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[Illustration: "... and I got it"]
John Henry Smith
A Humorous Romance of Outdoor Life
By
FREDERICK UPHAM ADAMS Author of "John Burt" and "The Kidnapped
Millionaires"
Illustrated for Mr. Smith by A.B. FROST
[Illustration]
NEW YORK Doubleday, Page & Company 1905
Copyright, 1905, by Doubleday, Page & Company Published June, 1905
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian._
DEDICATED TO MY DAUGHTER Olive Marie Adams
TO THE READER
John Henry Smith has requested me to revise and edit his diary, and, to
use his own expression, "See if I can make some kind of a book from it."
It was his idea that I should eliminate certain marked passages, and
disguise others, so as to conceal the identity of the originals. Since
Mr. Smith is abroad I can do as I please. Aside from renaming his
characters, I have left them exactly as he has drawn them. This may lead
him to do his own editing in the future.
I have also taken the liberty of reproducing some of the sketches made
by Mr. Smith. In addition to literary, artistic, and athletic gifts Mr.
Smith has had the rare good fortune to--but I must not anticipate his
story.
THE EDITOR
Hastings-on-Hudson, N.Y.
CONTENTS
ENTRY NO. PAGE
I. Miss Harding is Coming 3
II. Mainly about Smith 21
III. Mr. Harding Wins a Bet 29
IV. Bishop's Hired Man 44
V. The Eagle's Nest 54
VI. I Play with Miss Harding 65
VII. Two Boys from Buckfield 77
VIII. Downfall of Mr. Harding 91
IX. Mr. Smith Gets Busy 102
X. The Two Gladiators 115
XI. The Barn Dance 136
XII. The St. Andrews Swing 154
XIII. Our New Professional 176
XIV. Myself and I 188
XV. The Auto and the Bull 199
XVI. Miss Harding Owns Up 219
XVII. The Passing of Percy 235
XVIII. Mr. Harding's Struggle 253
XIX. The Tornado 258
XX. Fat Ewes and Sharp Knives 281
XXI. I am Entirely Satisfied 300
XXII. I am Utterly Miserable 303
XXIII. A Few Closing Confessions 317
THE CHARACTERS
JOHN HENRY SMITH, who tells the story. Heir of his father, lives in
Woodvale club house, devoted to golf, becomes interested in Wall Street,
and falls in love with Grace Harding
GRACE HARDING, only daughter of Robert L. Harding, visitor in Woodvale
ROBERT L. HARDING, millionaire railway magnate, who first despises golf
and then becomes infatuated with it
MRS. HARDING, the matter-of-fact wife of the above
JIM BISHOP, farmer near Woodvale, who knew Harding when the two were
boys in Buckfield, Maine
WILLIAM WALLACE, Bishop's hired man, later golf professional in
Woodvale, and later something else
OLIVE LAWRENCE, pupil to William Wallace
PERCY LAHUME, in love with Miss Lawrence
JAMES CARTER, wealthy member of Woodvale, who knows how to keep a secret
MISS DANGERFIELD, who makes a collection of golf balls
MISS ROSS, who is very pretty
MR. and MRS. CHILVERS, and MR. and MRS. MARSHALL, estimable young
people, who enter into this narrative
BOYD, LAWSON, DUFF, BELL, MONAHAN, ETC., members in good standing in the
Woodvale Golf and Country Club
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"... and I got it" _Frontispiece_
"How do I look?" _Title Page_
PAGE.
"... and threw it in the pond" 9
"Fore there! hay there!!" 15
"It makes an ideal hazard" 25
"... but there was blood in his eye" 37
"Fore" 49
"There is no law to compel a man to play golf" 57
"We rested on top of the hill" 73
"Did it hit you?" 87
"... and missed the ball by three inches" 95
"It is not necessary to caution me" 105
The dream 113
"At the gate waiting for us" 121
"We're not fighting, my dear!" 131
"It must be tough to have to wear skirts all the time"
135
"What do you think of me?" 137
"Jack ... never stopped a second" 145
"Mr. Harding ... executed a clog dance" 153
"We ran the auto into the sheep pasture" 159
"I have never seen a more perfect shot" 163
"It struck on the rear edge of the green" 181
"LaHume ... stalking toward the club house" 185
"Miss Harding ... smiled and looked innocent as
could be" 193
"It was not much of a drive" 207
"Run! Run, boys!" 211
"Then I struck the bull" 213
Diagram, "The auto and the bull" 218
"What are you looking for?" 221
"Had ignited the matches" 225
"He was tall, angular, and whiskered" 237
"LaHume was shot back several yards" 245
"Grasping her by the arm I dragged her" 267
"She left for the South" 282
"Business is business" 291
"Ten up and eight to play" 297
"She rose to her feet" 307
"I cannot turn back if I would" 315
"He looked doubtfully at me" 318
"This takes the cake!" 329
"And then I saw her!" 335
"I believe I could carry it" 345
JOHN HENRY SMITH
JOHN HENRY SMITH
ENTRY No. I
Miss HARDING Is COMING
"Heard the news?" demanded Chilvers, approaching the table where
Marshall, Boyd, and I were smoking on the broad veranda of the Woodvale
Golf and Country Club. We shook our heads with contented indifference.
It was after luncheon, and the cigars were excellent.
"Where's LaHume?" grinned Chilvers. "Where's our Percy? He must hear
this."
"LaHume and Miss Lawrence are out playing," languidly answered Marshall.
