One day in the pink dawn of the present Century, a man with his Hair
neatly set back around the Ears and the usual Blood Pressure was
whizzing through a suburban Lonesomeness on a teetering Trolley. The
name of the man was Mr. Pallzey. He had a desk with a Concern that did
merchandizing in a large way.
Mr. Pallzey feared Socialism and carried his Wife's Picture in his
Watch and wore Plasters. In other words, he was Normal, believing
nearly everything that appeared in the Papers.
While the Dog-Fennel was softly brushing the Foot-Board and the Motor
was purring consistently beneath, Mr. Pallzey looked over into a close-
cropped Pasture and became the alert Eye-Witness of some very weird
Doings.
He saw a pop-eyed Person in soiled Neglige, who made threatening
movements toward something concealed in the White Clover, with a Weapon
resembling the iron Dingus used in gouging the Clinkers from a Furnace.
"What is the plot of the Piece?" he inquired of a Grand Army man,
sitting next.
"I think," replied the Veteran, "I think he is killing a Garter Snake."
"Oh, no," spoke up the conversational Conductor, "He is playing
Golluf," giving the word the Terre Haute pronunciation.
Mr. Pallzey looked with pity on the poor Nut who was out in the Hot
Sun, getting himself all lathered up with One-Man Shinny.
He said to G. A. R. that it took all kinds of People to make a World.
The grizzled Warrior rose to an equal Altitude by remarking that if
the dag-goned Loon had to do it for a Living, he'd think it was Work.
Mr. Pallzey had heard of the new Diversion for the Idle Rich, just as
people out in the Country hear of Milk-Sickness or falling Meteors,
both well authenticated but never encountered.
While rummaging through the Sporting Page, he would come across a
cryptic Reference to MacFearson of Drumtochtie being 3 up and 2 to play
on Hargis of Sunset Ho, whereupon he would experience a sense of
annoyance and do a quick Hurdle.
He had seen in various Shop-Windows the spindly Utensils and snowy
Pellets which, he had reason to believe, were affiliated in some way
with the sickening Fad. He would look at them with extreme Contempt
and rather resent their contaminating contiguity to the Mask, the Shin-
Guard, and the upholstered Grabber.
Mr. Pallzey believed that Golf was played by the kind of White Rabbits
who March in Suffrage Parades, wearing Gloves.
The dreaded Thing lay outside of his Orbit and beyond his Ken, the same
as Tatting or Biology. His conception of a keen and sporty game was
Pin Pool or Jacks Only with the Deuce running wild.
One Saturday he was invited out to a Food Saturnalia at a Country
Place. The Dinner was postponed until late in the Day because they all
dreaded it so much.
Friend Host said he had a twosome on at the Club and was trying out an
imported Cleek, so he invited Mr. Pallzey to be a Spectator.
If he had said that he was going up in a Balloon to hemstitch a couple
of Clouds, it would have sounded just as plausible to Mr. Pallzey of the
Wholesale District.
The latter went along, just out of Politeness, but he was a good deal
disappointed in his Friend. It certainly did seem trifling for a
Huskie weighing one hundred and eighty to pick on something about the
size of a Robin's Egg.
Mr. Pallzey played Gallery all around the Course. He would stand
behind them at the Tee and smile in a most calm and superior Manner
while they sand-shuffled and shifted and jiggled and joggled and went
through the whole calisthenic Ritual of St. Vitus.
He was surprised to note how far the Ball would speed when properly
spanked, but he thought there was no valid excuse for overrunning on
the Approaches.
Mr. Pallzey found himself criticizing the Form of the Players. That
should have been his Cue to climb the Fence.
All of the Mashiemaniacs start on the downward Path by making Mind-Plays
and getting under Bogey.
Back on the sloping Sward between No. 18 and the Life-Saving Station,
the two Contestants were holding the usual Post-Mortem.
"Let me see that Dewflicker a minute," said Mr. Pallzey, as he
carelessly extracted a Mid-iron.
He sauntered up to the silly Globule and took an unpremeditated Swipe.
The Stroke rang sweet and vibrant. The ball rose in parabolic Splendor
above the highest branches of a venerable Elm.
Just as the Face of the Club started on the Follow Through, the
Bacillus ran up and bit Mr. Pallzey on the Leg.
He saw the blinking White Spot far out on the emerald Plain. He heard
the murmur of Admiration behind him. He was sorry his Wife had not
been there to take it in.
"Leave me have another Ball," requested Mr. Pallzey.
The Virus was working.
He backed up so as to get a Running Start.
"This time," quoth Mr. Pallzey, "I will push it to Milwaukee."
