacon and eggs on a rainy Monday morning turned
the marrow in his spine to ice and curdled every red corpuscle in his
veins. Gone was the exhilarating ferment which had caused him to skip
like a young ram when a long putt had given him a forty-six for the
first nine. How bitterly he regretted now those raking drives, those
crisp flicks of the mashie-niblick of which he had been so proud ten
minutes ago. If only he had not played such an infernally good game
going out, he reflected, he might at this moment be eight or nine down
and without a care in the world.
A shadow fell between him and the sun; and he turned to see Sidney
McMurdo standing by his side, glaring with a singular intensity.
"Bah!" said Sidney McMurdo, having regarded him in silence for some
moments.
He turned on his heel and made for the club-house.
"Where are you going, Sidney?" asked Agnes Flack.
"I am going home," replied Sidney McMurdo, "before I murder these two
miserable harvest-bugs. I am only flesh and blood, and the temptation
to grind them into powder and scatter them to the four winds will
shortly become too strong. Good morning."
Agnes emitted another laugh like a steam-riveter at work.
"Isn't he funny?" she said, addressing John Gooch, who had clutched at
his scalp and was holding it down as the vibrations died away. "Well,
I suppose I shall have to referee the rest of the match myself. Whose
honour? Yours? Then drive off and let's get at it."
* * * * *
The demoralizing effects of his form on the first nine holes had not
completely left John Gooch. He drove long and straight, and stepped
back appalled. Only a similar blunder on the part of his opponent could
undo the damage.
But Frederick Pilcher had his wits well about him. He overswung as he
had never overswung before. His ball shot off into the long grass on
the right of the course, and he uttered a pleased cry.
"Lost ball, I fancy," he said. "Too bad!"
"I marked it," said John Gooch, grimly. "I will come and help you find
it."
"Don't trouble."
"It is no trouble."
"But it's your hole, anyway. It will take me three or four to get out
of there."
"It will take me four or five to get a yard from where I am."
"Gooch," said Frederick Pilcher, in a cautious whisper, "you are a cad."
"Pilcher," said John Gooch, in tones equally hushed, "you are a low
bounder. And if I find you kicking that ball under a bush, there will
be blood shed--and in large quantities."
"Ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha to you!" said John Gooch.
The ball was lying in a leathery tuft, and, as Pilcher had predicted,
it took three strokes to move it back to the fairway. By the time
Frederick Pilcher had reached the spot where John Gooch's drive had
finished, he had played seven.
But there was good stuff in John Gooch. It is often in times of great
peril that the artistic temperament shows up best. Missing the ball
altogether with his next three swings, he topped it with his fourth,
topped it again with his fifth, and, playing the like, sent a low,
skimming shot well over the green into the bunker beyond. Frederick
Pilcher, aiming for the same bunker, sliced and landed on the green.
The six strokes which it took John Gooch to get out of the sand decided
the issue. Frederick Pilcher was one up at the tenth.
* * * * *
But John Gooch's advantage was short-lived. On the right, as you
approach the eleventh green there is a deep chasm, spanned by a wooden
bridge. Frederick Pilcher, playing twelve, just failed to put his ball
into this, and it rolled on to within a few feet of the hole. It seemed
to John Gooch that the day was his. An easy mashie-shot would take
him well into the chasm, from which no eighteen-handicap player had
ever emerged within the memory of man. This would put him two down--a
winning lead. He swung jubilantly, and brought off a nicely-lofted shot
which seemed to be making for the very centre of the pit.
And so, indeed, it was; and it was this fact that undid John Gooch's
schemes. The ball, with all the rest of the chasm to choose from,
capriciously decided to strike the one spot on the left-hand rail of
the wooden bridge which would deflect it towards the flag. It bounded
high in the air, fell on the green, and the next moment, while John
Gooch stood watching with fallen jaw and starting eyes, it had trickled
into the hole.
There was a throbbing silence. Then Agnes Flack spoke.
"Important, if true," she said. "All square again. I will say one thing
for you two--you make this game very interesting."
And once more she sent the birds shooting out of the tree-tops
with that hearty laugh of hers. John Gooch, coming slowly to after
the shattering impact of it, found that he was clutching Frederick
Pilcher's arm. He flung it from him as if it had been a loathsome snake.
A grimmer struggle than that which took place over the next six holes
has probably never been seen on any links. First one, then the other
seemed to be about to lose the hole, but always a well-judged slice or
a timely top enabled his opponent to rally. At the eighteenth tee the
game was still square; and John Gooch, taking advantage of the fact
that Agnes had stopped to tie her shoe-lace, endeavoured to appeal to
his one-time friend's better nature.
"Frederick," he said, "this is not like you."
"What isn't like me?"
"Playing this low-down game. It is not like the old Frederick Pilcher."
"Well, what sort of a game do you think you are playing?"
"A little below my usual, it is true," admitted John Gooch. "But that
is due to nervousness. You are deliberately trying to foozle, which is
not only painting the lily but very dishonest. And I can't see what
motive you have, either."
"You can't, can't you?"
John Gooch laid a hand persuasively on the other's shoulder.
"Agnes Flack is a most delightful girl."
"Who is?"
"Agnes Flack."
"A delightful girl?"
"Most delightful."
"Agnes Flack is a delightful girl?"
"Yes."
"Oh?"
"She would make you very happy."
"Who would?"
"Agnes Flack."
"Make me happy?"
"Very happy."
"Agnes Flack would make me happy?"
"Yes."
"Oh?"
John Gooch was conscious of a slight discouragement. He did not seem to
be making headway.
"Well, then, look here," he said, "what we had better do is to have a
gentleman's agreement."
"Who are the gentlemen?"