"What's happened? Don't prolong this suspense."
Miss Ross and Miss Dangerfield turned the corner and Chilvers saw them.
Chilvers is married, but has lost none of his effervescence and
consequently retains his popularity.
"Come here," he called, motioning to these two charming young ladies.
"I've got something for you! Great news; great news!"
"What is it?" asked Miss Ross, her deep-brown eyes brightening with
curiosity.
"Another heiress coming!" announced Chilvers, with the bow of a jeweller
displaying some rare gem "--another heiress on her way to Woodvale! This
is going to be a hard season for such perennial bachelors as Smith,
Boyd, Carter, and others I could name. You girls will have your work cut
out when this new heiress unpacks her trunks and sets fluttering the
hearts of these steel-plated golfers."
"Who is it?" impatiently demanded the chorus. Chilvers has all the arts
of an actor in working for a climax.
"Miss Grace Harding; that's all!" said Chilvers.
"The famous beauty?" cried Miss Ross.
"Last season's society sensation in Paris and London?" exclaimed Miss
Dangerfield.
"Daughter of the great railway magnate?" asked Marshall.
"The one to whom Baron Torpington was reported engaged?" I added.
"You all have guessed it the first time," laughed Chilvers. "She's the
only daughter of Robert L. Harding, magnate, financier, Wall Street
general, the man who recently beat the pirate kings down there at their
own game. How much is Harding supposed to be worth, Smith?"
"Thirty millions or so," I replied.
"Well, I wish I had the 'so.' That would keep me in golf balls for a
while," Chilvers continued, turning his attention to the ladies. "What
show have you unfortunate girls against a combination like that? And
think of Percy LaHume! What will that poor boy do? Percy heads for the
richest heiress of each season with that same mighty instinct which
leads a boy to cast wistful glances at the largest cut of pie. He
thought the heiresses had quit coming, and now this happens; but he has
gone so far in his campaign for the hand and cheque-book of Miss
Lawrence, that he cannot stop quick without dislocating his spine. I
doubt if that poor little Lawrence girl will ever have more than five
millions."
"Never mind Percy and his prospects," said Marshall. "Who told you that
Miss Grace Harding is coming to Woodvale?"
"Carter told me," replied Chilvers. "Carter knows them. The whole
Harding family is coming, which includes Croesus, his wife, and their
fair daughter, aged nineteen or thereabouts. Ah! why did I marry so
soon?"
Mrs. Chilvers was standing back of him and soundly boxed his ears.
"How does it happen that the Hardings are coming here?" asked Mrs.
Chilvers, when told the cause of this excitement. "Are they Mr. Carter's
guests?"
"Mr. Harding is a charter member of Woodvale," I informed her. "For
some unknown reason he joined the club when it started, but has never
been here, and I doubt if he has ever played golf. He is the owner of
the majority of the bonds issued against this clubhouse."
"I wonder if Miss Harding plays golf?" said Boyd.
"Golf is not among the list of accomplishments mentioned by those
writers who pretend to know all about her," remarked Chilvers. "I have
been forced to learn from a casual reading of society events that this
remarkable heiress is without an equal as an equestrienne, that she
paints, sings, drives a sixty-horse-power Mercedes with a skill and a
courage which discourages the French chauffeurs, and does other athletic
and artistic feats, but I have yet to learn that she golfs."
"I presume," I said, "that she will take up the game, and also the turf.
The three Hardings doubtless will form one of those delightful family
parties which add so much to the merriment of a golf course. I can shut
my eyes and see them hacking their way around the links; the daughter
pretty and more anxious to show off the latest Parisian golfing costumes
than to replace a divot; the father determined, perspiring, and red of
face, and the mother stout and always in the way."
"Isn't Mr. Smith the incorrigible woman-hater?" exclaimed Mrs. Chilvers.
"You did not talk that way before you became so infatuated with golf,
Mr. Smith."
"I am not a woman-hater," I protested, "but I--I don't like to----"
"Some day Smith will meet a fair creature on the golf links and lose his
drive and his heart at the same time," declared Chilvers. "That was the
way I was tripped up and carried into bondage," he added, his hand
wandering to his wife's waist.
"With the exception of Mrs. Chilvers," I said, and I came very near
making no exceptions, Miss Ross and Miss Dangerfield having left
us--"with the exception of Mrs. Chilvers, I have yet to see the woman
who shows to advantage with a golf regalia. If Miss Harding is beautiful
enough to overcome the handicap which always attaches to the female golf
duffer, she can give Venus odds and beat her handily."
"You will meet a golfing Venus some day," smiled Mrs. Chilvers, willing
that her sex should be attacked so long as she was exempt.
"That's what he will," added Chilvers; "I'm agile, but I slipped."
"The artists who depict the woman golfer as graceful and attractive," I
continued, "must draw from imagination rather than from models. In my
humble opinion a woman shows to better advantage climbing a steep flight
of stairs than in any possible posture in striking a golf ball."
"The ladies--God bless 'em--and keep them off the links!" muttered
Marshall.
"Why, Charlie Marshall!" exclaimed Mrs. Quivers. "I shall see that your
wife hears that!"
"Don't tell her; she'll beat him terribly," warned Chilvers. "Did you
ever hear, Boyd, why our friend Smith is so sour when he sees a lady on
these links?"
Chilvers has told that story on me many times, but Boyd declared he had
not heard it.
