looked intently at the turf and then dropped to his knees and crawled
slowly around.
"What are you looking for?" exclaimed Harding "There's your ball right
in front of you."
"I know it," calmly said Wilson, running his hand over the turf, "but
I'm curious to know what kind of _Trifolium_ this is."
"Wilson," said the magnate, as the former rose to his full height and
took a club from his bag, "Wilson, I might as well quit and give up this
game."
"Why?" asked the surprised banker.
"Let me tell you something," declared Harding. "I only took up this golf
business a few weeks ago, and by hard work have found out about mashies,
hooks, foozles, cops, one off two and all those difficult things, but
I'm blamed if I ever heard of trifoliums, or whatever you call 'em, and
you can't ring 'em in on me. I won't stand for it! We don't play
trifoliums in Woodvale, do we, Smith?"
"But my dear Harding," interposed Wilson, his mobile face wrinkled in a
smile, "_Trifolium_ is not a golf term and has nothing whatever to do
with the game."
"What in thunder is it?"
"_Trifolium_ is the genus name for the clover plant, and these are
beautiful specimens," explained this amateur botanist.
"It is, is it?" laughed Harding. "Well, let's see how far you 'can knock
that ball out of that bed of _Trifoliums_."
We left them soon after and returned to the club house. The ladies did
not care to play before luncheon, preferring to take a rest after the
exciting experiences of the trip from Woodvale. I ran across an old
friend of mine, Sam Robinson, and he and I played against Carter and
Chilvers. Robinson is one of the best amateurs in the country and we
defeated our opponents handily.
It was a merry party which gathered about the table which had been
spread under the trees near the club house. Oak Cliff is the only club
which Woodvale recognises as a rival, and the Wilson's entertained us
charmingly. Mr. Harding was in great spirits.
"I won!" he announced as he returned with our elongated and smiling
host. "Licked Wilson, trifoliums and all, right here on his own ground!
But he found a _Rumex_ and a lot of other weeds, so he don't care."
Miss Harding and I had discovered an oil painting in the club library
which interested us, and when coffee and cigars had been served I asked
Mr. Wilson about its history.
"Robinson gave it to the club," he said, "he can tell its story better
than I can."
"It's an odd sort of a yarn," began Robinson. "Last fall an artist
friend of mine of the name of Powers wrote a letter inviting me to come
and spend a few weeks with him in a camp he had established on the upper
waters of the Outrades River in northeastern Quebec. He was there
sketching and loafing, and I took my golf clubs and went. While he
painted I batted balls around a cleared space in the forest, fished,
hunted and had so much fun that we stayed there until cold weather set
in. Then we loaded up a boat and started down the river with a guide."
"One evening we came to an island with rapids below it. We had to
portage around these rapids, so we decided to camp for the night. It was
cold, and rapidly growing colder, but Powers insisted in making a trip
to that island, the beauty of its rocks fascinating his artistic soul.
We emptied the boat and he pulled across the swift current. Ten minutes
later we heard him yell. His boat had drifted from where he thought he
had moored it, and had been dashed to pieces in the rapids below. The
guide declared that there was no way to reach him without a boat, and
that he would have to go back twenty miles to a lumber camp for one. We
explained this to Powers, and told him to light a fire and make the best
of it until morning. The current was so swift that no swimmer could
breast it. It was already down to zero."
[Illustration: "Had ignited the matches"]
"Powers searched his pockets," continued Robinson, "and made the
startling announcement that he did not have a match. Without a fire he
surely would freeze before the guide could return. He was dancing up and
down on a rock and swinging his arms to keep warm."
"He certainly was in a bad fix," interrupted Harding. "Was there no way
to get at him?"
"Absolutely none," continued Robinson. "The sun was sinking--when I had
an idea. In the bottom of my golf bag were four badly hacked and split
balls. I called to Powers to keep his nerve. The balls were
rubber-cored, and I widened the crack in one of them and gouged out a
space in the rubber. In this I put the heads of three matches, teed the
ball on the beach, called to Powers what I had done and told him to keep
his eye on the ball. I hit it clean and fair, but a trail of smoke told
that the concussion had ignited the matches. The ball fell in the
underbrush a few yards from Powers, and he almost cried when he took out
the charred match heads."