Missing the Object of Attack by a scant six inches, he did a Genee toe-
spin and fell heavily with his Face among the Dandelions.
The Host brushed him off and said: "Your Stance was wrong; your Tee
was too high; you raised the Left Shoulder; you were too rapid on the
Come-Back; the Grip was all in the Left Hand; you looked up; you moved
your Head at the top of the Stroke; you allowed the Left Knee to turn,
and you stood ahead of the Ball. Otherwise, it was a Loo-Loo."
"If I come out next Sunday could you borrow me a Kit of Tools?" asked
Mr. Pallzey. He was twitching violently and looking at the Ball as if
it had called him a Name. "I got that first one all right, and I think
----"
So it was arranged that the poor doomed Creature was to appear on the
following Sabbath and be equipped with a set of Cast-Offs and learn all
about the Mystery of the Ages between 11 A. M. and 2 P. M..
Mr. Pallzey went away not knowing that he was a Marked Man.
On Monday he told the Stenographer how he stung the Ball the first time
up. He said he was naturally quick at picking up any kind of Game. He
thought it would be a Lark to get the hang of the Whole Business and
then get after some of those Berties in the White Pants. He figured
that Golf would be soft for any one who had played Baseball when young.
Truly all the raving is not done within the Padded Cells.
He came home in the Sabbath Twilight, walking on his Ankles and
babbling about a Dandy Drive for the Long Hole.
Regarding the other 378 Strokes he was discreetly silent.
He told his Wife there was more in it than one would suppose. The
Easier the Swat, the greater the Carry. And he had made one Hole in
seven.
Then he took a Parasol out of the Jar, and illustrated the famous Long
Drive with Moving Pictures, Tableaux, Delsarte, and some newly acquired
technical Drivel, which he mouthed with childish Delight.
Now we see him buying Clubs, although he refers to them as Sticks--
proving that he is still a groping Neophyte.
He thinks that a shorter Shaft and more of a Lay-Back will enable him
to drive a Mile. The Gooseneck Putter will save him two on every Hole.
Also, will the Man please show him an Iron guaranteed to reach all the
way down to the Dimple and plunk it right in the Eye.
Then all of the new Implements laid out at Home and Wife sitting back,
listening to a Lecture as to what will be pulled off on the succeeding
Day of Rest.
She had promised at the Altar to Love, Honor, and Listen. Still, it
was trying to see the once-loved Adult cavorting on the verge of
Dementia and know that she was helpless.
He sallied forth with those going to Early Mass, and returned at the
Vesper Hour caked with Dust and 98 per cent. gone in the Turret.
It seems that at the sixth hole on the Last Round where you cross the
Crick twice, he fell down and broke both Arms and both Legs. So he
tore up the Medal Score, gave all the Clubs to the Caddy, and standing
on the grassy Summit of the tall Ridge guarding the Bunker, he had
lifted a grimy Paw and uttered the Vow of Renunciation.
In other words, he was Through.
The senile Wrecks and the prattling Juveniles, for whom the Game was
invented, could have his Part of it for all time.
Never again would he walk on the Grass or cock his Arms or dribble Sand
all over the dark and trampled Ground where countless Good Men had
suffered.
No, Indeed!
So next day he bought all the Paraphernalia known to the Trade, and his
name was put up at a Club.
It was one of those regular and sure-enough Clubs. High East Winds
prevailed in the Locker-Room. Every member was a Chick Evans when he
got back to the nineteenth hole.
Mr. Pallzey now began to regard the Ancient and Honorable Pastime as a
compendium of Sacraments, Ordeals, Incantations, and Ceremonial
Formalities.
He resigned himself into the Custody of a professional Laddie with
large staring Knuckles and a Dialect that dimmed all the memories of
Lauder.
In a short time the Form was classy, but the Score had to be taken out
and buried after every Round.
Mr. Pallzey saw that this Mundane Existence was not all Pleasure. He
had found his Life-Work. The Lode-Star of his declining Years would be
an even one hundred for the eighteen Flags.
Wife would see him out in the Street, feeling his way along, totally
unmindful of his Whereabouts. She would lead him into the Shade, snap
her Fingers, call his Name, and gradually pull him out of the Trance.
He would look at her with a filmy Gaze and smile faintly, as if partly
remembering and then say: "Don't forget to follow through. Keep the
head down--tight with the left--no hunching--pivot on the hips. For a
Cuppy Lie, take the Nib. If running up with the Jigger, drop her dead.
