warm, loud words flowing in a torrent from his mouth.
Harding dropped his club and we both ran toward the injured man. Harding
was the first to reach the fence, but he did not climb over.
"Did it hit you?" he asked Bishop.
The farmer took one more hop and then turned and faced the railroad
magnate. There was a lump over his eye bigger than a hen's egg, and on
it I could see the bramble marks of the ball. It was a moment before his
rage permitted utterance. He spit out a mouthful of tobacco so as not to
be handicapped.
"Did you hit me; you dod-gasted old poppinjay of a fat dude!" he
exclaimed, shaking a brawny, freckled fist at Harding. "Did you hit me;
you flabby old chromo! Do you suppose I fall out of my wagon and dance
up and down this road for exercise; you old boiled lobster?"
"I am very sorry, sir," said Harding, amusement and growing anger
struggling for mastery. "I wasn't shooting in this direction. Something
happened to my ball; what do you call it, Smith?"
[Illustration: "Did it hit you?"]
"You sliced it," I said.
"That's it; I sliced it," declared Harding, as if that were more or less
of a valid excuse.
"You come over that fence an' I'll slice you!" roared Bishop, taking a
step forward. "Things have come to a fine pass in this country if an
honest farmer can't take his milk to town without riskin' bein' murdered
by plutocrats with 'sliced balls' and all that blankety-blank tommyrot.
Climb over on this side of the fence an' I'll lick seven kinds of
stuffin' out of you in erbout a minute."
"Keep your shirt on!" retorted Harding, "you won't lick nobody."
He looked curiously at the maddened farmer.
"Your name is Bishop, isn't it?" he asked, and I wondered how he
happened to know.
"Yes, my name's Bishop," was the sullen and defiant answer.
"Jim Bishop?"
"Yes; Jim Bishop."
Harding grinned good-naturedly.
"Don't you know who I am?" he asked.
"No, I don't, and I don't give a damn!" replied Bishop, looking at him
more closely, I thought.
"Did you know a young fellow named Harding when you were a boy?" asked
Harding.
"Bob Harding?"
"Yes, Bob Harding!"
"Do you mean to tell me that you're the Bob Harding who uster live on a
farm near Buckfield, Maine?" asked Bishop, the anger dying from his
voice.
"That's what I am!" declared the millionaire, as Bishop came toward him,
a curious smile on his tanned face. "How are you, Jim?"
"Well; I'll be jiggered! How are you, Bob?" and they shook hands across
the fence. For a moment neither spoke.
"It's thirty years or more since I've seen you," said Harding. "When did
you move to this country?"
"Over twenty-five years ago," said Bishop. "And what have you been doing
with yourself all these years? I surely hope you've found something
better to do than play this here fool game an' knock people's heads
off."
He tenderly rubbed the lump on his forehead.
"I just took this game up," said Harding rather sheepishly. "I've been
building railroads."
"Are you Robert L. Harding, the railroad king that the papers talks so
much erbout?" demanded Bishop.
"I guess I'm the fellow," admitted Harding.
"Well; I never would er believed it!" gasped Bishop, and then they shook
hands again.
They sat on a rock and talked about Buckfield and their boyhood days for
an hour. It seems that they were born and raised on adjoining farms, and
were chums until Harding's father died, at which time Harding went West
and found his fortune.
Not until the horses became restless and started to go home did Bishop
note the passing of time. He cordially invited Harding and his daughter
to come and call on him, and Harding did not hesitate in accepting the
invitation.
Now that I think of it, none of us gave a thought to that ball, and I
suppose it is out in the road yet. Harding said that was all the golf he
wished that day, and so we went back to the club house.
"Talk about driving a ball six hundred yards, Smith," he said, as we
came to the eighteenth tee. "I knocked that ball so far that I hit a boy
in Maine, and that's hundreds of miles from here."
ENTRY NO. VIII
DOWNFALL OF MR. HARDING
I do not know whether to be annoyed or amused over the result of my
second golf game with Miss Harding. It was not in the least like my
anticipations.
Our first game was so romantic. It was as if the kindly skies had raised
a dome over earth's most favoured spot and reserved it for our use. It
was different to-day.
