THE LADY AND THE BUNKER
The afternoon invited the eyes to far, blue horizons, and as Evelyn
stood up and shook loosely in her hand the sand she had taken from the
box, she contemplated the hazy distances with satisfaction before
bending to make her tee. Her visitors had left; Grant had gone east to
school, and she was driven in upon herself for amusement. Her movements
were lithe and swift, and when once the ball had been placed in position
there were only two points of interest for her in the landscape--the
ball itself and the first green. The driver was a part of herself, and
she stepped back and swung it to freshen her memory of its
characteristics. The caddy watched her in silent joy; these were not the
fussy preliminaries that he had been used to in young ladies who played
on the Country Club links; he kept one eye on the player and backed off
down the course. The sleeves of her crimson flannel shirt-waist were
turned up at the wrists; the loose end of her cravat fluttered in the
soft wind, that was like a breath of mid-May. She addressed the ball,
standing but slightly bent above it and glancing swiftly from tee to
target, then swung with the certainty and ease of the natural golf
player. Her first ball was a slice, but it fell seventy-five yards down
the course; she altered her position slightly and tried again, but she
did not hit the ball squarely, and it went bounding over the grass. At
the third attempt her ball was caught fairly and sped straight down the
course at a level not higher than her head. The caddy trotted to where
it lay; it was on a line with the one hundred and fifty yard mark. The
player motioned him to get the other balls. She had begun her game.
The fever was as yet in its incipient stage in Clarkson; players were
few; the greens were poorly kept, and there were bramble patches along
the course which were of material benefit to the golf ball makers. But
it was better than nothing, John Saxton said to himself this bright
October afternoon, as he stood at the first tee, listening to the
cheerful discourse of his caddy, who lingered to study the equipment of
a visitor whom he had not served before.
"Anybody out?" asked John, trying the weight of several drivers.
"Lady," said the boy succinctly. He pointed across the links to where
Evelyn was distinguishable as she doubled back on the course.
"Good player?"
"Great--for a girl," the boy declared. "She's the best lady player
here."
"Maybe we can pick up some points from her game," said Saxton, smiling
at the boy's enthusiasm. He had been very busy and much away from town,
and this was his first day of golf since he had come to Clarkson.
Raridan had declined to accompany him; Raridan was, in fact, at work
just now, having been for a month constant in attendance upon his
office; and Saxton had left him barricaded behind a pile of law books.
Saxton was slow in his golf, as in all things, and he gave a good deal
of study to his form. He played steadily down the course, noting from
time to time the girl that was the only other occupant of the links. She
was playing toward him on the parallel course home, and while he had not
recognized her, he could see that she was a player of skill, and he
paused several times to watch the freedom of her swing and to admire the
pretty picture she made as she followed her ball rapidly and with
evident absorption.
He was taking careful measurement for a difficult approach shot from the
highest grass on the course, when he heard men calling and shouting in
the road which ran by one of the boundary fences of the club property. A
drove of cattle was coming along the road, driven, as Saxton saw, by
several men on horseback. It was a small bunch bound for the city.
Several obstreperous steers showed an inclination to bolt at the
crossroads, but the horsemen brought them back with much yelling and a
great shuffling of hoofs which sent a cloud of dust into the quiet air.
Saxton bent again with his lofter, when his caddy gave a cry.
"Hi! He's making for the gate!"
One of the steers had bolted and plunged down the side road toward the
gate of the club grounds, which stood open through the daytime.
"You'd better trot over there and close the gate," said Saxton, seeing
that the cattle were excited.
The boy ran for the gate, which lay not more than a hundred yards
distant, and the steer which had broken away and been reclaimed with so
much difficulty in the roadway bolted for it at almost the same moment.
Saxton, seeing that a collision was imminent, began trotting toward the
gate himself. The steer could not see the boy who was racing for the
gate from the inside, and boy and beast plunged on toward it.
"Run for the fence," called Saxton.