"How far was it?" asked Harding.
"I paced it later and found it to be about one hundred and forty yards,"
said Robinson.
"You paced it?" exclaimed Harding. "You're a bit mixed on this story,
Robinson, aren't you?"
"Not at all," laughed that gentleman. "You wait and I'll explain. Then I
fixed another ball and wrapped the match heads in surgeon's cotton. I
popped that ball in the air. The next one was pulled, struck a rock and
bounded into the water. One remained, and it was a critical moment. I
was numbed with the cold, it was almost dark, and I had to make a shot
for a man's life, but I made it. It went far and true and struck in the
branches of a fir tree over Power's head. He did not see it, but he
heard it. Then began a search for a lost ball. It was pitch dark half an
hour later when Powers shouted that he had found it, and soon after we
yelled like madmen when a tiny yellow flame curled up from the island.
Powers asked me to drive a ham sandwich across, but I did not attempt
it. The guide started back after another boat, and Powers and I spent
the long hours over our respective bonfires in an effort to keep from
freezing."
"It dropped to twenty-five below zero before morning, and when daybreak
came I went down to the beach. The water still flowed swift and black
directly across, but when I looked to the north I found that the ice
extended from the shore to the upper end of the island. I put several
sandwiches in my pocket and carefully walked across. Powers was trying
to cook some freshwater clams when I came upon his bonfire."
"That is as much of the story as you will be interested in," concluded
Robinson. "Powers kept the ball which saved his life, and in return gave
me that oil painting depicting the scene at nightfall as I was driving
that last ball."
"It's a good thing for your friend Powers that it was not up to me to
drive that last ball," declared Harding. "That story is all right,
Robinson, and the picture proves it."
As we were leaving the table Mrs. Chilvers called me aside.
"Have you made up a game for this afternoon?" she asked, and I thought I
discerned a mischievous glance in her eyes.
"Why--why, yes," I hesitated, wondering if I were to be dragged into
some wretched foursome. "I have arranged to play with Miss Harding."
"What, again?" she asked.
"This is only my third game with her," I declared.
"Ah, Mr. Smith, do you remember how I warned you several weeks ago?"
I remembered but did not admit it.
"I told you then that some time you would meet a golfing Venus," she
said triumphantly, and without waiting for me to make a defense left and
joined Miss Dangerfield.
Miss Harding and I waited until we had a clear field ahead of us before
we began our game. It was one of the perfect early summer afternoons
when it is a delight to live. Oak Cliff is famous for its scenery and
for its velvet-like greens.
"I'm going to play my best game this afternoon," announced Miss Harding
when I had teed her ball.
"I always play my best game; don't you?" I asked.
"You shall judge of that when we finish this round," she declared.
It was my first game with her since the day she won the touring car
from her father, on which occasion she made Woodvale in 116. This was so
marked an improvement over her former exhibition that I was at a loss to
account for it. Since then Miss Harding had confined her golf to the
practising of approach shots and putting, following the instructions
given by Wallace. I have been so busy with Wall Street and other affairs
that I have paid little attention to golf, and smiled at her enthusiasm.
"How shall we play?" I asked. "You have improved so much and are so
confident that I dare not offer you more than a stroke a hole."
"I shall beat you at those odds," she said. "This is a short course, you
know."
"You will have to make it in a hundred to beat me," I replied.
"Fore!" she called, and drove a beautiful ball with a true swing which
was the perfection of grace. I made one which did not beat it enough to
give me any advantage, and we started down the field together.
"Mr. Wallace must be a wonderfully clever teacher," I said, "or else he
has a most remarkably apt pupil. I wish I could improve that rapidly."
Miss Harding smiled but declined to commit herself. Her second shot was
a three-quarter midiron to the green and she made it like a veteran. She
played the stroke--and it is one of the most difficult--in perfect form,
and I was so astounded that I cut under a short approach shot and had to
play the odd. She came within inches of going down in three, and I then
missed a long putt and lost the hole outright, she not needing the
stroke handicap.