"As you know," began Chilvers, "Smith was born on this farm. It's the
ancestral Smith homestead, and Smith's relatives were very indignant
when he leased it to the Woodvale Golf and Country Club. What was the
name of that maiden aunt of yours, Smith?"
"My Aunt Sarah Emeline Smith," I replied.
"Yes, yes! Well, Aunt Sarah Emeline was especially incensed over this
act of sacrilege on Smith's part," continued this historian, and he
followed the facts closely, "and only once since has she stepped foot on
the broad acres where her happy girlhood was spent. It was my
good-fortune to meet her on that occasion, and I shall never forget it."
"Neither shall I," I said.
"On her visit here Aunt Sarah Emeline persisted in wandering over the
links. She had on a wonderful bonnet, and through it she glared
disdainfully at the members of the club who yelled 'Fore!' at her. She
was headed for the old mill, which now is used as a caddy house. I was
playing the last hole and thought she was well out of line of a brassey,
so I fell on that ball for all I was worth. I sliced it; yes, I sliced
it badly."
[Illustration: "... and threw it in the pond"]
Chilvers paused and seemed lost in thought.
"Did it hit her?" asked Boyd.
"Of course it hit her," resumed Chilvers. "Aunt Sarah Emeline is more
than plump, and since it did not hit her in the head I can't see how it
could have hurt her. She certainly was able to stoop down, pick up that
ball and throw it in the pond--and it was a new ball. I ran toward her
and apologised the best I could, and what she said to me made a lasting
impression. I suppose, Smith, that it was the most expensive sliced ball
ever driven on these links?"
"Very likely," I sadly replied. "The following day I received a letter
from Aunt Sarah Emeline informing me that she had cut me out of her
will. And you still slice abominably, Chilvers."
"Thus you see that Smith has solid reasons for his prejudice against the
gentler sex as golfists," concluded Chilvers.
I entered a general denial, and the conversation drifted into other
channels. As a matter of fact, my dislike of the woman golfer is based
on different grounds.
A pretty woman is a most glorious creature, and I yield to no one in my
admiration of the fair sex, but a woman is out of her proper environment
when she persists in frequenting a golf course designed for men who are
experts at the game.
When I see women on the broad verandas of the Woodvale Club, or when I
see them strolling along the shaded paths or indulging in tennis,
croquet, and other games to which they are physically fitted, I know
that they possess tact and discrimination, but when I see them ahead of
me on the golf links--well, it is different.
Women may gain in health by attempting to play golf, but they do so at
the expense of shattered masculine nerves and morals. When our board of
management decided to permit the ladies to have free use of the course
at all times except when tournaments are in progress, I resigned as
director, but what good did it do?
A woman never is so tenacious of her rights as when she is in the wrong.
I wonder if that is original?
I know of no agony more acute than to be condemned to play golf with
women when there is a chance to get in a foursome with good scratch men.
The dyspeptic compelled to fast while watching the progress of a
banquet, must suffer similar torture.
"What's the use of sitting here and talking?" demanded Chilvers. "It has
cooled off; let's have a foursome. Marshall and I will play you and
Boyd, Smith. What do you say?"
At this instant the head waiter appeared and said Mr. Thomas wished me
to come to his table for a moment. Thomas was on the other side of the
veranda, but I had a suspicion of what was in store for me and arose
with a sinking heart.
Thomas is the only good player in the club who is willing to make up a
foursome with women, or, as it is most properly called, a "mixed
foursome." I never saw one which was not mixed before many holes had
been played.
Just as I anticipated, I found Thomas at a table with Miss Ross and Miss
Dangerfield. Both are so pretty it is a shame they attempt to play golf.
"We are planning a foursome and Miss Dangerfield has chosen you for her
partner," began Thomas, who knows exactly how I feel about such matters
and who delights to lure me into trouble.
"If you and Miss Dangerfield will give Miss Ross and me two strokes,"
proposed Thomas, "we will play you for the dinners."
I felt sure it was a put-up job, but what could I say?
"I did not dare choose you for my partner, Mr. Smith," interposed Miss
Dangerfield. "I know it is tiresome for a good player to go pottering
around the links with women at his heels, and only suggested a game if
you had no other engagements."
"Mr. Smith dare not plead another engagement," asserted Miss Ross, her
dark eyes flashing a challenge. She is a lovely girl, but digs up the
turf terribly.
"Smith has no game on. He has been over there talking for an hour,"
added Thomas, before I could say a word. I could have murdered him.
"I am delighted, and it is kind of you to ask me," I lied most
effusively. "It is an easy game for us, Miss Dangerfield."
"Do not be too sure," scornfully laughed Miss Rosa. "Mr. Thomas is a
splendid player."
"But he cannot equal Mr. Smith," declared my loyal partner. "Oh, Mr.
Smith, I have heard so much of your long drives and wonderful approach
shots! It is so good of you to play with us."
"It is an unexpected pleasure," I replied, rather ashamed of myself.
I have no patience to describe in detail the game which followed. I am
usually sure on a drive, but I topped five out of the eighteen and
popped half of the others into the air.
Miss Dangerfield distinguished herself by missing her ball four
successive times from the tee. This is not the female record for this
feat, so I am informed, but it is a very creditable performance for a
young lady who selects a scratch player for her partner.
Miss Ross played my ball by mistake on two occasions, and on one of them
succeeded in almost cutting it in half. It is a mystery to me why a
woman cannot keep track of her own ball, when as a rule she does not
knock it more than twenty yards.
