LaHume was furious when Carter and I told him Wallace was a candidate
for Kirkaldy's place.
"What do you mean by taking this step without consulting me?" he
blustered.
"We have not employed this chap yet," Carter calmly responded. "Don't
get excited, Percy, Wallace may not make good."
"But who knows who he is?" demanded LaHume. "He may be the rankest kind
of an impostor."
"A golf impostor?" smiled Carter. "I never heard of one. We can get a
line on him before he has played five holes."
"I don't mean that," growled LaHume. "What I mean is that we don't know
anything about this fellow. He comes with no recommendations, and all
that sort of thing."
"If he can play within five strokes of Kirkaldy, and teach Smith how to
keep from slicing, that's recommendation enough," remarked Carter. "What
have you against him, Percy?"
"I'll vote against him in the committee," hotly declared LaHume, "and if
I'm over-ruled I will appeal the matter to the club."
"Go as far as you like, my boy," drawled Carter, slowly adjusting his
monocle and turning on his heel.
The news Kirkaldy had resigned and that "Bishop's hired man, Wallace,"
was to have a try out for his place spread rapidly, and created no end
of comment and excitement. When it was rumoured that the Misses
Harding, Ross, and Lawrence--the three acknowledged beauties of the
club--were his sponsors the interest was vastly increased.
Wallace appeared half an hour ahead of the appointed time, and I
introduced him to Kirkaldy. The latter studied him intently as they
chatted, but asked no questions concerning his identity with their
native Scotland. Wallace looked over an array of clubs, selected some
which suited him, but retained my cleek and mashie. It was agreed I
should act as caddy for Wallace, Chilvers for Kirkaldy, and that Carter
should referee. LaHume declined to act in any capacity.
All games were postponed to watch this strange contest, and the
"gallery" clustered at the first tee numbered fully one hundred. It was
agreed that the contest should be at medal play, the match score also to
be taken into consideration.
Mr. Harding called me aside before the match started.
"What do you think about this game, Smith?" he asked. "You've seen both
of them play, and I hav'n't. This young fellow, LaHume, is bluffing
around offering to bet any part of five hundred dollars Kirkaldy will
beat this Wallace seven strokes. I don't mind losing the money, but I
hate to make a foolish bet and be laughed at."
"Take LaHume up, and I'll stand half the bet," I said, after considering
the matter for a moment. "Wallace is a stranger to the course, but I
doubt if Kirkaldy or anyone living can beat him seven strokes."
Harding covered LaHume's money, and the latter placed several hundred
dollars more at the same odds. Miss Lawrence heard he was betting
against Wallace, and her eyes blazed with indignation.
"You go to Mr. LaHume," she said to Marshall, "and ask him what odds he
will give that Mr. Wallace does not win the game. Do not tell him who
wishes to know."
"What odds Wallace does not win the game?" sneered LaHume, when Marshall
sounded him. "Five to one, up to a thousand dollars!"
Just before they teed off, Marshall put a crisp one-hundred-dollar note
belonging to Miss Lawrence in Harding's hands as stakeholder, and LaHume
promptly covered it with five bills of the same denomination. There were
scores of smaller wagers with no such animus back of them.
Wallace won the toss and took the honour. I doubt if there be any
greater mental or nervous strain than that of making the initial stroke
in an important golf contest. The player realises that all eyes are on
him, and unless he has nerves of steel and an absolute mental poise he
is likely to fall the victim of a wave which surges against him as he
grasps the shaft of his club.
Wallace's first shot was the poorest I had seen him execute. It went
high and to the left, and for a moment I was sure it would not clear the
fence, but it did, dropping in as thick a clump of swamp grass as can
be found in Woodvale. It left him fully one hundred and fifty yards from
the cup. It-was a most disappointing shot, and I instinctively turned
and looked at LaHume.
That young gentleman was satisfied beyond measure. There was something
vindictive and repellent in the satisfied expression of his face. I
turned and watched Kirkaldy drive a beautiful ball within fifty yards of
the cup. The first hole is two hundred and eighty-five yards from the
tee.
I found Wallace's ball. It was on a soggy spot of ground, with tall
slush grass in front of it, but luckily there was room to swing a club
back of it. He studied it a moment intently. It was a villainous lie. I
did not wish to give advice, but could not restrain myself.
"Better play safe," I said. "It will cost you only one stroke."
