the next instant two most estimable ladies invaded the improvised ring
and laid hands on the principals.
I doubt if the combined physical exertion of Mrs. Bishop and Mrs.
Harding could have made the slightest impress on the embrace which held
their lords and masters, but what they said had a magical and
peacemaking effect.
"James Bishop, you should be ashamed of yourself!" exclaimed Mrs.
Bishop, tugging at the remnant of a shirt, which promptly detached
itself from the general wreck.
[Illustration: "We're not fighting, my dear!"]
"Robert Harding, what do you mean by fighting?" gasped Mrs. Harding,
tugging at his undershirt, the outer garment long since having lost its
entity.
Instantly they relaxed their holds, rolled over and came to a sitting
posture, facing each other and their respective wives. It was as if the
act had carefully been rehearsed, and was ludicrous beyond any
description at my command.
Their glances rested for an instant on one another, and then on their
frightened and indignant helpmates. Their attitude was that of two
schoolboys detected by their teachers in some forbidden act. I am sure
Harding would have spoken sooner if he could have recovered his breath.
"We're not fighting, my dear!" he managed to say. "Are we, Jim?" he
added with a mighty effort.
"Of course not," declared Bishop, gouging a piece of turf from his eye.
"We're only rasslin'; that's all, isn't it, Bob?"
"And you in your best suit of clothes, James Bishop!" exclaimed his good
wife.
"You should see how you look, Mr. Harding," added his better half with
justifiable emphasis. "Are you hurt?" anger changing to solicitude.
"Of course I'm not hurt," he asserted. "We were only fooling. Where in
thunder is my shirt?"
And then Chilvers and Carter and Marshall and I exploded. It was not a
dignified thing to do, and I apologised to both of the ladies afterward,
but we fell down on that mutilated croquet-ground and laughed until
exhausted. I am glad Miss Harding and the others were not there.
Assisted by their wives the two gladiators had struggled to their feet,
but the most cursory inspection disclosed that they were more
presentable when on the ground. And then the ladies joined in the laugh.
"Jack," said Mr. Bishop, who has called me by that nickname since I was
seven years old, "Jack, go out to the old barn and get a pair of horse
blankets. You know where I keep them."
"You've got a great head on you, Jim," roared Harding. "I was thinking
of a pair of barrels."
When I returned with the red and yellow blankets the ladies had
disappeared.
"Never mind sending down to the club for your other clothes," Bishop was
saying. "I've got several suits, such as they are, and I reckon one of
them will fit ye."
"This blanket is pretty good," declared the magnate. "Say, Jim, what was
it you said about that fifty-year-old cider?"
"I'm glad I didn't give you any more of it; I'd lost my life as well as
my clothes," declared the farmer. "If they'd stayed away 'nother minute
or so I'd won that second fall, sure as sin, Bob," he said, rather
ruefully, as we wrapped the blanket around him.
"You just think you would," grinned Harding, lifting up the blanket so
as to keep from stumbling over it. "Say, it must be tough to have to
wear skirts all the time. Be a good fellow, Smith, and hold up my
train."
They tried to sneak in at the back entrance, but Miss Harding and the
others saw them and headed them off. I shall never forget their looks of
amazement, and then the screams of laughter which followed the hurried
explanation.
I must postpone an account of the dinner and the dance until the next
entry.
[Illustration: "It must be tough to have to wear skirts all the time"]
ENTRY NO. XI
THE BARN DANCE
We gave Mr. Harding a great reception when he appeared on the veranda,
arrayed in garments furnished by our host. I have an idea Mr. Bishop's
wardrobe was about exhausted when the two of them had completed their
toilet.
"What do you think of me?" demanded Harding, striking a pose.
He obtained a variety of opinions. They were unable to find a "boiled
shirt" with an eighteen inch neck band or collar, so a blue gingham one
was made to do service. The only coat broad enough across the shoulders
was a "Prince Albert," in which Bishop had been married, and Harding
admitted the combination was not exactly _de rigeur_. The trousers
were woefully tight at the waist, and were inches too long.
"You are lucky to get anything," declared Mrs. Harding, retying the
wonderful red and yellow scarf and vainly attempting to smooth out some
of the wrinkles in the coat. "You should be made to go home and to bed
without your supper."
"You surely are the real goods, Governor," said Chilvers, walking about
him and inspecting his costume from all angles. "What show have Marshall
and the rest of us at to-night's dance against you?"