"One up, Jacques Henri!" she laughed.
She drove another perfect ball on the next hole, but the green was three
hundred and fifty yards away and I reached it in two against her three.
My work on the green was abominable and we both were down in fives.
"Two up, Jacques Henri!" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with
excitement. "Really, now, don't you think I've improved?"
"Improved!" I gasped. "That's not the word for it! You have been
translated into a golf magician! I cannot understand it!"
I don't suppose I played my best game, but even if I had I could not
have won at the odds stipulated. I never lose interest in a golf game,
but I must confess that I paid far more attention to her play than to my
own.
It was not the first time that I had witnessed a fine exhibition of golf
by a woman, but it was the first time I had been privileged to see a
strikingly pretty girl execute shots as they should be made. All former
experiences had led me to the belief that feminine beauty and
proficiency in golf run in adverse ratio. But here was a superb creature
who combined beauty with a skill which was surpassing.
It was difficult to believe the testimony of my own eyes. Here was a
girl who had taken fifteen to make the first hole of Woodvale only a few
weeks preceding; who had driven eight of my new balls into a pond which
demanded only an eighty-yard carry; who had told me that the one
ambition of her golfing life was to drive a ball far enough so that she
might have difficulty in finding it; who had repeatedly missed strokes
entirely, had mutilated the turf, sliced, pulled and committed all the
faults and crimes possible to a novice--here was this same young lady
playing a game which was well-nigh perfect to the extent of her
strength!
When a woman is beautiful and plays a beautiful game of golf, then
physical grace reaches its highest exemplification. Even an ugly woman
becomes attractive when she swings a driving club with an evenly
sustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when a
supremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to express
in mere language the exquisite grace of it--and I am not going to
attempt it.
Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, and
with the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play.
She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on his
game.
The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watch
the players on many greens.
"Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her face
through the blue haze of a cigar.
"Confess what?" she innocently asked.
"Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding your
game," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying to
play that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?"
"You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessons
since then."
"Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learning
this game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confess
the truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trap
by which you won that touring car."
"Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he will
think it a huge joke."
"And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris in
ninety-one," I accused her.
"I did," she laughed. "It was in a competition with one club--a putter."
"Was that when you won the gold cup?"
She shook her head.
"What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked.
"The witness declines to answer," she defiantly replied.
"You are guilty of contempt of court. Tell me, Miss Harding, why you
played so atrociously that day?"
"Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I
was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would
make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you
seem vastly surprised."
"I was--I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.
"In other words you were deceiving me, Jacques Henri. Confess that you
were!"
"I do confess," I laughed. "You were the worst player I ever saw. Now
you confess why you did it."
"I shall confess nothing," she declared, her eyes dropping as I gazed
into them. "I shall confess nothing, Jacques Henri! Since when has it
been decreed that a lady must confess to her chauffeur? Do not forget
your place, Jacques Henri. Let's start for the club house; I see papa
and others on the lawn."
I have a theory of the truth, but it is too foolish to put in writing.
We made a speedy run to Woodvale after a most delightful afternoon.
ENTRY NO. XVII
THE PASSING OF PERCY
During the forenoon of the day following our visit to Oak Cliff Mr.
Harding, Carter and I were sitting under the big elm tree near the first
tee. We had our clubs with us, but the railroad magnate wished to finish
his cigar before starting to play.
A farm wagon drove up the circular roadway which surrounds the club
house, and the owner after glancing doubtfully about approached us. He
was tall, angular, and whiskered.
"Can any of you folks tell me if a man named Hardin' hangs out 'round
this here place?" he said, squinting at a card which I instantly
recognised.
"I'm Harding," said that gentleman, walking toward him. "I reckon you're
the man who owns the late deceased bull?"
"I shurely am," said the farmer, stroking his whiskers nervously.
"How much do you want for him?" demanded Harding, with characteristic
promptness.
"Stranger," began the man with the hoe, "if you'll tell me how in
thunder you broke the neck of that critter with one of them there
sticks," pointing to our golf clubs, "I won't charge you one doggoned
cent for doin' it."
We all roared, and then Harding briefly explained what had happened.