"I think I can take it out," he said, reaching in the bag for a heavy,
old-fashioned lofting iron.
He took one glance at the green, and then came down on that ball as if
he intended to drive it into the bowels of the earth. I saw nothing but
a shower of mud and a huge divot hurled up by the club-head as the
wrists relaxed to save breaking the shaft.
Others saw the ball as it flicked the tips of the menacing grass and
soared high in the air. It struck on the near edge of the green.
"A bonny shot, mon; a guede clean shot as ere were made out thot muck!"
exclaimed Kirkaldy, his face mantled with a grin of frank admiration.
It was a glorious recovery! Miss Lawrence was fairly dancing for joy.
Kirkaldy laid his ball within a foot of the hole, and won it with a
three against four for Wallace, the latter making bogy. Wallace is
unable to explain how he made a fluke of that first shot, and I am sure
I have no idea.
On the second hole both drove perfect balls over the old graveyard, but
Wallace had a shade the best of it in distance and direction. Both were
nicely on the green in two, and Wallace missed a putt for a three by a
hair, while his opponent was lucky, running down in a long lag for four,
halving it in bogy.
Timid players drive short on the third so as to avoid dropping in the
brook, but both drove smashing balls far over it.
"I don't know much about this game," chuckled Harding, overtaking me at
the foot-bridge, "but so far as I can see, this man of Bishop's isn't
exactly what you folks call a duffer."
[Illustration: "It struck on the near edge of the green"]
Both took this hole in bogy fours, and both drove the duck pond on the
next hole, and we found their balls fair on the green, 220 yards away
and slightly up hill. Wallace rimmed the cup for a two, and both made
threes, one stroke better than bogy. It was lightning golf. LaHume's
face was a study.
The fifth hole is 470 yards, and both were within easy chopping
approach of the green on their second. Wallace had the worst of a bad
kick, and Kirkaldy holed a thirty-foot putt for a par four, making him
two up. LaHume smiled once again. The next four holes were made in bogy
by both players, leaving Kirkaldy two up on both medal and match scores.
Here is the out card:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
KIRKALDY-- 3 4 4 3 4 5 5 5 4--37
WALLACE--- 4 4 4 3 5 5 5 5 4--39
This was three under bogy for Kirkaldy, and one under for Wallace.
"I think this Scotchman of yours will do," Carter said in an undertone,
as we neared the tenth tee. "He is executing fairly well for a man
playing a course for the first time, fixed up with a strange set of
clubs, and getting all the worst of the luck on putts. He is actually
outdriving Kirkaldy, but I'm afraid our friend Miss Lawrence will lose
that hundred to Percy."
"So am I," I said, "but it is the only bet he will win."
It was at the tenth hole that Miss Lawrence sliced her ball over the
fence, and Wallace deftly returned it, as I have mentioned. As he looked
over the ground he identified it, and for the first time during the game
he took a sweeping glance at the "gallery."
His eyes met those of Miss Lawrence, and I saw him make a gesture with
his hand as if to remind her that this was the spot where he first had
seen her. She answered with a smile and a nod, and then said something
to Miss Harding and Miss Rose, at which the three of them laughed.
Then the machine-like Kirkaldy drove his usual accurate long ball.
It is a dangerous hole, this tenth, with a deep cut through which the
country road runs to the right, and dense woods and rock-strewn
underbrush to the left. The cautious player does not hazard making the
narrow opening, but Wallace smashed that ball a full 250 yards as
straight as a rifle shot. It is a 450-yard hole, and it has been the
ambition of every player in the club to reach it in two. Kirkaldy had
never done it, but Wallace had made a record-breaking drive. Could he
reach the green?
Kirkaldy brassied and was short, but in good position. Wallace did not
have a good lie, but I told him it was a full 200 yards, and the fore
caddy gave him the direction. It was uphill almost all the way to the
hole. He used a full brassie, going well into the turf, and I knew when
the ball started it would reach the green.
We climbed the hill breathless with curiosity. I came in sight of the
green. A new, white ball lay within a foot of the cup! All records on
"Mount Terrible" had been shattered!
Kirkaldy smiled grimly and was short on his approach, but got down in
two more, losing the hole with a five against that phenomenal three.
Five is bogy and par for this hole, and sevens more common than fives.
The medal score was even.