I presume it is necessary that beautiful maidens shall have fathers. I
raise no doubt that Mr. Harding is a wonderful financier and railroad
genius, and it is likely he is entitled to a vacation and to that
relaxation which comes from taking exercise, but this does not justify
him in--well, in "butting in" on our game. I don't use slang as a rule,
but no other term so accurately describes the conduct of that gentleman
this afternoon.
As for Carter--I have no words to express what I think of Carter.
If I had a daughter nineteen years old it would occur to me that she
might prefer to play golf with a young gentleman somewhere near her own
age rather than with me, especially if that young gentleman were a good
golfer, and possessed of wealth, prospects, and honourable ambitions.
But Mr. Harding treats her as if she were a school miss in short
dresses. He persists in calling her "Kid," and only rarely does he
address her by the beautiful name of Grace.
When Miss Harding started from the club house her father was on the lawn
not many yards away engaged in the interesting but expensive experiment
of trying to drive balls across the lake. He was buying new balls by the
box--they cost $5.50 a box--with the joyous abandon of a pampered boy
purchasing fire-crackers on the Fourth of July.
All he asks of a ball is "one crack at it," and the caddies were reaping
a harvest. He had not made one decent drive, and was surprised and
angry.
As luck would have it he turned and saw us as we were starting for the
first tee. He had laid aside that flaming red-and-green coat, and was in
his shirt sleeves. His face was crimson from exertion, and his hair wet
with perspiration.
"Where are you going?" he called.
"We're going to play a round," I answered, with a sinking heart.
"Good; I'll go with you," he returned. "Chuck the rest of those balls
into that sack," he said to one of his caddies, "and follow me."
What could I do but say we would be delighted to have him join us? We
were waiting for him, when who should come from the club house but
Carter.
"Hello there, Carter!" shouted Harding. "Come on and play with us! This
is my first real game, and we'll make it a foursome, or whatever you
call it. What d'ye say?"
"That's fine!" declared Carter.
I happen to know that he had already made up a game with Marshall, Boyd,
and Chilvers, but he did not hesitate to abandon them for his
long-coveted chance to play with Miss Harding.
"We'll have a great game," asserted Mr. Harding mopping his brow. "How
shall we divide up? I suppose you're the best player, Carter, and Smith
comes next, but I can beat the Kid, here," patting Miss Harding on the
shoulder.
"I'll bet you cannot," I declared, angry that he should class Carter
above me.
"Bet I cannot beat my Grace?" he exclaimed. I told him that such was my
opinion.
"Of course I can beat you, papa," laughed Miss Harding. "You have never
played, and know nothing of the game. I can beat you easily."
"Talk of the insolence and ingratitude of children!" he gasped. "Kid,
I'm astonished at you! I'll teach both of you a lesson. What do you want
to bet, Smith?"
I suggested that a box of balls would suit me as a bet.
"Box of monkeys!" exclaimed Harding. "I thought you were a sport, Smith!
A box of balls don't last me as long as a box of cigarettes does Carter.
Tell you what I'll do. We'll all keep track of our shots, and for every
one I beat her you pay me a box of balls, and for every one she beats me
I pay you a box of balls. How does that strike you?"
"Take him up, Mr. Smith," said Miss Harding, a smile on her lips and a
meaning glance in her eyes. I would not have hesitated had I known it
would have cost me every dollar in the world.
"You are on, Mr. Harding," I said.
"We'll teach you a good lesson, Papa Harding," she declared, with a
confidence which surprised me. "You have never seen me play."
He roared with laughter.
"Talk about David and Goliath!" he exclaimed. "Tell you what I'll do,
Kid. I'll make you a small bet on the side. You remember that sixty
horse-power buzz wagon we were looking at in the city the other day?"
"The one in red that I admired so much?" asked Miss Harding.
"Yes, the one you tried to soft soap me into buying. Tell you what I'll
do. If you beat me I'll buy that machine for you, and if I beat you I
get a new hat which you pay for out of your pin money."
"It's a shame to take advantage of you, papa, dear," she hesitated, "but
I want that machine awfully, and I'll make the wager."
[Illustration: "... and missed the ball by three inches"]
"If you never get it until you beat me at this shinny game you will
wait a long time," he declared. "Who shoots first?"
"Miss Harding and I will be partners," suggested Carter, before I could
get the words out of my mouth.