"I reckon you couldn't do nothin' else under what the stump speakers
call existin' sar-cumstances," slowly drawled the farmer, "but he was a
mighty fine young bull, an' I hated like all sin tew lose him."
"How much was he worth to you?" asked Harding.
"He was a Holstein, Mister, and I wouldn't er sold him for two hundred
and fifty the best day you ever saw. He took second prize as a yearlin'
at our county fair, and I was plumb sure he'd have the blue ribbon hung
on him this year, but instead of a ribbon I found this here on his
horns," he concluded sorrowfully, looking at the card with its string
still attached.
"I'll give you three hundred and fifty dollars and call it square," said
Harding.
"Dew you mean it, Mister?" his watery blue eyes opening wide, his thin
lips pursed and his leathery face curiously wrinkled. "Dew ye mean it?"
"Of course I mean it, but I want his head. I'm going to have it
mounted."
Mr. Harding opened his wallet, stripped off the bills and handed them to
the pleased farmer.
"Mister," the latter said, "that's more than he was worth, and I feel
kinder ashamed ter take all of it. Tell you what I'll do! I've got an
old bull that's no good, but ugly as all get out, and if you'd like ter
tackle him with that ortermobill of yours I'll turn him loose in that
same medder, an' you can have it out with him an' it won't cost you a
cent."
[Illustration: "He was tall, angular, and whiskered"]
"Much obliged," laughed Harding, "but nature evidently did not design me
for a matador."
If Miss Lawrence does not develop into a great player it will not be
because of a lack of assiduity in taking lessons. Since Wallace has
become professional at Woodmere she has taken one and sometimes two
each day. She was starting to take one of these "lessons" when Harding
returned.
"See here, Wallace," he said with mock sternness, "I am becoming curious
to know if you are professional to our charming young friend or to the
club."
"Why, Mr. Harding!" exclaimed Miss Lawrence, blushing furiously. "I have
taken only six lessons, and you have no idea how I have improved."
"Without doubt," observed the remorseless millionaire, "but when do I
get a lesson? My game has steadily deteriorated since I hit my first
ball. As Smith says, I am way off my game."
"I shall be glad to give you a lesson any time to-morrow afternoon, Mr.
Harding," said Wallace.
"All right. You and I will play Smith and Carter, and you put me right
as we go along."
That was satisfactory all around and Wallace turned his attention to his
fair pupil. I wonder if he is as exacting and she as interested at all
times as during the few moments they were under our observation?
"A little nearer the ball," he cautioned her. "Grip firmly but keep the
wrists flexible. Let the club-head come back naturally. Be sure and keep
the weight of your body on the heels and not on the toes. That's better.
Try that back swing again. Do not go so far back. Be sure that at the
top of the swing your entire weight is on the right leg, and that the
knee is not bent. Do not pause at the top of the stroke. Keep the head
perfectly still and your eyes on the ball; not on the top of it, but on
the exact spot where you propose to hit it. Now make a practise swing."
Miss Lawrence did so, and it seemed almost perfect to me, but Wallace's
keen eyes detected faults.
"That right shoulder dropped a little," he said. "That's a bad fault.
Let the right shoulder go straight through. Ah, that was a decided
improvement! Now swing and keep that right elbow at least four inches
from the body. You let your wrists in too soon, Miss Lawrence. Do not
start them to work until you are well down on your stroke. That shoulder
dropped again! Don't look up as your club goes through; that is a fatal
fault. Fall back on those heels! Keep the back straight, or curved back,
if at all. Now we will try it with a ball."
Wallace teed a ball and Miss Lawrence drove a very good one for her. It
was straight and a trifle high, but it had a carry of fully 120 yards.
"Didn't I tell you I was improving!" she exclaimed, smiling triumphantly
at Mr. Harding. "Mr. Wallace is a splendid teacher."
"Yes, and you are a splendid pupil," returned Mr. Harding, with a
knowing smile, "but you give me a chance, or I'll lodge a protest with
the board of management."