The ball she hits is usually a dirty, hacked-up object, but when she
goes to look for it she imagines that by some miracle it has been
transformed into a clean, white, and unmarked sphere, which has been
driven for the first time.
Carter arrived at the club shortly after our "mixed foursome" had
started out. He took my place, he and Boyd playing Marshall and
Chilvers. Our orbits crossed several times.
Miss Dangerfield found three balls. One of them belonged to Chilvers,
and he saw her find it, but he is a perfect gentleman and did not say a
word. It was the one redeeming incident in the game.
Miss Dangerfield confided to me that she is making a collection of
balls.
"I am awfully lucky," she said, looking critically at Chilvers' ball.
"Whenever I find one I keep it as a memento of the game; that is, of
course, if it is nice and clean like this one."
"As a memento?" I inquired.
"Certainly," she declared. "I have a cute little brush and some water
colours. I paint the date of discovery on the ball and add it to my
collection. Sometimes I paint flowers on the ball, and sometimes birds
and other things. You should see my collection! Don't you think it's a
real cute idea?"
"It is startlingly original," I said, and her bright and innocent smile
showed her appreciation of the compliment. "How many have you in your
collection?"
[Illustration: "Fore there! hay there!!"]
"Oh, lots and lots of them," she said. "I am to have a portrait of
myself done in oil, showing me in a golfing costume just about to knock
the ball as far as I can, and the frame will be composed of golf balls I
have found. Oh, here's another lost ball!" and she started for one which
was lying on the fair green not many yards away. I knew to whom it
belonged.
"Fore! Fore! Hi, hay there; drop it; that's my ball!" yelled a club
member named Pepper, coming on a run from behind a bunker. Pepper is a
married man, near the fifty-year mark, and he is extremely nervous and
even irritable when any one approaches his ball.
"Don't touch it!" shouted Pepper, now on a dead run. "You'll make me
lose the hole! Don't you know the make of the ball you're playing? Mine
is a Kempshall remade."
"Oh, this is not my ball," frankly declared Miss Dangerfield. "My ball
is over there, but I thought this was one which had been lost."
"I pitched it out of that trap a moment ago," insisted Pepper, "and did
not take my eyes off it."
"I am sure I do not want it if it is yours!" haughtily declared Miss
Dangerfield, turning indignantly away.
"Thank you," said Pepper, politely as he knows how, and we went on our
way leaving him to recover his composure as best he could. I looked back
and noted that he fumbled his next shot.
"If I thought as much as that of a mere golf ball I would never play
the game," pouted Miss Dangerfield. "I think he is horrid, and I shall
never speak to him again!"
"If he had lost the ball he would have lost the hole," I explained,
anxious to extenuate Pepper's offense as much as possible.
"Suppose he did lose the old hole!" exclaimed the wronged young lady.
"What does it amount to if you lose one insignificant hole when there
are eighteen in all?"
I could think of nothing else to say, and had the tact to change the
conversation to the unique frame for her portrait with its "lost ball"
border.
"You will save material and secure a more artistic effect," I suggested,
"by having an artisan cut the balls in halves. They will then lie flat
to the frame, and one ball will do the service of two."
Miss Dangerfield was so taken with this idea that she speedily forgot
that brute Pepper.
Coming in we were passed by Marshall, Chilvers, Carter, and Boyd. How I
envied them! We stood and silently watched while each made ripping long
drives. There is nothing which contributes more to a man's good opinion
of himself than to line a ball straight out two hundred yards when a
bevy of pretty girls is watching him.
The tendency of the woman golfer to frankly express her admiration for
the strength and skill of a man who can drive a clean and long ball is
her great redeeming trait when on the links.
The man who is careless of the praise of his male peers is prone to be
raised to the seventh heaven of golf bliss when listening to the
long-drawn chorus of "Oh!" "Wasn't that splendid!" "I could just die if
I could drive like that!" and similar expressions from dainty maidens
who do not know the difference between a follow through and a jigger.
An ideal golf course would be one where the members of the fair sex are
content to group themselves about the driving tees and award an honest
meed of praise and applause to their fathers, husbands, or sweethearts.
"You're up, Thomas," I said when the crack foursome was out of range.
Thomas basted out a screecher, and Miss Ross followed with the best shot
she ever made. Miss Dangerfield missed as usual.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, "but I'm sure you will do better than Mr.
Thomas."
In my anxiety to verify her prediction I pressed, topped my ball, and it
rolled into the bunker. Chilvers looked back and grinned and then said
something to Marshall at which both of them laughed.
Of course we were beaten, and beaten disgracefully. Miss Dangerfield did
not take it the least to heart, but the dinner did not cost her
thirty-two dollars. Not that I care for the money, but it is the first
time this year that my score has been more than ninety.
I can take Thomas out alone and beat him so badly he will not dare turn
in his score, but in a mixed foursome he can put it all over me.
It does not take much to throw a man off his golf game. For instance: My
private secretary came up from the city early this morning. Among other
matters he called my attention to the fact that my N.O. & G. railway
stock has dropped three points during the week. I seldom indulge in
stock speculation, but was induced to buy two thousand shares of this
security on what I believed to be inside information. The stock is now
selling at five points below my purchase price, a paper loss of $10,000.
"Your brokers inform me that unless you desire to take your losses it
will be necessary to put up a ten-point margin," said my secretary.
"That means a cheque for $20,000, I presume," I observed, making a
hurried calculation. He said it did, and I gave it to him.