They halved the eleventh, Wallace won the twelfth and lost the
fourteenth, both making threes on the tricky thirteenth. Wallace took
the medal lead by winning the fifteenth in another perfect three, and
the sixteenth produced fours for both of them. It was Kirkaldy's turn to
register a three on the next, this bringing them to the last hole all
square on medal score, with Kirkaldy one up on match play. It was
intensely exciting!
The eighteenth hole is 610 yards. By wonderful long work both were on
the green in three, but Kirkaldy was on the extreme far edge and away.
His approach putt was too strong, overrunning the cup by twelve feet.
Wallace laid his ball dead within six inches of the cup, and putted down
in five, one under bogy. This insured him at least a tie for the medal
score, but the match honours would go to Kirkaldy if he could hole that
long putt. We held our breaths! He went to the left by a slight margin,
halving the match by holes. Here is the card coming in:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
KIRKALDY-- 5 4 6 3 4 4 4 3 6--39
WALLACE--- 3 4 5 3 5 3 4 4 5-36
[Illustration: "LaHume ... stalking toward the club house"]
Wallace therefore won the medal round by a score of 75 against 76 for
Kirkaldy, and honours were even on holes. It was a match to make one's
blood tingle; a clean, honest contest between two clear-headed and
muscle-trained athletes.
Kirkaldy was the first to grasp Wallace's hand, and in the blue eyes of
our tried and popular golf mentor there was naught but sincere goodwill
and unaffected admiration.
"Ye'll do, my laddy, ye'll do!" Kirkaldy exclaimed. "I dinna ken who
taught ye, but he was a guede mon; a guede mon!"
As Kirkaldy's ball stopped rolling, and it was known Wallace had won the
medal score, the breathless gallery found their voices and gave vent to
their feelings. The silent and motionless circle came to life, and, as
it were, exploded toward its centre. We found ourselves in the vortex of
cheering men, laughing girls, fluttering 'kerchiefs, and the excited
clatter of a hundred voices.
I looked for LaHume and saw him stalking toward the club house. Someone
clutched me by the sleeve, and I looked into the beautiful and happy
eyes of Miss Lawrence.
"Wasn't it glorious!" she said. "Isn't he a splendid player! Did you
ever see anything like that tenth hole? And I won! I just thought I
should scream when Mr. Wallace lay dead for a five on this hole!"
"Say, he's all right, eh, Smith!" said Mr. Harding, handing me a roll of
money. "Here's your share of the plunder. It was like picking it up in
the street after a cyclone has hit a national bank. I'm going to blow
mine in giving a dinner to Wallace and Kirkaldy, and everybody is
invited."
We had that dinner, and right royally did we welcome the new and speed
the parting professional. And this is how Tom Wallace, "Bishop's hired
man," came to Woodvale as its golf professional.
After the dinner in honour of our professionals Kirkaldy made me a
present of his famous driver. It is a beauty, and I confidently expect
to lengthen my drive by at least ten yards with it. For the first time
in my life I am now reasonably sure with my cleek shots. I do not know
when I have been so well satisfied with my prospects.
My apparent stock losses to date foot up to $202,000.
ENTRY NO. XIV
MYSELF AND I
For an hour I have looked at the unsullied page of this diary. It amused
me to turn back over its pages, but when I started to write the words
would not come.
A liar is one who by direction or indirection seeks to deceive. The man
who lies to an enemy is a diplomat; the man who lies to give harmless
play to his imagination is an artist; the man who lies to his friends
for the purpose of taking advantage of them is a scoundrel, and the man
who lies to himself is a fool.
After re-reading this diary I am convinced that I belong in the last
class.
I have been lying to myself for the past three weeks. With a smile on my
lips I have looked myself in the eye and told the one falsehood over and
over again. I have been the ass fondly to believe I told it with such
detail and verisimilitude as to carry conviction to myself. I told it
for the last time a few minutes ago.
My alter ego laughed in my face. I dislike to be jeered at, even by
myself. I humbly apologised. I promised to reform and confess, and here
is the confession:
I am in love. I have been in love for three weeks. It is not necessary
to say with whom, since I and myself both know, but in order that the
crimes of evasion and equivocation may no longer be charged against me,
I frankly record that I am in love with Grace Harding!
