Bad news travels fast when a few press agents get behind it, and not all
the personal publicity is handed out by a man's loving friends. Those
who had met Ambrose warned those who had not, and whenever his fiery red
head appeared in the lounging room there was a startling drop in the
temperature.
For a few weeks he persisted in trying to secure matches with members of
the club, but nobody would have anything to do with him--not even old
Purdue McCormick, who toddles about the course with a niblick in one
hand and a mid-iron in the other, _sans_ bag, _sans_ caddie, _sans_
protection of the game laws. When such a renegade as Purdue refused to
go turf-tearing with him Ambrose gave up in disgust and devoted himself
to the serious business of learning the royal and ancient game. He
infested the course from dawn till dark, a solitary figure against the
sky line; our golfing Ishmael, a wild ass loose upon the links, his hand
against every man and every man's hand against him.
He wore a chip on his shoulder for all of us; and it was during this
period that Anderson, our club champion and Number One on the team,
christened Ambrose "Little Poison Ivy," because of the irritating effect
of personal contact with him.
Ambrose couldn't have had a great deal of fun out of the situation; but
MacQuarrie made money out of it. The redhead hired the professional to
play with him and criticise his shots. The dour old Scotch mercenary did
not like Ambrose any better than we did, but toward the end of the first
month he admitted to me that the boy had the makings of a star golfer,
though not, he was careful to explain, "the pr-roper temperament for the
game."
"But it's just amazin', the way he picks up the shots," said Dunn'l.
"Ay, he'll have everything but the temperament."
As the summer drew to a close the annual team matches began, and we
forgot Ambrose and all else in our anxiety over the fate of the Edward
B. Wimpus Trophy.
Every golf club, you must know, has its pet trophy. Ours is the worn old
silver cup that represents the team championship of the Association. A
pawnbroker wouldn't look at it twice; but to us, who are familiar with
its history and the trips it has made to different clubhouses, the
Edward B. Wimpus Trophy is priceless, and more to be desired than
diamonds or pearls.
When the late Mr. Wimpus donated the cup he stipulated that it should be
held in trust by the club winning the annual team championship, and that
it should become the property of the club winning it three times in
succession. For twenty years we had been fighting for permanent
possession of the trophy, and engraved on its shining surface was the
record of our bitter disappointment--not to mention the disappointment
of the Bellevue Golf Club. Twice we had been in a position to add the
third and final victory, and twice the Bellevue quintet had dashed our
hopes. Twice we had retaliated by preventing them from retiring the
Wimpus Trophy from competition; and now, with two winning years behind
us and a third opportunity in sight, we talked and thought of nothing
else.
According to the rules governing team play in our Association, each club
is represented by five men, contesting from scratch and without
handicaps of any sort. In the past, two teams have outclassed the field,
and once more history repeated itself, for the Bellevue bunch fought us
neck and neck through the entire period of competition. With one match
remaining to be played, they were tied with us for first place, and that
match brought the Bellevue team to our course last Friday afternoon.
I was on hand when the visitors filed into the locker room at
noon--MacNeath, Smathers, Crane, Lounsberry and Jordan--five seasoned
and dependable golfers, veterans of many a hard match; fighters who
never know when they are beaten. They looked extremely fit, and not in
the least worried at the prospect of meeting our men on their own
course.
They brought their own gallery, too, Bellevue members who talked even
money and flashed yellow-backed bills. The Dingbats formed a syndicate
and covered all bets; but this was due to club pride rather than any
feeling of confidence. We knew our boys were in for a tough battle, in
which neither side would have a marked advantage.
Four of our team players were on hand to welcome the enemy--Moreman,
Bishop, Elder and Gilmore--and they offered their opponents such
hospitality as is customary on like occasions.
"Thanks," said MacNeath with a grin; "but just now we're drinking water.