The full St. Andrews should not be thrown into a Putt. Never up, never
in. Lift the flag. Take a pickout from Casual Water but play the
Road-ways. To overcome Slicing or Pulling, advance the right or left
Foot. Schlaffing and Socketing may be avoided by adding a hook with
top-spin or _vice versa._ The Man says there are twenty-six Things
to be remembered in Driving from the Tee. One is Stance. I forget the
other twenty-five."
Then the Partner of his Joys and Sorrows, with the accent on the Debit
Side, would shoot twenty Grains of Asperin into him and plant him in
the Flax.
Next morning at Breakfast he would break it to her that the Brassie had
developed too much of a Whip and he had decided to try a forty-inch
Shaft.
They had Seasoned Hickory for Breakfast, Bunkers for Luncheon, and the
Fair Green for Dinner.
As a matter of course they had to give up their comfortable Home among
the Friends who had got used to them and move out to a strawboard
Bungalow so as to be near the Execution Grounds.
Mrs. Pallzey wanted to do the White Mountains, but Mr. Pallzey needed
her. He wanted her to be waiting on the Veranda at Dusk, so that he
could tell her all about it, from the preliminary Address to the final
Foozle.
Sometimes he would come home enveloped in a foglike Silence which
would last beyond early Candle Lighting, when he would express the
Opinion that the Administration at Washington had proved a Failure.
Perhaps the very next Evening he would lope all the way up the Gravel
and breeze into her presence, smelling like a warm gust of Air from
Dundee.
He would ask her to throw an Amber Light on the Big Hero. He would
call her "Kid" and say that Vardon had nothing on him. Her man was the
Gink to show that Pill how to take a Joke.
Then she would know that he had won a Box of Balls from Mrs. Talbot's
poor old crippled Father-in-Law.
She could read him like a Barometer. If he and Mr. Hilgus, the Real
Estate Man, came home together fifteen feet apart, she would know it
had been a Jolly Day on the Links.
By the second summer, Mr. Pallzey had worked up until he was allowed to
use a Shower Bath once hallowed by the presence of Jerome Travers.
He was not exactly a Duffer. He was what might be called a sub-Duffer,
or Varnish, which means that the Committee was ashamed to mark up the
Handicap.
He still had a good many superfluous Hands and Feet and was bleeding
freely on every Green.
Sometimes he would last as far as the Water-Hazard and then sink with a
Bubbling Cry.
Notwithstanding which, he kept on trying to look like the Photographs
of Ouimet.
If he spun into the High Spinach off at the Right it was Tough Luck.
If he whanged away with a Niblick down in a bottomless Pit, caromed on
a couple of Oaks, and finally angled off toward the Cup, he would go
around for Days talking about Some Shot.
As his Ambition increased, his Mental Arithmetic became more and more
defective and his Moral Nature was wholly atrophied.
As an Exponent of the more advanced Play he was a Fliv, but as a
Matchmaker he was a Hum-Dinger.
He knew he was plain pastry for the Sharks, so he would hang around the
first Tee waiting to cop out a Pudding.
One day he took on Mrs. Olmstead's Infant Son, just home from Military
School.
The tender Cadet nursed him along to an even-up at the Punch-Bowl and
then proceeded to smear his vital Organs all over the Bad Lands.
That evening Mr. Pallzey told her she would have to cut down on
Household Expenses.
Six years after he gave up the Business Career and consecrated himself
to something more Important, Mr. Pallzey had so well mastered the
baffling Intricacies that he was allowed to trail in a Foursome with
the President of the Club. This happened once.
It is well known that any Person who mooches around a Country Club for
a sufficient Period will have some kind of a Cup wished on to him.
Fourteen years after Mr. Pallzey threw himself into it, Heart and Soul,
and when the Expenses approximated $30,000, he earned his Halo.
One evening he came back to his haggard Companion, chortling infant-
wise, and displayed something which looked like an Eye-Cup with Handles
on it.
He said it was a Trophy. It was a Consolation Offering for Maidens
with an allowance of more than eighteen.
After that their daily Life revolved around the $2 bargain in
Britannia. Mrs. Pallzey had to use Metal Polish on it to keep it from
turning black.
When the Visitors lined up in front of the Mantel and gazed at the tiny
Shaving Mug, the Cellar Champion on the World would regale them with
the story of hairbreadth 'Scapes and moving Adventures by Gravel
Gullies and rushing Streams on the Memorable Day when he (Pallzey) had
put the Blocks to Old Man McLaughlin, since deceased.
Then he would ask all present to feel of his Forearm, after which he
would pull the Favorite One about Golf adding ten years to his life.
Mrs. Pallzey would be sitting back, pouring Tea, but she never chimed
in with any Estimate as to what had been the effect on her Table of
Expectations.
MORAL: Remain under the Awning.