There you have it, John Henry Smith! Head it over carefully. Does that
suit you? With it goes my humble apology. Does not this constitute the
amende honorable? What did you say? Ah, it does! Good Shake hands, old
fellow! Now let's sit quietly down and talk this matter over, and see
how we stand. I wish you to help me.
The situation is slightly less complicated. It is settled that I am in
love with Grace Harding. What's that? "_We_ are in love with Grace
Harding," you say. Very well, old fellow, have it your own way. You are
the only one in the world with whom I shall refuse to become jealous.
They say that two heads are better than one, even if one is a
blockhead--meaning me, of course.
_We_ are in love with Grace Harding. Well, what if I did say it
before? I like to keep on saying it. It's the best thing I have written
since I started this stupid diary. _We_ are in love with Grace
Harding.
When you come to think of it, John, we cannot take any great amount of
credit for that. It is not startling, and I'm awfully afraid it is not
original. Now, as I look at it, it would be much more remarkable if I--I
beg your pardon, John Henry Smith--it would be much more remarkable if
we were _not_ in love with Grace Harding. Did you ever think of that?
Falling in love with Grace Harding was the easiest thing we ever did,
Smith, and you know it. We are entitled to no more credit for it than
for admiring one of those glorious sunsets, when the eye is ravished by
blended and ever-changing tints of cloud, sky, and enchanted landscape.
We do not boast, Smith, that we love the songs of the birds, or the
graceful bend of the willow as it yields to the summer's breeze; we do
not call attention to our worship of the early morn, when the dew
sparkles like swarming diamonds on grass and flower, and bridal veils of
mist float over the breasts of the hills.
We loved her, Smith, from the moment she dawned upon us the day her
father made that wonderful drive. We loved her while she was playing
that first game of golf--and now we can talk frankly with each other, I
will confess I never saw a woman play worse than she did that day. But
the fact that our admiration grew during every moment of that weird and
wonderful exhibition of how not to hit a ball, proves we were in love.
You never denied it, you say? I know you didn't; and it's to your
credit.
But does she love us, Smith? You don't know? Of course you don't know,
but what do you think about it? You hope, she does, you say. Smith
you're as stupid as I am! Certainly you hope she does, and so do I, but
have you any reason to believe she does? Why don't you say something?
"She is pleasant to us, smiles at us, and seems to enjoy our society,"
you say. Well, what of it? What does that prove? I could say the same
thing of Miss Ross, Miss Dangerfield, and even of Miss Lawrence. I am
not so conceited as to imagine these charming girls are in love with us
because they laugh, smile, and seem to be pleased at our attempts to
entertain them.
Carter could make claim that Miss Harding was in love with him on the
same plea. And speaking of Carter, I should like your opinion of him.
I'll tell you frankly I don't like the way he acts.
Mind you, Smith, I'm not going to say anything against Carter, and I
shall not permit you to. Carter has as much right to fall in love with
Grace Harding as we have, and for that matter I'm afraid he has more
claim in that direction. If you will recollect, it was Carter who
introduced us to Miss Harding.
I have no idea when and where he met her. Carter is a chap who attends
to his own affairs and who does not permit others to interfere in them.
It is not likely he will tell us, and I shall never ask him.
Mr. Harding sometimes calls him "Jim." That goes to prove that Carter
has known the Hardings for a long time. Harding once spoke of knowing
Carter's father.
That is not what worries me. It is Carter's air and whole attitude which
puts me on guard. Carter must know, John Henry Smith, that we pay an
unusual amount of attention to Miss Harding, and sometimes I almost
imagine he has surmised what I have confessed to you, but it does not
seem to annoy or concern him in the least. It is as if he knew just how
far we can go. It strikes me as the confidence bred of assured
supremacy, but, of course, I may be in error, and sincerely hope I am,
for your sake as well as mine.
Carter and Miss Harding are much together. They take long walks, and
both seem very happy in one another's company.
I stumbled across them last evening while looking for a lost ball in the
old graveyard. They were on a scat under a weeping willow tree, and were
sitting very close together. Carter was reading something and she was
looking over his shoulder. They were laughing when they looked up and
saw me poking about in the grass with my club.
"Hello, Smith!" drawled Carter, looking at me through that monocle of
his. "Lost your ball? How many times must I tell you that the proper way
to play this hole is to drive over this sacred spot and not into it?"
Miss Harding drew slightly away from him when she saw me--at least I
imagined so--and smiled and looked innocent as could be.