[Illustration: "What do you think of me?"]
Miss Lawrence pinned a bunch of nasturtiums on his coat, and we all
stood and hilariously admired him. Bishop called him aside and motioned
me to join them.
"Mother and I don't know what to do about Wallace," our host said, after
hesitating a moment. "He's our hired man, you know," he added.
"What about him?" asked Harding.
"He's always eaten with us," Bishop said. "He's a quiet, well-behaved
sorter chap, and he's company for us, but mother is afraid it wouldn't
be just the thing to have him at the table when company's here, and so I
thought I'd ask you and Jack. We don't have folks here very often, and I
wanter do what's right."
"You have him sit right down with us," promptly advised Harding. "If
there's anybody in this country who has a right to eat good and plenty
it's a hired man. If any of our folks don't like it, let them wait until
the second table."
That settled it, and I could see that Bishop was pleased over the
outcome.
"I sorter hated to tell Wallace to wait," he said to me after Harding
had turned away. "It might offend him. He's a queer fish, but has the
makings of the best hired man in the county."
When we entered the big dining-room Wallace was sitting in one corner
reading. He laid aside the book, arose and bowed slightly. Harding went
right up to him.
"Mr. Wallace, I believe," he said, shaking hands. "My name's Harding,
and I'll introduce you to the rest of us." And he did.
This young Scotchman is a handsome chap. His features are those of Byron
in his early manhood. His hair is dark and wavy as it falls back from a
smooth high forehead. He is tall, broad of shoulder and singularly easy
and graceful in his movements. He certainly looks like a man who has
seen better days.
I am still inclined to my original opinion that he is some college chap
who is trying to get a financial start so as to enter on his chosen
profession.
He sat opposite me, and not until the first course was served did I
notice that he was to the right of Miss Lawrence, with LaHume to her
left. When I first observed this trio Miss Lawrence and Wallace already
were engaged in a spirited conversation--or, more properly speaking,
Miss Lawrence was.
There was a babble of voices and of laughter, and I could make out
little they were saying during the early part of the dinner, though I
was so impolite as to attempt to do so. Miss Lawrence was praising the
scenic beauties of Woodvale and its environs, he adding a word or a
sentence now and then with the tact of one pleased to listen to the
chatter of a charming companion. The trace of Scotch in his enunciation
was so slight as to defy reproduction, but it was sufficient to stamp
the place of his nativity.
LaHume made several attempts to join in their conversation, and though
Wallace lent him all possible aid Miss Lawrence effectually discouraged
LaHume's participation. He reminded me of a boy making ineffectual
attempts to "catch on behind" a swift-moving sleigh, and who is finally
tumbled on his head for his pains.
Mrs. Bishop is famous the country round as a cook, and she excelled
herself that afternoon. Bishop is a crank on truck gardening, and the
vegetables served would have taken prizes in any exhibit. A delicious
soup was followed by a baked sea trout--I must not forget to ask Mrs.
Bishop how she made that sauce.
I wonder why it is that the most skilled hotel chefs cannot fry spring
chicken so as to faintly imitate the culinary wonders attained by a
capable housewife?
"I want to ask you a question, Mrs. Bishop," said Mr. Harding, after he
had made a pretense of refusing a third helping of fried chicken. "Did
you really raise these chickens on this farm?"
Mrs. Bishop smiled and said they did.
"I don't believe it," he returned. "If the truth were known they lit
down here from heaven, and Jim Bishop nailed them and you cooked them."
I was ashamed of Chilvers. He ate seven ears of green corn and boasted
of it, but I will admit I did not know it was possible to produce corn
such as was served at that farmhouse dinner. The crisp sliced cucumbers,
the ice-cold tomatoes, the succulent hearts of lettuce, the steaming
dishes of string beans, summer squash, and green peas--it makes me
hungry as I write of that simple but excellent feast.
I thought as we sat there of the democracy of that little gathering.
There was Harding, the multi-millionaire railway magnate, in his hickory
shirt; the fastidious and monocled Carter with his wealth and boasted
New England ancestry; Miss Lawrence, an heiress in whose veins flowed
the purest blood of the southern aristocracy; Mr. and Mrs. Bishop, plain
honest folk from 'way down east in Maine; and the unknown Wallace,
driven no doubt by stress of poverty from the hills of his beloved
country--there we all were meeting one another as equals, enjoying the
bounties Nature has so lavishly bestowed on her children.