She laughed, waved her hand mockingly at him, and away they went. I
noticed that Wallace was not playing. He carried the clubs and they
walked close to each other. He said something and she looked up to his
face and smiled. It was evident they had much to talk of, and while I
cannot prove it, I am inclined to doubt if their conversation was
restricted to the details of the game.
Harding watched them, a quiet smile on his strong, kindly, and rugged
face. He was humming the air of an old love song.
"Smith," he said after an interval of silence, "there are only two
things in this life really worth having."
"What are they?"
"Youth and health."
"How about love?" I asked.
"Youth and health own love," he replied. "Love is their obedient
servant. I thank God that I have not lost my youth or my health."
I was privileged to see this remarkable man for a moment in a new light,
one which increased my respect and admiration for him.
When we returned to the club house the veranda was buzzing with gossip.
Miss Dangerfield was delighted when she found that I was not acquainted
with the cause of the excitement. It gave her a chance to impart the
news to one ready to listen, and she was not slow in taking advantage of
it.
"Miss Lawrence has refused Mr. LaHume!" she whispered, though she might
as well have screamed it through a megaphone, since I was the only one
on the veranda in ignorance of it.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I dare not tell," she said, but I knew she would. "If you'll promise
not to reveal it to a living soul I'll tell you."
I promised.
"Mr. LaHume told Mr. Chilvers, Mr. Chilvers told Mrs. Chilvers, Mrs.
Chilvers told Miss Ross, and Miss Ross told me, so you see that I have
it right from the original source."
"And you told me," I said. "Why should the chain stop in so obscure a
link. I am dying to tell somebody."
"But you promised not to," Miss Dangerfield protested.
"So did you," I replied.
"It seems that Percy flatly asked her to marry him, and that she flatly
refused him," she continued, ignoring my implied threat. "I understand
that Mr. LaHume is going to resign from the club."
"Why?" I asked. "Does he not find it effective as a matrimonial agency?"
"I don't know," she said. "There he is now, and he's trying to catch
your eye."
I turned and saw LaHume, who signalled that he wished to speak to me. I
saw at a glance that he had been drinking. He shoved a piece of paper
into my hands.
"There is my resignation from the Woodvale Club," he said, his voice
husky, and sullen anger in his dark eyes. LaHume is a handsome fellow,
but there is something amiss with him. Possibly his ego is
over-developed.
"I will present it to the board," I said, preferring to avoid discussion
with him while in his then condition.
"I don't care a blank whether they accept it or not," he declared with a
rising voice. "From this day I shall never step foot in Woodvale."
"Better think it over later on," I said.
"If you think I care to have anything further to do with a club which
shelters and encourages low adventurers like this fellow Wallace, you do
not know Percy LaHume," he declared, working himself into a fury. "And
you and Carter are to blame for it," he concluded.
"I shall refuse to discuss that with you at this time," I calmly replied
and abruptly left him.
A few minutes later I saw him striding down the path on the way to the
railway station. As luck would have it, Wallace and Miss Lawrence had
just left the eighteenth green, and stood chatting near the path which
leads to the station. If they saw the approaching LaHume they paid no
attention to him. At this moment Carter and Miss Harding joined me and
the latter asked what I found so diverting.
"I hope that LaHume will have the sense not to pick a quarrel with
Wallace," I said, pointing in his direction. "He is excited and--and
nervous."
"Why don't you say it--intoxicated," drawled Carter.
LaHume had reached the professional and his pupil. We saw Wallace lift
his cap as LaHume came within a few yards of them. The latter stopped,
and though the trio was quite a distance away, we could plainly hear
LaHume's voice, but could not make out the words. Wallace made a
deprecatory gesture and Miss Lawrence drew herself up and faced LaHume
in an attitude of scorn.
I noted that LaHume was gesticulating with his left hand, and that his
right arm was lowered and to his back. He kept edging closer to Wallace.
Of a sudden LaHume's right hand swung out and he made a vicious lunge at
Wallace. I saw the latter throw up his guard, but it was too far away to
tell if the blow had landed. There was a struggle for a second or two,
then Wallace pushed him clear, and like lightning I saw his left hand
swing across to LaHume's stomach. LaHume was shot back several yards and
fell heavily, his feet in the path and his head and shoulders on the
turf.