THE MANTLE OF SANDY THE GREAT
"Vincent," says I, as I blows in through the brass gate from lunch,
"who's the poddy old party you got parked on the bench out in the
anteroom?"
"He's waiting to see Mr. Ellins," says Vincent. "This is his third try.
Looks to me like some up-state stockholder who wants to know when
Corrugated common will strike 110."
"Well, that wouldn't be my guess exactly," says I. "What's the name?"
"Dowd," says Vincent, reachin' for a card. "Matthew K"
"Eh," says I. "Mesaba Matt. Dowd? Say, son, your guesser is way out of
gear. You ought to get better posted on the Order of Who-Who's."
"I'm sorry," says Vincent, pinkin' up in the ears. "Is--is he somebody
in particular?"
"Only one of the biggest iron ore men in the game," says I. "That is, he
was until he unloaded that Pittsburgh syndicate a few years ago. Also he
must be a special crony of Old Hickory's. Anyway, he was playin' around
with him down South last month. And here we let him warm a seat out in
the book-agent pen! Social error, Vincent."
"Stupid of me," admits Vincent. "I will--"
"Better let me soothe him down now," says I. "Then I'll get Old Hickory
on the 'phone and tell him who's here."
I will say that I did it in my best private sec. style, too, urgin' him
into the private office while I explains how the boy on the gate
couldn't have read the name right and assurin' him I'd get word to Mr.
Ellins at once.
"He's only having a conference with his attorneys," says I. "I think
he'll be up very, soon. Just a moment while I get him on the wire, Mr.
Dowd."
"Thank you, young man," says Matthew K. "I--I rather would like to see
Ellins today, if I could."
"Why, sure!" says I, easin' him into Old Hickory's swing chair.
But somehow when I'd slipped out to the 'phone booth and got in touch
with the boss he don't seem so anxious to rush up and meet his old side
kick. No. He's more or less calm about it.
"Eh?" says he. "Dowd? Oh, yes! Well, you just tell him, Torchy, that I'm
tied up here and can't say when I'll be through. He'd better not wait."
"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he's been here twice before. Seems
to have something on his mind that--well, might be important, you
know."
"Yes, it might be," says Old Hickory, and I couldn't tell whether he
threw in a snort or a chuckle right there. "And since you think it is,
Torchy, perhaps you'd better get him to sketch it out to you."
"All right," says I. "That is, if he'll loosen up."
"Oh, I rather think he will," says Old Hickory.
It was a good guess. For when I tells Dowd how sorry Mr. Ellins is that
he can't come just then, and suggests that I've got power of attorney to
take care of anything confidential he might spill into my nigh ear, he
opens right up.
Course, what I'm lookin' for is some big business stuff; maybe a
straight tip on how this new shift in Europe is going to affect foreign
exchange, or a hunch as to what the administration means to put over in
regard to the railroad muddle. He's a solemn-faced, owl-eyed old party,
this Mesaba Matt. Looks like he was thinkin' wise and deep about weighty
matters. You know. One of these slow-movin', heavy-lidded,
double-chinned old pelicans who never mention any sum less than seven
figures. So I'm putting up a serious secretarial front myself when he
starts clearin' his throat.
"Young man," says he, "I suppose you know something about golf!"
"Eh?" says I. "Golf? Oh, yes. That is. I've seen it played some. I was
on a trip with Mr. Ellins down at Pinehurst, five or six years back,
when he broke into the game, and I read Grant Rice's dope on it more or
less reg'lar."
"But you haven't played golf yourself, have you?" he goes on.
"No," says I, "I've never indulged in the Scottish rite to any extent.
Just a few swipes with a club."
"Then I'm afraid," he begins, "that you will hardly----"
"Oh, I'm a great little understander," says I, "unless you mean to go
into the fine points, or ask me to settle which is the best course. I've
heard some of them golf addicts talk about Shawnee or Apawamis or
Ekwanok like--well, like Billy Sunday would talk about heaven. But I've
stretched a willing ear for Mr. Ellins often enough so I can----"
"I see," breaks in Dowd. "Possibly you will do. At any rate, I must tell
this to someone."