I caught Miss Harding's eye, and she smiled as if in sympathy with my
wandering thoughts. It takes a remarkably pretty young woman to lose
none of her charm while eating green corn off the cob, but Miss Harding
triumphantly stands that test. She was talking to Marshall, who is so
constitutionally slow that he is invariably half a course behind
everyone else at a table.
Marshall was attempting to explain to Miss Harding how it is possible to
hook a ball and play off the right foot. He laid out a diagram on the
table cloth, using "lady-fingers" to show the positions of the feet, a
round radish to indicate the ball, and a fruit knife to illustrate the
face and direction of the club.
Chilvers watched this most unconventional dinner performance with a grin
on his face, and just as Marshall was showing just how the club should
follow through, Chilvers called "Fore!" in a sharp tone. Miss Harding
and Marshall were so absorbed in the elucidation of this most difficult
golf problem that they instinctively dodged, and when Miss Harding
recovered, her cheeks were delightfully crimson.
I never noticed until that moment that there are traces of dimples in
her cheeks. Unless Venus had dimples she had no just claim to be crowned
the goddess of love and beauty.
"Jim," said Mr. Harding, addressing our host, when coffee was served,
"did you know our friend Smith when he was a kid?"
"Knew him when he couldn't look over this table," replied Mr. Bishop.
"What kind of a boy was he?"
"Full of the Old Nick, like most healthy boys," he answered. "He and my
boy Joe went to school together, got into trouble together and got out
of it again. What was it the boys used to call you, Jack?" he said to
me, a twinkle in his eye.
"Never mind," I said, and attempted to turn the conversation, but it was
no use.
"They used to call him 'Socks Smith,'" said Bishop. "That was it, 'Socks
Smith.' I hadn't thought of it in years."
"What an alliterative nickname," laughed Mrs. Chilvers. "How did you
ever acquire it, Mr. Smith?"
"He won't tell ye," declared my tormentor, without waiting for me to say
a word, "but it's nothin' to his discredit. You know that mill pond
where--"
"Don't tell that incident," I protested.
"Tell it! Tell it, Mr. Bishop!" pleaded Miss Lawrence, Miss Harding, and
others in chorus.
"Sure I'll tell it," continued Bishop. "As I was saying, you all know
the mill pond where you folks try to drive golf balls over. Well, it
uster be bigger an' deeper than it is now, and in the winter it was the
skating place for all the lads in the neighbourhood. Up at the far end
there is a spring, and even in the coldest weather it don't freeze over
above that spring."
"One bitter cold day--and it never gets cold enough to keep boys off
smooth ice--young Smith, here--he was about twelve or fourteen years old
at that time--was out on the ice with his skates on, wrapped up in an
overcoat, a comforter over his ears and thick mittens on his hands,
skatin' around that pond with my boy Joe and other lads, all of them
thinkin' they was havin' the time of their lives. Mother, what was the
name of that poor family that lived over in the old Bobbins' house at
the time?"
"Andersons," said Mrs. Bishop.
"That's right; Andersons," continued the Boswell of my infantile
exploits. "Well, these Andersons were so poor they didn't have any
skates, but some of the boys had let them take a sled, and two of these
little Anderson kids were slidin' around on the ice and havin' all the
fun they could, even if they didn't have skates. I suppose their toes
was as cold and their noses as blue, and that's half of skatin' or
sleighin'."
"Smith, Joe, and the other skaters were on the southwest end of the pond
playin' 'pigeon goal,' and these poor Anderson kids were slidin' around
up at the other end where they would be out of the way. The wind was
blowin' pretty hard, and I suppose they were careless; anyhow a gust
struck them and swept them along into that air hole."
"They yelled as best they could, and some boys who were near them
hollered, and the boys who were skating heard them and came tearing
along to see what was the matter. Jack Smith, here, was fixing a strap
or somethin', and was the last one to get started. The whole bunch of
them were standin' 'round watching those poor Anderson kids drown, so
scared they didn't know what to do. The poor little tots were hanging
onto the sled right out in the middle of an open space about thirty
yards wide."
[Illustration: "Jack ... never stopped a second"]
"Jack, here, never stopped a second. He saw what was up as he came
skatin' along, and he legged it all the harder, and in he went--skates,
overcoat, comforter, mittens and all. It's no easy job swimmin' with
such an outfit, to say nothin' of rescuin' two half-drowned youngsters,
and I don't know how he did it, and I don't reckon you do either, Jack.
