Lionel was all to the best.
He was Finnegan the Fine Boy, for sure.
One of those tart little red coats squeezed his shape, and around his
neck he had a pink stock that was waiting for a chance to choke him.
My lady friend met this gilly once at a bean _soiree_ and she was his
evening star.
They sat on the stairs together and put a kink in the caramels.
When the gong sounded for the ice-cream that night Lionel had dipped
her out a tubful, and he was sure she liked him for his boyish ways.
So on this occasion it was Lionel's play to give me the low tackle
and claim the calico.
But I'm something of a Mr. Fox myself on rare occasions, and I
couldn't see Lionel doing a two-step through the farm lands with my
Esmeralda--not through the opera glasses.
Clara Jane introduced me to His Pinkness and he invited us in the
clubhouse to throttle our thirsts.
I ordered a rickey, Clara Jane called for a lemonade, and Lionel's
guess was a pail of Vichy and milk.
When the suds rolled up I gave the Vichy stuff the sad eye and Lionel
caught the gaze.
I could see that he wanted to back pedal right then, but he waited
until the next round and then he waded out among the high boys.
It was the bluff of his life.
His limit on bug bitters was imported ginger ale with a piece of lime
in it.
When he was out roystering and didn't care what became of him he
would tell the bartender to add a dash of phosphates.
But now he made up his mind to splash around in the tide waters just
because the lady was looking on.
Lionel felt that the future was at stake and he must cut out the
saw-dust extracts and get busy with the grown-up booze.
After the first high ball Lionel began to chatter and mention money.
The mocking birds were singing down on the old bayou, and he began to
give Clara Jane the loving leer.
She grew a bit uneasy and wanted to start the paddle wheels, but I
signalled to the waiter because I wished her to see her Society slob
at his best.
At first he insisted upon dragging out a basket of Ruinart, and he
wanted to order rubber boots so we could slosh around in it.
But I steered him off and he went all the way up the hill and picked
out another high fellow.
When the second high was under cover he reached over and patted Clara
Jane on the hand.
He wanted to lead her away to Paris and show her everything that
money could buy.
When she gave him the "Sir!" gag he apologized and said he didn't
mean Paris, he meant the Pan-American.
Then he smiled feverishly and opened a package of hiccoughs.
When Clara Jane and I moved out on the links Lionel was watching the
floor and trying to pick out a spot that didn't go 'round and 'round.
His chips were all in and he was Simon with the Souse, for sure.
Clara Jane said, "What a ridiculous person!" but what she meant was,
that that would be about all from Lionel.
Then we chartered a couple of caddie boys and started in to render a
few choice selections on the clubs.
My caddie boy's name was Mike, and he looked the part.
The first crack out of the box I lost my ball and Mike found it under
his left eye.
I gave him a quarter to square myself and he said I could hit him on
the other eye for ten cents more.
I made the first hole in 26, and felt that there was nothing more to
live for.
Clara Jane could have made it in 84, but she used up her nerve
watching a cow in the lot about two miles away.
My lady friend is a quitter when it comes to cows.
Then we decided to stop playing and walk around the links just so we
could say that we had seen most of the United States of America.
Out near the Fifth hole we met young Mil Roberts and Frank Jenvey.
They were playing a match for 60 cents a side and they were two busy
boys, all right, all right.
Mil had his sleeves rolled up to show the mosquito bites on his
muscles, and Frank was telling himself how he missed the last bunker.
I asked Mil what time it was and he told me, "Three up and four to
play!"