"Since I am interested in Miss Harding's play to the extent of a box of
balls a stroke, I claim the right to act as her partner and adviser," I
said, looking hard at Carter.
"Mr. Smith and I will be partners," said Miss Harding, and it was the
happiest moment of my life.
"I don't care who are partners," said Harding, stepping up to the tee.
"I'll shoot first, and you keep your eye on your Uncle Dudley!"
He piled up a hill of sand, gripped his club like grim death, drew back,
swung with all his might--and missed the ball by three inches.
"One stroke!" laughed Miss Harding.
"That don't count!" he declared. "I didn't hit the blamed thing at all!
Look at it! It's just where I fixed it a minute ago. Don't cheat, Kid!"
"A missed ball counts a stroke," laughed Carter.
"Are you sure that's the rule?"
We all assured him there was not the slightest doubt of it.
"All that I can say is that it's a fool rule," he protested, "but at
that, one missed swipe cuts little figure with me. Here goes for number
two!"
"Don't press!" cautioned Carter.
"I'll press all I darned please. Keep your eyes on this one!"
He grazed the ball enough to make it roll not more than twenty feet into
a clump of tall grass. He looked blankly at it, but did not say a word.
Then he took a jack-knife from his pocket and cut two notches in the
shaft of his club.
Carter drove out a good one, and I teed a ball for Miss Harding. The
lane is about a hundred yards away, and I thought of advising her to
play short, but on reflection determined not to embarrass her by
suggestions so early in the game.
The moment she took her stance and grasped her club I noted a difference
in her style of play as compared with that of the preceding day. Her
club head came back with a free, even curve, and on the return she
caught the ball with a good though not perfect follow through. The ball
carried straight and true over the lane, and did not stop rolling until
it had passed the 130-yard mark. It was a nice clean drive, and I smiled
my approval.
"Good work, Kid," grinned Harding, but he did not seem the least
dismayed. I should not care to play poker with him. I lined out a
beauty, and then Harding returned to the attack.
It took two strokes to get his ball out of the grass. On his fifth shot
the ball had a good lie about ten yards from the lane fence. He smashed
at it with a brassie, but drove too low. The ball hit a fence post and
bounded back fully seventy-five yards. In five strokes he had not
gained a foot. After a combination of weird and wonderful shots he
reached the green in twelve.
Harding's putting was a revelation in how not to drop a ball in a cup.
He went back and forth over the hole like a shuttle. This performance
added six to his score, and he holed out in nineteen. He was fighting
mad, but did not say a word. While the rest of us were holing out he
sullenly added seventeen notches to his club.
I was astonished and pleased at the reversal in form shown by Miss
Harding. Two iron shots laid her ball on the green, her approach was a
little weak, and she missed an easy two-foot putt, but she made the hole
in seven, which is not at all bad for a woman. Carter and I both got
fours.
When Harding finally got his ball out of the old graveyard in playing
the second hole there was a dispute as to how many strokes he had taken.
I counted twelve, but he claimed only nine, and we let him have his own
way about it. I did not dare to dispute with him, fearing that he might
have a stroke of apoplexy. He marked eleven new notches on his club
shaft for this hole.
He made a fair drive over the marsh on his third hole, flubbed his
second and third shots, but his fourth was a screaming brassie which
landed him on the green within two inches of the cup. It was one of
those freak shots which a man makes once a season, but Harding took
vast credit for it and was the happiest person on the links over his
bogy five for this long hole.
Miss Harding was playing like a veteran. This hole is 355 yards from the
tee, but she was well on the green on her third, and holed out in six.
Carter did the same, but I got a five and saved the hole for our side.
I do not know how to account for Miss Harding's improved playing. It was
not in the least like that of the day when we were alone. For the entire
eighteen holes she played steady, consistent golf. It was not brilliant,
but it was a creditable exhibition for a woman. She kept on the course,
missed only two drives, and rarely failed to get distance and direction.
Not until we had played half-way around and Harding was hopelessly
behind did he give voice to his amazement.
"This is the time you have got the old man down and out, Kid," he said,
after she had made the ninth hole in four to his fourteen. "I'll admit
that there is a trick about this game that I'm not on to, but you just
wait; you just wait. I seem to hit 'em all right, but confound 'em, they
don't go right. I don't understand it. I'd have bet a million dollars
against a perfecto cigar that I could drive a ball farther than a
125-pound girl, even if she is my daughter."