The boy gained the fence and clambered to the top of it. The steer
reached the gate, and, seeing open fields beyond, bounded in and made
across the golf course at full speed. He dashed past Saxton, who stopped
and watched him, his club still in his hand. The steer seemed pleased to
have gained access to an ampler area, and loped leisurely across the
links. Evelyn, manoeuvering to escape a bunker that lay formidably
before her, had not yet seen the animal and was not aware of the
invasion of the course until her caddy, who, expecting one of her long
plays, had posted himself far ahead, came plunging over the bunker's
ridge with a clatter of bag and clubs. The steer, following him with an
amiable show of interest, paused at the bunker and viewed the boy and
the young woman in the red shirt-waist uneasily. One of the drovers was
in hot pursuit, galloping across the course toward the runaway member of
his herd, lariat in hand. Hearing an enemy in the rear, the steer broke
over the lightly packed barricade, and Evelyn's red shirt-waist proving
the most brilliant object on the horizon, he made toward it at a lively
pace.
The caddy was now in full flight, pulling the strap of Evelyn's bag over
his head and scattering the clubs as he fled. A moment later he had
joined Saxton's caddy on top of the fence and the two boys viewed
current history from that point with absorption. Meanwhile Evelyn was
making no valiant stand. She gave a gasp of dismay and turned and ran,
for the drover was pushing the steer rapidly now, and was getting ready
to cast his lariat. He made a botch of it, however, and at the instant
of the rope's flight, his pony, poorly trained to the business, bucked
and tried to unseat his rider; and the drover swore volubly as he tried
to control him. The pony backed upon a putting green and bucked again,
this time dislodging his rider. Before the dazed drover could recover,
Saxton, who had run up behind him, sprang to the pony's head, and as the
animal settled on all fours again, leaped into the saddle and gathered
up bridle and lariat. The pony suddenly grew tired of making trouble, in
the whimsical way of his kind, and Saxton impelled him at a rapid lope
toward the steer. John was bareheaded and the sleeves of his outing
shirt were rolled to the elbows; he looked more like a polo player than
a cowboy.
Meanwhile Evelyn was running toward a bunker which stood across her
path; it was the only break in the level of the course that offered any
hope of refuge. She could hear the pounding of the steer's hoofs, and
less distinctly the pattering hoofbeat of the pony. She had had a long
run and was breathing hard. The bunker seemed the remotest thing in the
world as she ran down the course; then suddenly it rose a mile high, and
as she scaled its rough slope and sank breathlessly into the sand,
Saxton cast the lariat. With mathematical nicety the looped rope cut the
air and the noose fell about the broad horns of the Texan as his fore
feet struck the bunker. The pony stood with firmly planted hoofs,
supporting the taut rope as steadfastly as a rock. The owner of the pony
came panting up, and another of the drovers who had ridden into the
arena joined them.
"Here's your cow," said Saxton. The steer was, indeed, any one's for the
taking, as he was winded and the spirit had gone out of him. "You won't
need another rope on him; he'll follow the pony."
"You threw that rope all right," said the dismounted drover.
"An old woman taught me with a clothes line," said John, kicking his
feet out of the stirrups; "take your pony."
"Where's that girl?" asked one of the men.
"I guess she's all right," answered Saxton, walking toward the bunker.
"You'd better get your cow out of here; this isn't free range, you
know."
He mounted the bunker with a jump and looked anxiously down into the
sand-pit.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Saxton. You see I'm bunkered. Is it safe to come
out?"
"Is it you, Miss Porter?" said Saxton, jumping down into the sand. "Are
you hurt?"
"No; but I'll not say that I'm not scared." She was still panting from
her long run, and her cheeks were scarlet. She put up her hands to her
hair, which had tumbled loose. "This is really the wild West, after all;
and that was a very pretty throw you made."
"It seemed necessary to do something. But you couldn't have seen it?"