"I know," says I. "I've seen 'em like that. Shoot."
"As you are probably aware," says he, "Ellins was in Florida with me
last month. In fact, we played the same course together, day in and day
out, for four weeks. He was my partner in our foursome. Rather a helpful
partner at times, I must admit, although he hasn't been at the game long
enough to be a really experienced golfer. Fairly long off the tee, but
erratic with the brassie, and not all dependable when it came to short
iron work. However, as a rule we held them. Our opponents, I mean."
I nods like I'd taken it all in.
"A quartette of bogey hounds, I expect," says I.
Dowd shakes his head modest. No, he confesses that wasn't an exact
description of their ratin'. "We usually qualified, when we got in at
all," says he, "in the fourth flight for the Seniors' tournament. But as
a rule we did not attempt the general competitions. We stuck to our
daily foursome. Staples and Rutter were the other two. Rutter's in
steel, you know; Staples in copper. Seasoned golfers, both of them.
Especially Rutter. Claims to have turned in a card of 89 once at Short
Hills. That was years ago, of course, but he has never forgotten it.
Rather an irritating opponent, Rutter. Patronizing. Fond of telling you
what you did when you've dubbed a shot. And if he happens to win--" Dowd
shrugs his shoulders expressive.
"Chesty, eh?" says I.
"Extremely so," says Dowd. "Even though his own medal score wasn't
better than 115. Mine was a little worse, particularly when I chanced to
be off my drive. Yes, might as well be honest. I was the lame duck of
the foursome. They usually gave my ball about four strokes. Thought they
could do it, anyway. And I accepted."
"Uh-huh," says I, grinnin' intelligent--I hope. I sure was gettin' an
earful of this golf stuff, but I was still awake.
Dowd goes on to tell how reg'lar the old foursome got under way every
afternoon at 2:30. That is, every day but Sunday.
"Oh, yes," says I. "Church?"
"No," says Dowd. "Sandy the Great."
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'.
"Meaning," says Dowd, "Alexander McQuade, to my mind the best all around
golf professional who ever came out of Scotland. He was at our
Agapoosett course in summer, you know, and down there in the winter. And
Sunday afternoons he always played an exhibition match with visiting
pro's, or some of the crack amateurs. I never missed joining the gallery
for those matches. I was following the day he broke the course record
with a 69. Just one perfect shot after another. It was an inspiration.
Always was to watch Sandy the Great play. Such a genial, democratic
fellow, too. Why, he has actually talked to me on the tee just before
taking his stand for one of those 275-yard drives of his. 'Watch this
one, me laddie buck,' he'd say, or 'Weel, mon, stand a bit back while I
gie th' gutty a fair cr-r-rack.' He was always like that with me. Do you
wonder that I bought all my clubs of him, had a collection of his best
scores, and kept a large 'photo of him in my room? I've never been much
of a hero worshiper, but when it came to Sandy the Great--well, that
was different. You've heard of him, of course?"
"I expect I have," says I, "but just how does he fit into this--"
"I am coming to that," says Dowd. "It was a remarkable experience.
Weird, you might say. You see, it was the last day of our stay in
Florida; our last foursome of the season. We had been losing steadily
for several days, Ellins and I. Not that the stakes were high. Trivial.
Dollar Nassau, with side bets. I'd been off my drive again and Ellins
had been putting atrociously. Anyway, we had settled regularly.
"And Rutter had been particularly obnoxious in his manner. Offered to
increase my handicap to five bisque, advised me to get my wrists into
the stroke and keep my body out. That sort of thing. And from a man who
lunges at every shot and makes a 75-yard approach with a brassie--Well,
it was nothing short of maddening. I kept my temper, though. Can't say
that my friend Ellins did. He had sliced into a trap on his drive, while
I had topped mine short. We started the first hole with our heads down.