"We will call our bet off, Mr. Harding," I suggested, satisfied that we
had tumbled him from the pedestal reared by his conceit.
"We'll call nothing off," he promptly declared. "Soak it to me as hard
as you can; I'll get even with all of you before the season's over."
No language can describe the game played by the railway magnate. His
miserable playing was supplemented by worse luck. A predatory cow
swallowed his ball. He drove another one into the crotch of a tree, hit
Carter in the shin, broke a window in the club house, tore his trousers,
sprained his thumb, and poisoned his hands with ivy while searching for
a lost ball. He conversed much with himself when Miss Harding was not
near.
The nicks in his club by which he kept score became so numerous, and
they so weakened the shaft, that he finally broke it; also one of the
commandments.
The story of his calamities and of his undoing is feebly indicated by
his score, which was as follows:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Out-- 19 11 5 7 12 9 8 16 14--101
In--- 8 6 10 5 7 7 11 5 12-- 71
---
Total --172
Miss Harding made it in 116, and with a reasonable amount of luck I am
sure she would have done much better. I played a rattling good game,
completing the round in 80, which is the best score I have made this
season.
I put it all over Carter, who had made me a side bet of the dinners for
the four of us that his individual score would be better than mine.
Miss Harding won an automobile which will cost not less than $15,000; I
won fifty-six dozen golf balls, enough to last me two years; Carter lost
a dinner which I thoroughly enjoyed, and Mr. Harding lost his temper,
but I will give him credit for finding it the moment the game was over.
He laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
"You threw me down, Kid," he said to Miss Harding, "but I'll forgive
you. You get the buzz wagon and Smith gets a cartload of balls, but I'll
tell you one thing, and that is this: I'm going to learn how to hit one
of those blamed balls in the nose every time I swipe at it, even if I
have to resign the presidency of the R.G. & K. railroad."
I can see that the golf microbe has marked him for a shining victim.
ENTRY NO. IX
MR. SMITH GETS BUSY
I have had to neglect my golf and attend to business. For nearly a week
I have not seen Miss Harding. And all on account of that miserable N.O.
& G. stock.
Early in the week it dropped to more than ten points below the figure at
which I purchased it. This meant a loss of $20,000.
Tuesday morning I called on my broker and he informed me that if N.O. &
G. dropped two more points he would have to call on me for margins.
There were rumours, he said, that it would pass its next dividend, or at
least reduce it. Then I got busy.
I called on Jones, the kind friend who steered me against this
investment. Jones informed me that certain powerful banking interests
were raiding the stock. He could not identify them, and I saw that he
knew nothing about it.
"We are the lambs, Smith," he sadly said. "I'm in for a thousand shares
myself."
"They have not an ounce of my fleece yet," I declared, and turned and
left him.
I served two years on Wall Street under my father, and there was no
streak of mutton in him. It made me furious to think that I should be
made to "hold the bag" for a lot of unscrupulous tricksters.
I set about ascertaining the exact status of the business of the N.O. &
G. In my search for information I was thwarted again and again, but I do
not think it was entirely luck which led me to solve the mystery to my
personal satisfaction. I employed detectives to assist me, and in four
days had the information on which to act.
It is as neat a conspiracy as ever was hatched by financial brigands,
but I think I know every tree behind which they are hid. It is probable
that they are within the pale of the written law, but one would have the
same right to operate in gold bricks or green goods.
It may be that the action I have taken will spell my financial ruin, but
I propose to ascertain if a gentleman cannot take a modest flyer in Wall
Street without being marked as "a come-on," which is the term used by
those who rig the market.
If they get me it will be not for $20,000 but for $2,000,000. I propose
to make the fight of my life. I wonder what Miss Harding would think if
she knew I were engaged in a deal of this magnitude?
On Thursday I instructed my business agents to convert certain
negotiable assets into cash, and to arrange for an extension of my
credit with the banks. I now propose to follow N.O. & G. to the
bottom--if there be one--and if not I shall drop with my money into the
fathomless void of bankruptcy.
I called on my broker.
"I wish to get out," I said to him. "I will take my losses. This has
been an expensive experience to me."