"Another case of woman's curiosity. Perhaps I ought to turn into a
pillar of salt. I peeped! I suppose it was in the hope that I might play
hide and seek with that wild beast as he came over after me, but you
stopped his flight just in time." She had restored her hair as she
talked. "Where is that caddy of mine?"
"Oh, the boys took to the fence to get a better view of the show.
They're coming up now."
Evelyn stood up quickly, and shook her skirt free of sand.
"I need hardly say that I'm greatly obliged to you," she said, giving
him her hand.
Saxton was relieved to find that she took the incident so coolly.
She was laughing; her color was very becoming, and John beamed upon her.
His face was of that blond type which radiates light and flushes into a
kind of sunburn with excitement. There was something very boyish about
John Saxton. The curves of his face were still those of youth; he had
never dared to encourage a mustache or beard, owing to a disinclination
to produce more than was necessary of the soft, silky hair which covered
his head abundantly. He had a straight nose, a firm chin and a brave
showing of square, white teeth. His mouth was his best feature, for it
expressed his good nature and a wish to be pleased,--a wish that shone
also in his blue eyes. John Saxton was determined to like life and
people; and he liked both just now.
"Are you entirely sound? Won't you have witch-hazel, arnica, brandy?"
"Oh, thanks; nothing. I've got my breath again and am all right."
"But they always sprain their ankles."
"Yes, but I'm not a romantic young person. I'll be sorry if that caddy
has lost my best driver."
"He's out on the battlefield now looking for it," said John, indicating
their two caddies, who were gathering up the lost implements.
"I think you're away," John added, musingly.
"Yes; for the club house."
"That's poor golf, to give up just because you're bunkered. And yet my
caddy said you were the greatest."
They walked over the course toward the club house, discussing their
encounter.
"What hole were you playing when the meek-eyed kine invaded the field?"
"Oh, I was doing very badly. I was only at the fourth, and breaking all
my records," said John. "I was glad of a diversion. The gentle
footprints of that steer didn't improve the quality of this course," he
added, looking about. The ground was soft from recent rains, and the
hoofs of the animal had dug into it and marred the turf.
"It's a rule of the club," said Evelyn, "that players must replace their
own divots. That can hardly be enforced against that ferocious beast."
"Hardly; but he was easily master of the game while he remained with
us." The caddies had recovered the scattered equipment of the players,
and were following, discussing the incidents of the busiest quarter of
an hour they had known in their golfing experience.
Evelyn turned suddenly upon John.
"Did I look very foolish?" she demanded.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do, Mr. Saxton. A woman always looks ridiculous when she
runs." She laughed. "I'm sure I must have looked so. But you couldn't
have seen me; you were pretty busy yourself just then."
"Well, of course, if I'm asked about it, I'll have to tell of your
sprinting powers; I'm not sure that you didn't lower a record."
"Oh, you're the hero of the occasion! I cut a sorry figure in it. I
suppose, though, that as the maiden in distress I'll get a little
glory--just a little."
"And your picture in the Sunday papers."
"Horrors, no! But you will appear on your fiery steed swinging the
lasso."
He threw up his hands.
"That would never do! It would ruin my social reputation."
"In Boston?"
"No; down there they'd like it. It would be proof positive of the
woolliness of the West. Golf playing interrupted by a herd of wild
cattle--cowboys, lassoes--Buffalo Bill effects. Down East they're always
looking for Western atmosphere."
"You don't dislike the West very much, do you?" asked Evelyn. "We aren't
so bad, do you think?"
"Dislike it?" John looked at her. He had never liked anything so much as
this place and hour. "I altogether love it," he declared; and then he
was conscious of having used a verb not usual in his vocabulary.
"And so you learned how to do all the cowboy tricks up in Wyoming?"
Evelyn went on. "I wish Annie Warren had seen that!" and she laughed;
it seemed to John that she was always laughing.
"I wasn't very much of a cowboy," John said. "That is, I wasn't very
good at it." He was an honest soul and did not want Evelyn Porter to
think that he was posing as a dramatic and cocksure character. "Roping a
cow is the easiest thing in the business, and then a tame, foolish,
domestic co-bos like that one!"