As soon as he had gone I went out with Kirkaldy, our club professional,
and played a few holes before luncheon, hoping to get that confounded
N.O. & G. stock affair out of my mind so that I could play a good game
in the afternoon. I made the fifth hole in five, which reminded me that
the cursed stock had dropped five points. As a consequence I drove wide
on the next hole, and Kirkaldy won half a dozen balls from me.
In order to play a perfect game of golf one's mind must reflect no
outside matter, and I shall sell that miserable stock the moment I can
get out without serious loss. This should be a lesson to me.
I saw Carter a few minutes ago and he tells me he understands that the
famous Grace Harding does play golf. My worst fears are confirmed.
I shall now clean my clubs and go to bed.
ENTRY NO. II
MAINLY ABOUT SMITH
It has rained all day and nothing of interest has happened. The ladies
are clustered on the sheltered side of the veranda. Some are reading,
others are engaged in fancy work. The leading topic of discussion is the
coming of the Hardings--or rather a fruitless inquiry as to what gowns
and how many Miss Grace Harding will wear.
They are due to-morrow. I wonder if old Harding knows anything about
N.O. & G. stock? He probably does--and will keep it to himself.
There being nothing else to write about I shall write of myself.
As Chilvers said yesterday, I was born on the farm which now constitutes
the Woodvale golf links. When my father died he willed this land and
other property to me. I take it that a man has a right to do as he
pleases with his own.
The old farm makes a sporty golf course, and I cannot say that I have
ever regretted my action in signing the lease which transfers its use to
the Woodvale Golf and Country Club for a long term of years.
I doubt if the two hundred odd acres ever yielded so large an income as
I now receive semi-annually from the treasurer of the club, but this
does not appeal to my Uncle Henry.
"It is an outrage," he once said to me, with unnecessary adjectives, "to
use the fine old farmhouse, sacred to long generations of Smiths, as an
ell to a club house."
He said other things which I will not repeat. He is a banker, and I
sincerely hope Chilvers does not hit him with a golf ball. That infernal
slice of Chilvers' has already cost me one legacy.
I have traced my ancestry as far back as I dare, and have a certain
amount of reverence for hallowed traditions and all that sort of thing.
I must admit there have been times when I have almost imagined that the
shades of three generations of more or less distinguished Smiths were
holding an indignation meeting to protest against this golf invasion of
their mundane haunts.
Where my great-grandmother once sang over her spinning wheel there has
been installed a modern shower bath. The huge old-fashioned dining-room,
with its cavernous fireplace, is now lined on three sides with lockers.
The place above it which was once filled with the blackened oil portrait
of our original Smith is now adorned with an engraving of Harry Varden
at the finish of his drive.
This picture of Varden's is said to be the best likeness yet produced
of this truly remarkable man. I have studied it for hours, but cannot
understand how he can grip a club as he does without hooking his ball.
All the bed-chambers on the second floor have been thrown into one large
room, which is used as a gymnasium. As near as I can make out, the place
where I once knelt to say my prayers is now occupied by a punching bag.
The ceiling has been removed, which, of course, does away with the
attic, and trapeze ropes now hang from rafters where successive
grandmothers suspended peppermint, pennyroyal and other weeds and herbs
possessing medicinal or culinary virtues.
I confess it does look a bit odd, but it makes a ripping good gym.
Certain it is that the old farm never looked as beautiful as it does
now. The cow pasture once flanked with boggy marshes has been drained
and rolled until the turf is smooth as velvet. The cornfields have
disappeared. The straggling stone walls have been converted into
bunkers, and the whole area has been converted into a park.
Old Bishop owns the adjoining farm, and whenever he sees our employees
at work with rollers or grass-mowers he is overcome with rage.
"The best tract of land for corn, oats or hay in the county!" he
exclaims, "and you have made it the playground of a lot of rich dudes!
Jack, I should think your father would turn over in his grave. I'd like
to run a plow an' harrer over them puttin' greens of yours, as ye call
them. You've wasted enough manure on that grass to make me rich."
Bishop does not understand or appreciate the beauties and niceties of
golf.
The first tee is under an elm which was planted by the Smith who was
born in 1754, and who served under Washington. Facing it is the quaint
old country church where the Father of our Country has attended many
services, and in which my parents were married.
A straight drive of one hundred and thirty yards will carry the lane and
insure a good lie, but a sliced ball is likely to go through a window of
the church. However, the church is no longer used, and besides there is
no excuse for slicing a ball. Some of the members assert that the old
belfry is a "mental hazard."
On the second hole it is necessary to carry the old graveyard. A topped
ball or even a low one is likely to strike one of the blackened slate
slabs. The grass is so thick and rank that it is almost impossible to
find a ball driven into this last resting place of my ancestors.
It makes an ideal hazard.
The second time I ever played this hole I lined out a low ball which
struck the tombstone of Deacon Lemuel Smith. It bounded back at least
seventy-five yards, but I had a good lie and my second shot was a
screaming brassie. It carried the graveyard and landed on the edge of
the green.
[Illustration: "It makes an ideal hazard"]
After carefully studying my putt I holed out from twenty yards, making
the hole in three after practically throwing my first shot away.
This ability to recover from an indifferent or unfortunate shot is one
of the strong points of my game.
The third hole requires a hundred-and-thirty-yard drive over the brook
where I used to fish when a boy, and on the fourth hole you must carry
the pond. I came very near being drowned in that pond when a youngster,
and I firmly believe that this is the reason I so often flub my drive on
this hole.