But anyhow, he got to them, paddled along to the edge of the ice, and
held on to them until the other boys pushed out boards and finally got
the whole caboodle of 'em up on solid ice."
"Bully for you, Smith!" exclaimed Chilvers, "didn't know it was in
you."
"Mr. Chilvers is jealous of you," declared Miss Lawrence. "I think it
was real heroic."
"So do I," asserted Miss Harding, "but I cannot imagine how you acquired
so absurd a nickname as 'Socks Smith' from that incident."
"Was the water cold?" asked Marshall.
"I hav'n't finished my story," said Mr. Bishop, after these and other
comments had-been made. "I reckon the water was some cold, and the air
colder; at any rate I happened along in my wagon just as they were
draggin' them out, and before I could get them up to Smith's father's
house the whole bunch of them was frozen so stiff that I had to pack 'em
into the kitchen like so much cordwood."
"But boys of that age are tough, and when they had been thawed out,
boiled in hot baths, and blistered with mustard poultices they was as
good as new, and I reckon the Anderson kids was a mighty sight cleaner
than they had been since the last time they went in swimmin'."
"Now, as I said before, these Andersons were desperate poor, but they
were good folks, and what you might call appreciative. Jack had saved
the lives of two of the family, and they wanted to show what they
thought of him in some way or other. There was twelve children in the
Anderson family, six boys and six girls, and the older girls and the old
lady went to work, and blamed if they didn't knit a dozen pair of
woollen socks and sent them to Jack as a Christmas present."
"And that is how Jack got the name of 'Socks Smith,'" concluded Mr.
Bishop, when the laughter had subsided. "For riskin' his life he got all
those nice warm socks and a nickname that uster make him so darned mad
that I suppose he's had a hundred fights on account of it, and I'm not
certain he won't poke me in the jaw when he gets me alone for tellin'
this yarn on him."
"This darned woollen yarn," observed Marshall.
"You're all right, Socks," declared Chilvers. "I only wish I could get
as good a press agent as our friend Bishop. When I was a kid I used to
push 'em into the pond and run, and let someone else fish them out."
"If a man were to do an act as brave as that," asserted Miss Harding,
"the world would acclaim him a hero, and not pile ridicule on him."
"All of which proves that no boy is a hero to another boy," commented
Mr. Harding, "and that is as it should be. Boys get their heroes out of
books, and as a rule they are fighters and pirates rather than of the
self-sacrificing type."
I was glad when Miss Lawrence changed the topic of conversation.
"What do you think?" she exclaimed, addressing no one in particular, "I
have discovered that Mr. Wallace knows how to play golf, and that he
learned the game on some of the famous old courses of Scotland. He has
promised to teach me the St. Andrews swing."
LaHume's face was a study as Miss Lawrence made this rather startling
announcement. Surprise, disgust, and anger were reflected in his eyes
and in the lines of his mouth.
"You have played St. Andrews?" asked Carter of Wallace.
"Yes, many a time," said this remarkable "hired man." "I was born
hard-by the old town," he added.
"Indeed?" sneered LaHume. "What were you while there; caddy or
professional?"
I thought I detected a flash of anger in the eyes of the young
Scotchman, but if offended he controlled himself admirably. Not so with
Miss Lawrence, who glared indignantly at LaHume.
"I doubt if I knew enough of the game," said Wallace, quietly, "to be
either. I merely played there and at other places when I had the
opportunity."
"Mr. Wallace says that St. Andrews does not compare with some of the
newer links in Scotland," declared Miss Lawrence, ignoring LaHume.
"Which ones, for instance?" asked Carter, who has played over most of
the fine courses in Great Britain.
"Muirfield and Prestwick offer better golf than St. Andrews, and are
not so crowded," replied Wallace. "The farther you get from St. Andrews
the greater its reputation, but it is too rough for perfect golf. A
long, straight drive is often penalised by a bad lie, and an indifferent
shot favoured by a good one, which is more luck than golf."
Carter smiled, and he afterwards told me it struck him as odd that a
farmhand should converse in such words and on so peculiar a topic.
Wallace good-naturedly and modestly answered a number of questions, but
evaded telling the class of his game.
I wonder where Miss Lawrence will receive those lessons which will
enable her to acquire the "St. Andrews swing"? I doubt if our rules will
permit this remarkable farm labourer to play over Woodvale, even as the
guest or at the request of Miss Lawrence. I shall watch developments
with much interest.