"I do not imagine, Mr. Smith," he said, "that the loss of $23,000 will
seriously cripple you or disturb your serenity."
I made a gesture of despair.
"If that were all I would not give it a thought," I said. He looked at
me curiously.
"I hope that you are not long on this stock to any great extent," he
said.
"I should have said nothing about it," I returned, looking as distressed
as possible. "Please make no inference from my remark, and keep this
transaction entirely an office secret."
"It is not necessary to caution me," he quickly said.
The financial papers that evening recorded a rumour to the effect that
"The son of a late well-known banker and operator is said to be heavily
long on N.O. & G., and the slump in that stock during the closing hours
was probably due to his frantic efforts to close out an account
estimated at 20,000 shares."
I wonder where that rumour originated. This is the way secrets are kept
in Wall Street.
Prior to this I had commissioned Morse & Davis, brokers in whom I have
implicit confidence, to purchase 5,000 shares of the stock at or below
75. I obtained 79 for my original investment, and its sale combined with
the circulation of the rumour before mentioned precipitated a flurry in
N.O. & G. which sent it as low as 74 and a fraction.
[Illustration: "It is not necessary to caution me"]
Before the market closed I had my five thousand shares.
Friday morning selling orders poured in from frightened small holders,
and when their demands had been satisfied the "syndicated conspirators"
put the screws on just as I expected. They also circulated an alleged
authorised interview with an official of the N.O. & G. forecasting the
passing of the regular semi-annual dividend.
Had I not been acquainted with the plans of these quotation wreckers I
should have been seriously alarmed.
When the tape recorded a sale at 70 I placed an order with Morse & Davis
for 10,000 shares, and they picked it up in small lots at an average of
69. It rose slightly on Saturday, and I did nothing with it.
I have put up in margins $375,000, sufficient to protect me against a
drop of twenty-five points. I stand to lose $1,975,000, and know where I
can place my hands on the money. I anticipate that the stock will go
much lower, and have planned accordingly. My share of my lamented
father's estate is worth fully two and a half millions, and it is in
such shape that I can speedily convert it into cash. If these thieves
can get it they are welcome to it, but they will know that they have
been in a fight.
The transition from the healthy quiet of Woodvale to the feverish furore
of Wall Street was startling. At times as I stood by the ticker I could
hardly persuade myself that it was not a dream, from which I should
awake to stroll with Miss Harding across the brooks and green meadows we
both love so well.
My prolonged absence from the links created some comment, so I am told,
but no questions were asked and I volunteered no information. I have
arranged matters so that it will not be necessary to spend much of my
time in the city, unless something unexpected develops.
I have lost no sleep, but my golf this afternoon was disappointing.
I required eighty-nine for the round and lost seven golf balls to
Chilvers and Boyd. This will never do![1]
[Footnote 1: NOTE BY THE EDITOR.--From the foregoing it appears that Mr.
Smith's stock transactions up to this date have involved a net loss of
about $51,000, with a probability of a continuance of the decline during
the coming week. Under these circumstances it would seem that he
attaches undue importance to the loss of seven golf balls, which I am
informed, may be purchased at the standard price of fifty cents apiece.
Possibly this criticism may be impeached by those familiar with the
ethics and peculiarities of golf, a game of which my knowledge is purely
academic.]
On the table in front of me stands the finest golf trophy which ever
delighted the eye of a devotee of the game. It is the bronze figure of a
player whose mashie is in the position of that valuable iron club at the
end of a short approach. It is the work of a French sculptor, and in
design and execution it is nothing short of an inspiration. The position
of the feet, body, arms, and shoulders, the expression of the face and
eyes; all these details are perfect.
The figure is twenty-four inches in height and is mounted on an ebony
pedestal.
Mr. Harding has given this magnificent bronze to the club, and it is in
my keeping, as chairman of the Greens Committee. It will be presented to
the winner of this year's championship of Woodvale by Miss Grace
Harding, and I have posted an announcement of the conditions of the
competition. It is open to all members, sixteen best scores to qualify,
and then match play of eighteen holes, with thirty-six for the finals.
The tournament starts a week from Tuesday.
Between watching Wall Street and getting in shape for this competition I
am likely to have a busy week.
Mr. Harding called me into his apartments yesterday evening, displayed
this gem of a bronze, and told me how he came to acquire it.