"You and I."
"Oh?"
John Gooch did not like the other's manner, nor did he like the tone
of voice in which he had spoken. But then there were so many things
about Frederick Pilcher that he did not like that it seemed useless to
try to do anything about it. Moreover, Agnes Flack had finished tying
her shoe-lace, and was making for them across the turf like a mastodon
striding over some prehistoric plain. It was no time for wasting words.
"A gentleman's agreement to halve the match," he said hurriedly.
"What's the good of that? She would only make us play extra holes."
"We would halve those, too."
"Then we should have to play it off another day."
"But before that we could leave the neighbourhood."
"Sidney McMurdo would follow us to the ends of the earth."
"Ah, but suppose we didn't go there? Suppose we simply lay low in the
city and grew beards?"
"There's something in it," said Frederick Pilcher, reflectively.
"You agree?"
"Very well."
"Splendid!"
"What's splendid?" asked Agnes Flack, thudding up.
"Oh--er--the match," said John Gooch. "I was saying to Pilcher that
this was a splendid match."
Agnes Flack sniffed. She seemed quieter than she had been at the
outset, as though something were on her mind.
"I'm glad you think so," she said. "Do you two always play like this?"
"Oh, yes. Yes. This is about our usual form."
"H'm! Well, push on."
It was with a light heart that John Gooch addressed his ball for the
last drive of the match. A great weight had been lifted from his mind,
and he told himself that now there was no objection to bringing off a
real sweet one. He swung lustily; and the ball, struck on its extreme
left side, shot off at right angles, hit the ladies' tee-box, and,
whizzing back at a high rate of speed, would have mown Agnes Flack's
ankles from under her, had she not at the psychological moment skipped
in a manner extraordinarily reminiscent of the high hills mentioned in
Sacred Writ.
"Sorry, old man," said John Gooch, hastily, flushing as he encountered
Frederick Pilcher's cold look of suspicion. "Frightfully sorry,
Frederick, old man. Absolutely unintentional."
"What are you apologizing to _him_ for?" demanded Agnes Flack with a
good deal of heat. It had been a near thing, and the girl was ruffled.
Frederick Pilcher's suspicions had plainly not been allayed by John
Gooch's words. He drove a cautious thirty yards, and waited with the
air of one suspending judgment for his opponent to play his second. It
was with a feeling of relief that John Gooch, smiting vigorously with
his brassie, was enabled to establish his _bona fides_ with a shot
that rolled to within mashie-niblick distance of the green.
Frederick Pilcher seemed satisfied that all was well. He played his
second to the edge of the green. John Gooch ran his third up into the
neighbourhood of the pin.
Frederick Pilcher stooped and picked his ball up.
"Here!" cried Agnes Flack.
"Hey!" ejaculated John Gooch.
"What on earth do you think you're doing?" said Agnes Flack.
Frederick Pilcher looked at them with mild surprise.
"What's the matter?" he said. "There's a blob of mud on my ball. I just
wanted to brush it off."
"Oh, my heavens!" thundered Agnes Flack. "Haven't you ever read the
rules? You're disqualified."
"Disqualified?"
"Dis-jolly-well-qualified," said Agnes Flack, her eyes flashing scorn.
"This cripple here wins the match."
Frederick Pilcher heaved a sigh.
"So be it," he said. "So be it."
"What do you mean, so be it? Of course it is."
"Exactly. Exactly. I quite understand. I have lost the match. So be
it."
And, with drooping shoulders, Frederick Pilcher shuffled off in the
direction of the bar.
John Gooch watched him go with a seething fury which for the moment
robbed him of speech. He might, he told himself, have expected
something like this. Frederick Pilcher, lost to every sense of good
feeling and fair play, had double-crossed him. He shuddered as he
realized how inky must be the hue of Frederick Pilcher's soul; and he
wished in a frenzy of regret that he had thought of picking his own
ball up. Too late! Too late!
For an instant the world had been blotted out for John Gooch by a
sort of red mist. This mist clearing, he now saw Agnes Flack standing
looking at him in a speculative sort of way, an odd expression in her
eyes. And beyond her, leaning darkly against the club-house wall, his
bulging muscles swelling beneath his coat and his powerful fingers
tearing to pieces what appeared to be a section of lead piping, stood
Sidney McMurdo.
John Gooch did not hesitate. Although McMurdo was some distance away,
he could see him quite clearly; and with equal clearness he could
remember every detail of that recent interview with him. He drew a step
nearer to Agnes Flack, and having gulped once or twice, began to speak.
"Agnes," he said huskily, "there is something I want to say to you. Oh,
Agnes, have you not guessed----"
"One moment," said Agnes Flack. "If you're trying to propose to me,
sign off. There is nothing doing. The idea is all wet."
"All wet?"
"All absolutely wet. I admit that there was a time when I toyed with
the idea of marrying a man with brains, but there are limits. I
wouldn't marry a man who played golf as badly as you do if he were the
last man in the world. Sid-nee!" she roared, turning and cupping her
mouth with her hands; and a nervous golfer down by the lake-hole leaped
three feet and got his mashie entangled between his legs.
"Hullo?"
"I'm going to marry you, after all."
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"Three rousing cheers!" bellowed McMurdo.
Agnes Flack turned to John Gooch. There was something like
commiseration in her eyes, for she was a woman. Rather on the large
side, but still a woman.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't mention it," said John Gooch.
"I hope this won't ruin your life."
"No, no."
"You still have your Art."
"Yes, I still have my Art."
"Are you working on anything just now?" asked Agnes Flack.
"I'm starting a new story to-night," said John Gooch. "It will be
called _Saved From the Scaffold_."
VII
SOMETHING SQUISHY