Rutter and Staples were a trifle ostentatious with their cheerfulness.
"I will admit that I played the first four holes very badly. A ten on
the long third. Wretched golf, even for a duffer. Ellins managed to hold
low ball on the short fourth, but we were seven points down. I could
have bitten a piece out of my niblick. Perhaps you don't know, young
man, but there is no deeper humiliation than that which comes to a dub
golfer who is playing his worst. I was in the depths.
"At the fifth tee I was last up. I'd begun waggling as usual, body
swaying, shoulders rigid, muscles tense, dreading to swing and wondering
whether the result would be a schlaff or a top, when--well, I simply
cannot describe the sensation. Something came over me; I don't know
what. As if someone had waved a magic wand above my head. I stopped
swaying, relaxed, felt the weight of the club head in my fingers, knew
the rhythm of the swing, heard the sharp crack as the ivory facing met
the ball. If you'll believe it, I put out such a drive as I'd never
before made in all my 12 years of golf. Straight and clean and true past
the direction flag and on and on.
"The others didn't seem to notice. Rutter had hooked into the scrub
palmettos, Staples had sliced into a pit, Ellins had topped short
somewhere in the rough. I waited until they were all out on the fairway.
Some had played three, some four shots. 'How many do you lie?' asked
Rutter. I told him that was my drive. He just stared skeptical. I could
scarcely blame him. As a rule I need a fair drive and two screaming
brassies on this long fifth before I am in position to approach across
the ravine. But this time, with a carry of some 160 yards ahead of me, I
picked my mid-iron from the bag, took a three-quarter swing, bit a
small divot from the turf as I went through, and landed the ball fairly
on the green with a back-spin that held it as though I'd had a string
tied to it. And when the others had climbed out of the ravine or
otherwise reached the green I putted in my four. A par four, mind you,
on a 420-yard hole that I'd never had better than a lucky 5 on, and
usually a 7 or an 8!
"Rutter asked me to count my strokes for him and then had the insolence
to ask how I got that way. I couldn't tell him. I did feel queer. As if
I was in some sort of trance. But my next drive was even better. A
screamer with a slight hook on the end that gave the ball an added roll.
For my second I played a jigger to the green. Another par four. Rutter
hadn't a word to say.
"Well, that's the way it went. Never had any one in our foursome played
such golf as I did for nine consecutive holes. Nothing over 5 and one
birdie 3. I think that Staples and Rutter were too stunned to make any
comment. As for Ellins, he failed to appreciate what I was doing.
Somewhat self-centered, Ellins. He's always counting his own score and
seldom notices what others are making.
"Not until we had finished the 12th, which I won with an easy 3, did
Staples, who was keeping score, seem to realize what had happened.
'Hello!' he calls to Rutter. 'They've got us beaten.' 'No,' says Rutter.
'Can't be possible!' 'But we are,'insists Staples. 'Thirteen points
down and twelve to go. It's all over. Dowd, here, is playing like a
crazy man.'
"And then the spell, or whatever it was, broke. I flubbed my drive,
smothered my brassie shot, and heeled my third into the woods. I
finished the round in my usual style, mostly sevens and eights. But
there was the score to prove that for nine straight holes I had played
par golf; professional golf, if you please. Do you think either Rutter
or Staples gave me credit for that? No. They paid up and walked off to
the shower baths.
"I couldn't account for my performance. It was little short of a
miracle. Actually it was so unusual that I hardly felt like talking
about it. I know that may sound improbable to a golfer, but it is a
fact. Except that I did want to tell Alexander McQuade. But I couldn't
find him. They said at the shop he was laid up with a cold and hadn't
been around for several days. So I took the train north that night
without having said a word to a soul about those wonderful nine holes.
But I've thought a lot about 'em since. I've tried to figure out just
what happened to me that I could make such a record. No use. It was all
beginning to be as unreal as if it was something I had dreamed of doing.