But it is unnecessary to describe all of the eighteen holes. The links
are 3,327 yards out and 3,002 yards in, a long and sporty course, the
delight of the true golfer and the terror of the duffer.
Woodvale is very exclusive. The membership is limited, and hundreds of
the best people in the city are on the waiting list. Our club house is
one of the finest in the country. In addition to the links we have
tennis courts, croquet grounds, bowling alleys and other games, but why
one should care to indulge in any game other than golf is a mystery to
me.
We also have bicycle and riding paths, flower gardens and all the
luxuries and artificial scenic charms possible from the judicious
expenditure of nearly four hundred thousand dollars. Nothing can surpass
it.
I live here during the golfing season, and one is unfortunate if he
cannot play nine months in the year in Woodvale. In the winter it is
safer to go to Florida or California, and I propose to do so in the
future rather than risk a repetition of last season's heavy snows which
made golf impossible for days at a time.
My suite of rooms in the club house is as finely furnished as any in the
city, and the service and cuisine are excellent.
One saves a vast amount of time by living in such a club house as that
of Woodvale. The hours expended by golfers in travelling between their
places of business and the links will foot up to an enormous total each
year. I remain here and thus save all that time.
Not that I neglect my business; far from it. Once a week my private
secretary comes to the club house from my office in the city. He brings
with him letters and other matters which imperatively demand my personal
attention, and I sternly abandon all else for the time being.
On the days when he is here I play twenty-four holes instead of the
usual thirty-six or more, but I find the change diverting rather than
otherwise. Without claiming special merit for an original discovery, I
believe I have struck what may be termed the happy medium between work
and relaxation.
I do not class the keeping of this diary as work for the reason that I
shall not permit it to interfere with my golf. When I feel disposed to
make a note of an event, an idea or a score I shall do so, but I do not
propose to be a slave to this diary.
I have just returned from a walk on the veranda. Miss Ross came to me,
greatly excited.
"They are here!" she exclaimed.
"Who; the Hardings?" I asked.
"No, their trunks are here. And what do you think?"
"I would not make a guess," I declared.
"Miss Harding has only six trunks, and I had seven myself."
The sweet creature was happy and immensely relieved. I forgot to ask her
if any golf clubs were included in the Harding luggage.
ENTRY NO. III
MR. HARDING WINS A BET
I have met Harding, the western railroad magnate, and he is a character.
His wife is in the city, but will be out here in a few days.
Harding--I call him Mister when addressing him, since he is worth thirty
millions or more, and he is old enough to be my father--Harding strolled
out to the first tee early this morning and stood with his hands in his
pockets watching some of the fellows drive off.
I should judge him to be a man of about fifty-five, or perhaps a year of
two older. He stands more than six feet, is broad of shoulder and
equally broad of waist, ruddy of complexion, clear of eye and quick of
motion. He is of the breezy, independent type peculiar to those who have
risen to fortune with the wonderful development of our western country,
and it is difficult to realise that he is a real live magnate.
His close-cropped beard shows few gray hairs, and does not entirely hide
the lines of a resolute chin. He looks like a prosperous farmer who has
been forced to become familiar with metropolitan conventionalities, but
whose rough edges have withstood the friction. His voice is heavy but
not unpleasant, and his laugh jovial but defiant. He reminds me of no
one I have seen, and I shall study him with much interest.
He was with Carter, who seemed well acquainted with him, and he greeted
each drive whether it was good or bad with a sneering smile. This told
me that he had never played the game, and that he had all of the
outsider's contempt for it. I knew exactly what he thought, for I was
once as ignorant and unappreciative as he is now.
A mutual contempt exists between those who play golf and those who do
not. Those who have not played are sure they could become expert in a
week, if they had so little sense as to waste time on so simple and
objectless a game. Those who are familiar with the game know that no man
living can ever hope to approach its possibilities, and they also know
that it is the grandest sport designed since man has inhabited this
globe.
I have sometimes thought that this old globe of ours is nothing more nor
less than a golf ball, brambled with mountains and valleys, and scarred
with ravines where the gods in their play have topped their drives. The
spin around its axis causes it to slice about the sun. This strikes me
as rather poetic, and when I write a golf epic I shall elaborate on this
fancy.
Harding has no such conception of this whirling earth of ours. He is
fully convinced that it was created for the purpose of being
cross-hatched with railroads, and that it never had any real utility
until he gridironed the western prairies with ten thousand miles of rust
and grease. I thought of that as I watched him standing by the side of
Carter, his huge hands thrust deep in his pockets, his bushy head thrown
back, and a tolerant grin on his bearded lips.
I was practising putting on a green set aside for that purpose, and
Carter saw me and motioned me to come to him. He introduced Harding, who
shook hands and then glanced curiously at my putter.
"What do you call that?" he asked, taking it from my hand. It was an
aluminum putter of my own design, and I have won many a game with it. I
told him what it was.
"Looks like a brake shoe on the new-model hand-cars," he said, swinging
it viciously with one hand. "How far can you knock one of those little
pills with it?"
"I see that you do not play golf," I said, rather offended at his
manner.
"No, there are a lot of things I do not do, and this is one of them," he
replied, and then he laughed. "But let me tell you," he added, "I used
to be a wonder at shinny."
I would have wagered he would make some such remark.
"Do you see that scar on the bridge of my nose?" he asked. "That came
from a crack with a shinny club when I was not more than ten years old.