After the match you can fill the cup with anything you like, and we'll
allow you one drink out of it before we take it home with us. Once we
get it over there it'll never come back. It's not in the cards for you
to win three times running.... Where's Anderson?"
"He hasn't shown up yet," said Bishop.
"He's on the way out in his car," added Moreman. "I rang up his house
five minutes ago. He'd just left."
"Oh, very well," said MacNeath, who is Number One man for Bellevue, as
well as captain of the team. "Suppose we have lunch now, Bishop; and
while we're eating you can give me the list of your players and I'll
match them up."
In team play it is customary for the home captain to submit the names of
his players, ranked from one to five, in the order of their ability. The
visiting captain then has the privilege of making the individual
matches; and this is supposed to offset whatever advantage the home team
has by reason of playing on its own course.
Bishop, our captain, handed over a list reading as follows: 1--Anderson;
2--Moreman; 3--Bishop; 4--Elder; 5--Gilmore. MacNeath bracketed his own
name with Anderson's, and paired Crane with Moreman, Lounsberry with
Bishop, Smathers with Elder, and Jordan with Gilmore.
After luncheon the men changed to their golfing togs; but still there
was no sign of Anderson. Another telephone call confirmed the first
message; his wife reported that he had left his home nearly an hour
before, bound for the club.
"Queer!" said MacNeath. "Engine trouble or a puncture--possibly both.
It's not like the Swede to be late. Might as well get started, eh?
Anderson and I will go last, anyhow."
A big gallery watched the first pair drive off, Gilmore getting a better
ball than Jordan, and cheering those who believe in omens. Then at
five-minute intervals, came Lounsberry and Bishop, Smathers and Elder,
and Crane and Moreman. Each match attracted a small individual gallery,
but most of the spectators waited to follow the Number One men.
MacNeath, refusing to allow himself to be made nervous by the delay,
went into the clubhouse; and many and wild were the speculations as to
the cause of Anderson's tardiness. The wildest one of them fell short of
the bitter truth, which came to us at the end of a telephone wire
located in the professional's shop. It had been relayed on from the
switchboard in the club office:
"Anderson blew a front tire at the city limits. Car turned over with him
and broke his leg."
A bombshell exploding under our noses could not have created more
consternation. There we were, with four of the matches under way, our
best man crippled, and up against the proposition of providing an
opponent for MacNeath, admittedly the most dangerous player on the
Bellevue team. Harson, as a member of the Greens Committee and an
officer of the club, assumed charge of the situation as soon as he heard
the news.
"No good sending word to poor old Bishop," said he. "He's the team
captain, of course; but he can't do anything about it. Besides, he's
already playing his match, and this would upset him terribly. Is there
any one here who can give MacNeath a run for his money?"
"Not unless you want to try it," said I.
"He'd eat me alive!" groaned Harson. "We might as well forfeit one
match, and put it up to the boys to win three out of four. Oh, if we
only had one more good man!"
"Ye have," said MacQuarrie, who had been listening. "Ye've overlooked
young Mister Phipps."
"That kid?" demanded Harson. "Nonsense!"
"Ay," said Dunn'l; "that kid! Call it nonsense if ye like, sir, but he
was under eighty twice yesterday. This mor-rnin' he shot a
seventy-seven, with two missed putts the length o' your ar-rm. He's on
top of his game now, an' goin' strong. If he'll shoot back to his
mor-rnin' round he'll give Mister MacNeath a battle; but the lad has
never been in a competition, so ye'll have to chance his ner-rves."
"Ambrose!" I exclaimed. "I never should have thought of him!"
"Of course ye wouldn't," said MacQuarrie. "Ye've never played with
him--never even seen him play."
"But he's such a little rotter!" mumbled Harson.
"Ay," said Dunn'l; "an', grantin' ye that, he's still the best ye have.
He's in the clubhouse now, dressed an' ready to start, once the crowd is
out of the way."
"And he really did a seventy-seven this morning?" asked Harson.
"With two missed putts--wee ones."