"And then yesterday, while reading a recent golf magazine, I ran across
this item of news which gave me such a shock. It told of the sudden
death from pneumonia of Alexander McQuade. At first I was simply
grieved over this loss to myself and to the golfing profession in
general. Then I noticed the date. McQuade died the very morning of the
day of our last match. Do you see?"
I shook my head. All I could see was a moonfaced, owl-eyed old party who
was starin' at me with an eager, batty look. "No," says I. "I don't get
the connection. McQuade had checked out and you won your foursome."
"Precisely," says Dowd. "The mantle of Elijah."
"Who?" says I.
"To make it plainer," says Dowd, "the mantle of Sandy the Great. It fell
on my shoulders."
"That may be clear enough to you, Mr. Dowd," says I, "but I'll have to
pass it up."
He sighs disappointed. "I wish Ellins would have the patience to let me
tell him about it myself," says he. "He'll not, though, so I must make
you understand in order that you may give him the facts. I want him to
know. Of course, I can't pretend to explain the thing. It was psychic,
that's all; supernatural, if you please. Must have been. For there I
was, a confirmed duffer, playing that course exactly as Alexander
McQuade would have played it had he been in my shoes. And he was, for
the time being. At least, I claim that I was being controlled, or
whatever you want to call it, by the recently departed spirit of Sandy
the Great."
I expect I was gawpin' at him with a full open-face expression. Say, I
thought I'd heard these golf nuts ravin' before, but I'd never been up
against anything quite like this. Honest, it gave me a creepy feelin'
along the spine. And yet, come to look him over close, he's just a
wide-beamed old party with bags under his eyes and heavy common-place
features.
"You grasp the idea now, don't you?" he asks.
"I think so," says I. "Ghost stuff, eh?"
"I'm merely suggesting that as the only explanation which occurs to me,"
says he. "I would like to have it put before Ellins and get his opinion.
That is, if you think you can make it clear."
"I'll make a stab at it, Mr. Dowd," says I.
And of course I did, though Old Hickory aint such an easy listener. He
comes in with snorts and grunts all through the tale, and when I
finishes he simply shrugs his shoulders.
"There's a warning for you, young man," says he. "Keep away from the
fool game. Anyway, if you ever do play, don't let it get to be a disease
with you. Look at Dowd. Five years ago he was a sane, normal person; the
best iron ore expert in the country. He could sniff a handful of red
earth and tell you how much it would run to a ton within a dime's worth.
Knew the game from A to Izzard--deep mining, open pit, low grade
washing, transportation, smelting. He lived with it. Never happier than
when he was in his mining rig following a chief engineer through new
cross-cuts on the twenty-sixth level trying to locate a fault in the
deposit or testing some modern method of hoisting. Those were things he
understood. Then he retired. Said he'd made money enough. And now look
at him. Getting cracked over a sport that must have been invented by
some Scotchman who had a grudge against the whole human race. As though
any game could be a substitute for business. Bah!"
"Then you don't think, Mr. Ellins," says I, "that we ought to have the
boy page Sir Oliver Lodge?"
"Eh?" says he.
"I mean," says I, "that you don't take any stock in that mantle of Sandy
the Great yarn?"
"Tommyrot!" says he. "For once in his life the old fool played his head
off, that's all. Nine holes in par. Huh! I'm liable to do that myself
one of these days, and without the aid of any departed spirits. Yes,
sir. The fact is, Torchy, I am practicing a new swing that ought to have
me playing in the low 90's before the middle of the next season. You
see, it all depends on taking an open stance and keeping a stiff right
knee. Here' pass me that umbrella and I'll show you."
And for the next ten minutes he kept a bank president, two directors and
a general manager waiting while he swats a ball of paper around the
private office with me for an audience. Uh-huh. And being a high ace
private sec. I aint even supposed to grin. Say, why don't some genius
get up an anti-golf serum so that when one of these old plutes found
himself slippin' he could rush to a clinic and get a shot in the arm?