Shinny is a great game; a great game! It requires quickness of eye and
limb, and more than that it demands a high degree of courage. It teaches
a boy to stand a hard knock without whimpering. Yes, sir, shinny is a
great game, and all boys should play it," and he rubbed the scar on his
nose tenderly.
A man who would compare golf with shinny is capable of contrasting
Venice with a drainage canal, and I came near telling him so. Golf and
shinny! Whist and old maid! Pink lemonade and champagne!
"No, sir, I never could see much in this golf game," said Harding,
handing back my putter. "It certainly isn't much of a trick to hit one
of those balls with a mallet like that. When I was your age," turning to
Carter, "I could swing a maul and send a railroad spike into five inches
of seasoned oak, and never miss once a week, and I'll bet that if I had
to I could do it again. That was what your father used to do for a
living, and if he hadn't worked up from a section boss to the presidency
of a railroad you would have something else to do besides batting balls
around a farm and then hunting for 'em. But I suppose you must like it
or you wouldn't do it."
"I think you would find the game interesting if you took it up,"
suggested Carter, whose father is nearly as rich as Harding. "Smith and
I will initiate you into the mysteries of the game."
"Oh, I suppose I'll have to play now that I'm here," he said, with the
most exasperating complacency. "My daughter plays some, and she is as
crazy about it as the rest of them. I don't see where the fascination
comes in. I called the other day on a man who was once in the Cabinet.
He is rich and famous, and can have anything or do anything he likes,
but he spends most of his time playing golf. I went to him and attempted
to induce him to represent us in a big railway lawsuit, but he said it
would prevent his playing in some tournament where he expected to win
five dollars' worth of plated pewter. What do you think of that?
Wouldn't take the case, and there was fifty thousand in it for him! I
roasted the life out of him."
"'If you would drop this fool game and pay the same amount of attention
to your political fortunes,' I said to him, 'you would have a right to
aspire to the Presidency of the United States.' And what do you suppose
he said to me?"
I assured him that I had not the slightest idea.
"'Mr. Harding,' he said to me in perfect seriousness, when I attempted
to put this presidential bee in his bonnet, 'Mr. Harding, I would rather
be able to drive a golf ball two hundred and fifty feet than be
President of the United States for life.' That's what he said, and I
told him he was crazy, and he is so mad at me that I don't dare go near
him."
"Didn't he say two hundred and fifty yards?" asked Carter, who had been
listening intently. "Two hundred and fifty feet is no drive."
"Mebbe it was yards," admitted Harding, disgusted that Carter ignored
the point of his story, "but let me tell you that I'd rather be
President of the United States for one minute than to be able to drive
one of those little pellets two hundred and fifty miles! I'll tell you
what I'll do!" he exclaimed, turning fiercely on both of us. "I never
tried to play this idiotic game in my life, but I'll bet the Scotch and
soda for the three of us that I can drive a ball further than either of
you."
"That would hardly be fair," I protested, though I was delighted at the
chance to take some of the conceit out of him. I have seen many of his
type before, and it is a pleasure to witness their downfall.
"Why wouldn't it be fair?" he demanded.
"Because you know nothing of the swing of a club or of the follow
through," I attempted to explain.
"The follow what?" he asked.
"The follow through," I repeated.
"What the devil is the follow through?" he asked, reaching for Carter's
bag. "Let me take yours and I'll try it anyhow."
"The 'follow through' is not a club," I explained when we had ceased
laughing, "but it is the trick of sending the face of the club after the
ball when you have hit it. It is the end of the stroke, and by it you
get both distance and direction. Without a good follow through it is
impossible to drive a ball any considerable distance, no matter how
great the strength with which you hit it. This knack can only be
acquired after much practise."
"You don't say?" he laughed. "Let me tell you that when I used to play
baseball I had a 'follow through' which made the fielders get out so far
when I came to bat that the spectators had to use fieldglasses to see
where they were. If I hit that golf ball good and fair it will 'follow
through' into the next county, and don't you forget that I told you so!
Come on, boys!"
Carter looked at me and winked. There was no one waiting on the first
tee, and a clear field ahead. It was agreed that Carter should have the
honour, I to follow, and that Harding should drive last.
Harding stripped off his coat and waistcoat, removed his collar and
rolled up his sleeves. I was impressed with his magnificent physique,
and do not recall when I have seen so massive and well-formed a forearm.
From my bag he selected a driver which I seldom use on account of its
excessive weight, and looked at it critically.
"Pretty fair sort of a stick," he observed, swinging it clumsily and
viciously, "but I'd rather have one of those hickory roots we used to
cut for shinny when I was a boy. Go ahead and soak it, Carter, so that I
may know what I've got to beat."
I mentally resolved to press even at the chance of flubbing. Carter hit
the ball too low, and it sailed into the air barely clearing the lane,
stopping not more than one hundred and fifty yards away.
"That's not so much," said Harding, grimly. "Bat her out, Smith, and
then watch your Uncle Dudley!"
I carefully teed a new ball and took a practise swing or two. I felt
morally certain that Harding could not beat Carter's drive, poor as it
was, but I was anxious to show him how a golf ball will fly when
properly struck.
I fell on that ball for one of the longest and cleanest drives I ever
made, and it did not stop rolling until it was twenty yards past the
two-hundred-yard post. I was properly proud of that shot, and despite
his loud talk I felt a sort of pity for Harding.
"Is that considered a fairly good shot?" he asked.
"It was a good one for Smith, or for that matter for anyone," replied
Carter, who was a bit sore that he had fallen down.
