II

Going back to the beginning, we never had a chance to blame Ambrose on

the Membership Committee; he slipped in on us via the junior-member

clause. Old Man Phipps does not play golf; but he is a charter member of

the club and, according to the by-laws, the sons of members between the

ages of sixteen and twenty-one enjoy all the privileges of the

institution.

Ambrose was nineteen when he returned rather hurriedly from college. He

did this at the earnest and unanimous request of the Faculty and, it was

whispered, the police department of the university town. He hadn't done

much of anything, but he had tried very hard to drive a touring car and

seven chorus girls through a plate-glass window into a restaurant. The

press agent of the show saw his chance to get some publicity for the

broilers, and after an interview with the Faculty Ambrose caught the

first train for home.

Having nothing to do and plenty of time in which to do it, Ambrose

decided to become a golfer. Old Dunn'l MacQuarrie, our professional,

sold him a large leather bag full of tools and gave him two lessons.

Thus equipped and fortified, young Mr. Phipps essayed to brighten our

drab lives by allowing us to play golf with him. Now this sort of thing

may be done in some clubs, but not in ours. We do not permit our sacred

institutions to be "rushed" by the golfing novice. We are not snobbish,

but we plead guilty to being the least bit set in our ways. They are

good ways, and they suit us. The club is an old one, as golf clubs go in

this country, and most of the playing members are men past forty years

of age. Nearly all of the foursomes are permanent affairs, the same men

playing together week after week, season in and season out. The other

matches are made in advance, by telephone or word of mouth, and the

member who turns up minus a game on Saturday afternoon is out of luck.

We do not leap at the stranger with open arms. We do not leap at him at

all. We stand off and look him over. We put him on probation; and if he

shapes up well, and walks lightly, and talks softly, and does not try

to dynamite his way into matches where he is not wanted, some day he

will be invited to fill up a foursome. Invited--make a note of that. Now

see what Ambrose did.

With his customary lack of tact, he selected the very worst day in the

week to thrust himself upon our notice. It was a Saturday, and the

lounging room was crowded with members, most of whom were shaking dice

for the luncheons. With a single exception, all the foursomes were made

up for the afternoon.

A short, sturdily built youngster came through the doorway from the

locker room and paused close to the table where I was sitting. His hair

was red--the sort of red that will not be ignored--and he wore it combed

straight back over the top of his head. His slightly irregular features

were covered with large brown freckles, and on his upper lip was a

volunteer crop of lightish fuzz, which might, in time, become a

moustache. His green sport coat was new, his flannel trousers were new,

his shoes were new--from neck to sole he fairly shrieked with newness.

Considering that he was a stranger in a strange club, a certain amount

of reticence would not have hurt the young man's entrance; but he burst

through the swinging door with a skip and a swagger, and there was a

broad grin on his homely countenance. It was quite evident that he

expected to find himself among friends.

"Who wants a game?" he cried. "Don't all speak at once, men!"

A few of the members nearest the door glanced up, eyed the youth

curiously, and returned to their dice boxes. The others had not heard

him at all. Harson and Billford looked at me.

"Who's the fresh kid?" asked Billford.

"That," said I, "is Ambrose Phipps, only son of Old Man Phipps."

"Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is a

failure. What's he want?"

Ambrose himself answered the question. He had advanced to our table.

"You gentlemen got a game?" he asked, laying his hand on Billford's

shoulder.

Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it is

familiarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth;

so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared at

Ambrose. The boy did not remove his hand.

"'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean--just washed

it. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar.

"No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?"

"We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn't

seem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding.

"Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." And

Ambrose passed on to the next table.

"Insufferable young rotter!" snarled Billford.

"Quite so," said Harson; "but he'll never miss anything by being too

bashful to ask for it. Look! He's asking everybody!"

Ambrose made the entire circuit of the room. We could not hear what he

said, but we felt the chill he left in his wake. Men glanced up when he

addressed them, stared for an instant, and went back to their dice. Some

of them were polite in their refusals, some were curt, some were merely

disgusted. When he reached the table where Bishop, Gilmore, Moreman and

Elder were sitting, they laughed at him. They are our star golfers and

members of the team. The Dingbats were too much astonished to show

resentment; but when Ambrose left them he patted Doc Pinkinson on the

head, and the old gentleman sputtered for the best part of an hour.

It was a discouraging tour, and any one else would have hunted a quiet

corner and crawled into it; but not Ambrose. He returned to our end of

the room, and the pleased and expectant light in his eyes had given way

to a steely glare. He beckoned to one of the servants.

"Hey, George! Who's the boss here? Who's the Big Finger?"

"Misteh Harson, he's one of 'em, suh. He's a membeh of the Greens

Committee."

"Show him to me!"

"Right there, suh, settin' by the window."

Ambrose strode across to us and addressed himself to Harson.

"My name is Phipps," said he. "I'm a junior member here, registered and

all that, and I want to get a game this afternoon. So far, I haven't had

any luck."

Harson is really a mild and kindly soul. He hates to hurt any one's

feelings.

"Perhaps all the games are made up," he suggested. "Saturday is a bad

day, unless your match is arranged beforehand."

"Zat so? Humph! Nice clubby spirit you have here. You make a fellow feel

so much at home!"

"So we notice," grunted Billford.

Ambrose looked at him and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile.

Then he turned back to Harson.

"How about that fourth man of yours?" he demanded. "Has he shown up

yet?"

Billford caught my eye.

"Some one must have left the outside door open," said he. "Seems to me I

feel a strong draught."

"Put on another shirt!" Ambrose shot the retort without an instant's

hesitation. "Now say, if your fourth man isn't here, what's the matter

with me?"

"Possibly there is nothing the matter with you," said Harson

pleasantly; "but if you are a beginner----"

"Aw, you don't need to be afraid of my game!" grinned Ambrose. "I'll be

easy picking."

"That isn't the point," explained Harson. "Our game would be too fast

for you."

"Well, what of it? How am I ever going to learn if I never play with

anybody better than I am? Don't you take any interest in young blood, or

is this a close corporation, run for the benefit of a lot of old

fossils, playing hooky from the boneyard?"

"Oh, run away, little boy, and sell your papers!" Billford couldn't

stand it any longer.

"I will if you lend me that shirt for a make-up!" snapped Ambrose. "Now

don't get mad, Cutie. Remember, you picked on me first. A man with a

neck as thick as yours ought not to let his angry passions rise. First

thing you know, you'll bust something in that bonemeal mill of yours,

and then you won't know anything." Ambrose put his hands on his hips and

surveyed the entire gathering. "A nice, cheerful, clubby bunch!" he

exclaimed. "Gee! What a picnic a hermit crab could have in this place,

meeting so many congenial souls!"

"If you don't like it," said Billford, "you don't have to stay here a

minute."

"That's mighty sweet of you," said Ambrose; "but, you see, I've made up

my mind to learn this fool game if it takes all summer. I'd hate to

quit now, even to oblige people who have been so courteous to me....

Well, good-by, you frozen stiffs! Maybe I can hire that sour old

Scotchman to go round with me. He's not what you might call a cheerful

companion, but, at that, he's got something on you. He's _human_,

anyway!"

Ambrose went outside and banged the door behind him. Billford made a few

brief observations; but his remarks, though vivid and striking, were not

quite original. Harson shook his head, and in the silence following

Ambrose's exit we heard Doc Pinkinson's voice:

"If that pup was mine I'd drown him; doggone me if I wouldn't!"

Young Mr. Phipps, you will observe, got in wrong at the very start.