[Illustration: "Miss Harding ... smiled and looked innocent as could
be"]
What I am getting at, John Henry Smith, is this: We would not dare ask
Miss Harding to sit with us in such a lonely and secluded spot, and I
think we would have been more embarrassed than was Carter at so
unexpected an interruption. It simply goes to prove that--well, I don't
know just what it does prove.
Chilvers told me a year ago he had heard Carter was engaged to be
married to a very pretty and immensely wealthy girl. I did not think
much of it at the time, having only passing interest in whether Carter
married or remained single. The other day I asked Chilvers if he had
heard anything more about Carter's engagement, and he looked at me
rather oddly and said he had not. He said his wife might know something
about it, and advised me to ask her or Carter.
Suppose they were engaged, John Henry Smith? That would settle it, you
say. You quit too easily. If you desert me in this extremity I shall go
ahead on my own account. I love her; I must have her! Let Carter fall in
love with someone else!
For some malignant reason this man Carter has persistently stood between
me and the realisation of my cherished ambitions. He has won cup after
cup and medal after medal which would have fallen to me were it not for
his devilish combination of skill and luck. But he shall not thwart my
love! He shall not; I swear it; he shall not! Smile, John Henry Smith,
you do not love her as I do.
"Why should she fall in love with me, or wish to marry me? What have I
done in the world, or what do I expect to do which will compel that
admiration and respect which is the basis of true love?"
Those are harsh questions, John Henry Smith. I tell you I love her; is
not that sufficient? She is not the woman to weigh a man in the same
scales with his money, his miles of railroad track, and such material
assets. I would love her if her father were still a section boss.
And I _am_ going to do something in this world. I propose to show
you, John Henry Smith, that I can do something beside play golf. Am I
not doing something now? Am I not risking practically every dollar I have
in the world on my business judgment? Call it gambling if you will; if so,
it is big gambling. The man who wins must take chances. Mr. Harding did
not become a railway magnate by remaining a section boss. He is a
commanding figure in Wall Street. I shall be that and more.
Laugh if you will, John Henry Smith; I mean every word of it!
What does Carter do? He has not done a stroke of work in five years. He
says a man with an income of $100,000 a year has no right to work and
strive to increase it. I claim a man should do something to make a name
for himself, and leave a record of which his children and grand-children
will be proud. You watch me, John Henry Smith! I'll show you and Miss
Harding that I can do something beside play golf.
We have wandered from our subject. The question is this: what shall we
do in order to ascertain if Miss Harding entertains toward us any
sentiment stronger than friendship? Ask her, you say. Suppose _you_
ask her. No, my dear John Henry, that is not the proper step at this time.
I do not set myself up as an authority in matters of love, but I do hold
that no wise man ever proposed to a good and true woman without knowing
in advance that she would accept him. Love has its secret code, and
Nature gives the key to its discerning votaries. I have that key, John
Henry Smith.
One need not speak or write in order to send the first timid messages of
love; and by the same token the recipient need not even frown in order
to tenderly reject the proffered passion. There are as many words in
this unwritten and unspoken vocabulary of love as may be found in
lexicons. Did you know that, John Henry?
The man who fails to avail himself of this silent but eloquent language,
and who stupidly assaults a woman with an avowal of an alleged love,
deserves to be coldly rejected. It is as much of an insult or an
indiscretion as to walk unheralded and unbidden into a private room.
Never do it, John Henry!
If a man becomes convinced he loves a woman he should tell her by some
message in the code which both understand. He will know if she receives
it. It is not necessary that she answer, "yes." If she answer not at all
he has achieved a notable victory, but if she promptly signals a decided
"no" he has met with irreparable defeat. That settles it, my dear Smith.
A woman may refuse a man with words, and he be justified in declining to
accept the implied rejection, but there is no appeal from the silent
decision which leaps from the heart.
So long as no message comes back unopened keep on sending them. You are
justified in assuming that they have been read and are being
entertained. The time will come, John Henry, when you will get your
answer. If it is against you, accept it with the best grace you can
command. Do not be the fool to think her lips will veto her heart.
If, on the contrary, there comes the glad day when over the throbbing
unseen wire there comes a telepagram sounding the letters "Y-E-S,"
proceed with the sweet formality of a verbal avowal of your love, and
you will not be disappointed.
Smile if you will, John Henry Smith, you know I have told the truth.