"It looks easy for me," calmly declared Harding stepping up to the tee.
"Can you make as high a pile of sand as you want to?"
"Yes, but it is better to tee it close to the ground," advised Carter.
"If you tee it high you are apt to go under it."
Ignoring Carter's advice he reached into the box, scooped out a
double-handful of sand and piled it in a pyramid at least four inches
high. On the apex of this he placed a new ball I had taken from my bag,
and which I felt reasonably certain would be cut in two in the
improbable event that he hit it. He stood back and surveyed his
preparations with evident satisfaction.
[Illustration: "... but there was blood in his eye"]
It was impossible for Carter and me to keep our faces straight, but
Harding paid no attention to us.
"I ought to be able to hit that, all right," he said, walking around the
sand pile and viewing it from all sides. Then he stood back and took a
practise swing.
He stood square on both feet, his legs spread as far apart as he could
extend them. He grasped the shaft of the club with both hands, holding
the left one underneath. His practise swing was the typical baseball
stroke used by all novices, and I saw at a glance that in all
probability he would go under his ball.
"The blamed club is too light, but I suppose it's the best you've got,"
he said. "It feels like a willow switch. Well, stand back and give me
lots of room. Here goes!"
As he grasped the club I saw the muscles of his right forearm stand out
like whipcords. His face was wrinkled in a frown, but there was, blood
in his eye.
Carter and I stood well away so as to escape a flying club-head. I
cannot describe how Harding made that swing; it was done so quickly that
I only noted what followed.
When the club came down there was a crack that sounded like a pistol
shot, and at that instant I noted that the pyramid of sand was intact.
Then I saw the ball! It was headed straight out the course, curving
with that slight hook which contributes so much to distance.
When I first caught sight of it I should say it was fifty feet in the
air and slowly rising. I never saw a ball travel so in my life. We had
sent a caddy out ahead, and he marked the spot where it landed. It was
more than twenty-five yards beyond the two-hundred-yard mark, and the
ball rolled forty-five yards farther, making a total of two hundred and
seventy yards.
It was within ten yards of the longest drive ever made by Kirkaldy, our
club professional.
The exertion carried Harding fairly off his feet, and he landed squarely
on the tee. He half raised himself, and followed the flight of the ball.
His shirt was ripped open at the shoulder and torn at the neck.
"If I hadn't slipped," he declared, rising to a sitting posture, "I
could have belted it twice as far as that, but I guess that's enough to
win."
I heard the rustle of a woman's garment.
"Why, Papa Harding!" exclaimed a voice, musical as a silver bell. "You
said you never would play golf! You should see how you look!"
I turned and saw Grace Harding. She is the most beautiful creature I
ever met in my life.
Before any of us could reach him, Harding scrambled to his feet. He was
streaked with sand, but there was a merry twinkle in his eye.
"Did you see me soak it, Kid?" he asked, brushing the sand from his
trousers, and fumbling at a broken suspender.
"You are nothing but a great big boy," she declared. "Are you sure you
are not hurt, papa?"
"Hurt, nothing!" exclaimed Harding, "but I'll bet I hurt that ball. I've
lost my collar button," he said, pawing about the tee with his feet.
"Your eyes are sharper than mine, Kid, see if you can find it. It must
be around here somewhere."
"My friend, Mr. Smith," said Carter, presenting me to Miss Harding. She
did not bow coldly, as do most young ladies in our set, neither was
there anything bold in accepting this most informal introduction. She
acted like a good fellow should act, and frankly offered her hand, her
eyes dancing with amusement.
"Smith owns this land," volunteered Harding, still hunting for the
button, "but he was too lazy to work it, so he turned it into a golf
course. He and Carter are great players, so I have heard, but I have
been putting it all over them driving a ball, and I didn't half try at
that."
"Did you hit it, papa?" she asked.
"Did I hit it?" he repeated, "Did I hit it? Ask them if I hit it. Where
in thunder is that collar-button?"
And then the four of us hunted for that elusive but useful article.
Miss Harding found it in a tuft of grass, and I stood and stupidly
watched her while she put it in place, adjusted the collar and tied the
cravat.
"Papa is very lucky in whatever he undertakes," she said, addressing me
rather than Carter, so I believe. "I could have warned you that he would
have beaten you, though I cannot understand how he happened to drive a
ball as far as that."
She smiled and looked proudly at the huge figure of her father, who
patted her on the cheek and laughed disdainfully.
Carter made some commonplace remark, but for the life of me I did not
know what to say. The proud little head, the arched eyebrows, the cheeks
faintly touched with a healthy tan, the little waist, the slender but
perfect figure, and the toe of a dainty shoe held me in an aphasic
spell. But the laughing eyes brought me out of it, and I made one of the
most brilliant conversational efforts of my career.
"Do you play golf, Miss Harding?" I asked. Having thus broken the ice I
experienced a vast sense of relief.
"I won a gold cup in a competition in Paris, didn't I, papa?"
"Sure thing," responded her father, "I ought to know; it cost me fifteen
dollars to pay duty on that ornament."
"And I once made the course in ninety-one," continued Miss Harding.
"I don't know anything about that," said Harding. "Is ninety-one
supposed to be any good?"
"It is a splendid record for a lady for eighteen holes!" I exclaimed,
"and it is not a bad score for a man."
"But this was only a nine-hole course," explained Miss Harding, "and
there were many of the ladies who did not do anywhere near as well as
that. I have played considerably since then, and am confident that I can
do much better."