"Co-bos! If this is likely to happen again they ought to provide a box
of salt at every tee."
When Evelyn had gone into the club house, John gathered the caddies into
a corner and bestowed a dollar on each of them and promised them other
bounty if they maintained silence touching the events of the afternoon
in which he had participated. They and the drovers were the only
witnesses besides the more active participants, and he would have to
take chances with the drovers. Then, having bribed the boys, he also
threatened them. He was walking across the veranda when he met Evelyn,
whose horse he had already called for.
"If you're not driving, I'd be glad to have you share my cart."
"Thanks, very much," said John. "The street car would be rather a heavy
slump after this afternoon's gaiety."
"I spoiled your game and endangered your social reputation; I can hardly
do less."
John thought that she could hardly do more. He had known men whom girls
drove in their traps, but he had never expected to be enrolled in their
class. It was pleasant, just once, not to be walking in the highway and
taking the dust of other people's wheels--pleasant to find himself
tolerated by a pretty girl. She was prettier than any he had ever seen
at class day, or in the grand stands at football games, or on the
observation trains at New London, when he had gone alone, or with a
sober college classmate, to see the boat races.
Deep currents of happiness coursed through him which were not all
because of the October sunlight and the laughing talk of Evelyn Porter.
He had that sensation of pleasure, always a joy to a man of conscience,
which is his self-approval for labor well performed. He had worked
faithfully ever since he had come to Clarkson; he had traveled much,
visiting the properties which the Neponset Trust Company had confided to
his care; and he had already so adjusted them that they earned enough to
pay taxes and expenses. He had effected a few sales, at prices which the
Neponset's clients were glad to accept. He had never been so happy in
his work. He had rather grudgingly taken this afternoon off; but here he
was, laughing with Evelyn Porter over an amusing adventure that had
befallen them, and which, as they talked of it and kept referring to it,
seemed to establish between them a real comradeship. He wondered what
Raridan would say, and he resolved that he would not tell him of the
hasty termination of his golfing; probably Miss Porter would prefer not
to have the incident mentioned. He even thought that he would not tell
Raridan that she had driven him to town. It was not for him to interpose
between Warry Raridan, a man who had brought him the sweetest
friendship he had ever known, and the girl whom fate had clearly
appointed Warry to marry.
As they turned into the main highway leading townward, a trap came
rapidly toward them.
"Miss Margrave's trap," said Evelyn, as they espied it.
The figures were not yet distinguishable, though Mabel's belongings were
always unmistakable.
"Then that must be one of 'The Men'?"
John was angry at himself the moment he had spoken, for as the trap came
nearer there was no doubt of the identity of Mabel's companion. It was
Warry. Evelyn bowed and smiled as they passed. Mabel gave the quick nod
that she was introducing in Clarkson; Saxton and Raridan lifted their
hats.
"Miss Margrave has a lot of style; don't you think so, Mr. Saxton?"
"Apparently, yes; but I don't know her, you know;" and he wondered.
Warry Raridan's days were not all lucky. He had been keeping his office
with great fidelity of late. He had even found a client or two; and he
had determined to rebuke his critics by giving proof of his possession
of those staying qualities which they were always denying him. He had
been hard at work in his office this afternoon, when a note came to him
from Mabel, who begged that he would drive with her to the Country Club.
He had already thought of telephoning to Evelyn to ask her if she would
not go with him, but had dropped the idea when he remembered his new
resolutions; it was for Evelyn that he was at work now. But Mabel was a
friendly soul, and perfectly harmless. It certainly looked very
pleasant outside; the next citation in the authorities he was
consulting,--Sweetbriar _vs._ O'Neill, 84 N. Y., 26,--would lead him
over to the law library, which was a gloomy hole with wretched
ventilation. So he had given himself a vacation, with the best grace and
excuse in the world.