Wallace asked to be excused, observing with a laugh that it was milking
time, and a few minutes later we saw him pass the window, clad in blue
overalls and a "jumper."
"Tell you what I'll do with you, LaHume," said Chilvers, who never
misses an opportunity to stir up trouble. "I'll bet you a box of
Haskells that our Scotch friend, who is now out there milking, can
outdrive you twenty yards, and I never saw him with a club in his
hands."
"I am not his rival in that or in any other capacity," warmly declared
LaHume.
At this instant our hostess arose, giving the signal that the dinner was
ended, and we adjourned to the lawn. LaHume said something to Miss
Lawrence; she laughed scornfully, and left him and joined Miss Harding.
After cigars and pipes we inspected the new red barn. It is a huge
structure, modern in every particular, and Bishop was properly proud of
it. The lofts were partially filled with sweet clover hay, and the odour
combined with that of the new pine lumber was delicious. The floor had
been planed smooth, and oiled and waxed so as to make an excellent space
for dancing. The uprights were twined with ivy and decorated with wild
flowers, and the effect was pleasing.
The guests were already arriving in all sorts of vehicles, from farm
wagons to automobiles.
An "orchestra" of five pieces was on hand, and the musicians took their
places beneath a cluster of Chinese lanterns. There were fully a hundred
on the floor at nine o'clock, when Mr. Harding and Mrs. Bishop led off
in the grand march. I had secured Miss Harding as my partner, and LaHume
and Miss Lawrence were behind us. Carter was with some village beauty,
but I saw nothing of Wallace in the grand march.
Later he appeared and danced a waltz with Miss Ross, and they made a
handsome couple. The "hired man" was as well dressed as any gentleman in
the room, and I have never seen a more graceful dancer than that tall,
young Scotchman. LaHume watched him like a hawk. When Wallace claimed
Miss Lawrence for a schottische the glum LaHume stood by the door and
looked as if he would rather fight than dance. Chilvers told him he was
making an ass of himself.
It was a glorious night beneath the radiance of a full moon which
silvered the lace-work of a mackerel sky. I never fully realised what
dancing was until Miss Harding favoured me with a polka. And then we
wandered out into the moonlight, talked about the moon, and hunted for
the Great Dipper.
Even a plain woman looks pretty when with eyes and chin lifted she gazes
at the star-studded heavens, her face profiled against the gleaming orb
of a full moon, but no words of mine can describe the splendid beauty of
Miss Harding in that attitude. I tried to think of something to say, but
was under a spell and could think of nothing, and it was perhaps just as
well. I composed some ripping good sentences before I went to sleep that
night, but it was too late to use them, and I shall not record them
here.
And then we met Wallace and Miss Lawrence, her arm drawn through his,
her face lifted toward his, and her tongue going when she was not
laughing. They were "walking out" a dance, and evidently enjoying it.
Mr. Harding had the time of his life. He danced with stout farm wives,
slender village maidens, and executed a clog dance which made the barn
shudder on its foundations. He led the singing, told stories to groups
of farmers who shouted with laughter, and refused to go home until Mrs.
Harding took him by the arm and fairly dragged him away.
I walked home with Miss Harding.
[Illustration: "Mr. Harding ... executed a clog dance"]
ENTRY NO. XII
THE ST. ANDREWS SWING
A week has passed since I made the last entry in this diary, and a
number of peculiar things have happened.
My brokers have brought an additional 10,000 shares of N.O. & G., which
brings my speculative holdings to a total of 25,000 shares. They
acquired the last block at an average price of 65, and the market closed
to-night at 63. If I were to settle at this figure I would be loser to
the amount of $150,000, not including the $23,000 lost on the first two
thousand shares purchased, on which I have taken my losses. Counting
commissions and interest I am about $175,000 to the bad, but am not in
the least worried.
My brokers are now placing their orders through houses in other cities,
and I am certain the extent of my operations is a secret beyond the
slightest question.
The qualifying round for the "Harding Trophy" brought out the largest
field of players in the history of our club competitions. Of course most
of those who started declared that they had no expectation of winning,
or even of qualifying in the first sixteen. For instance, there was
Peabody, whose best medal score is 112.
"Are you going to play for that bronze gent?" demanded Chilvers, as
Peabody came to the first tee.
"Thought I might just as well enter," said Peabody. "Of course I know I
haven't a chance in the world to win."