"You go in and put it up to him," said he at last. "I can't talk to him
without losing my temper."
I found our little red hope banging the balls about on the billiard
table, carefree as a scarlet tanager.
"Young man," said I, "your country calls you."
"I'm under age," said Ambrose, calmly squinting along his cue. "Don't
bother me. This is a tough shot."
"Well, then," said I, "your club calls you."
"My club, eh?" remarked the redhead with nasty emphasis. "Any time this
club calls me I'm stone-deaf."
"Listen to me a minute, Phipps. This is the day of the big team match
and we're up against it hard. Anderson turned his car over on the way
out and broke his leg. We want you to take his place."
"Anderson," repeated Ambrose. "Ain't that the squarehead who calls me
Little Poison Ivy? Only his leg, eh? Tough luck!"
"You bet it is!" I exclaimed, ignoring his meaning. "Tough luck for all
of us, because if we can't dig up a man to take Anderson's place we'll
have to forfeit that particular match to MacNeath. We'd set our hearts
on winning this time, because it would give us the permanent possession
of the team trophy that we've been shooting at for twenty years----"
"Let your voice fall right there!" commanded Ambrose. "Trophies are
nothing in my young life. This club is nothing in my life. Everybody
here has treated me worse than a yellow dog. Go ahead and take your
medicine; and I hope they lick you and make you like it!"
I saw it was time to try another tack. Ambrose had used one word that
had put an idea into my head.
"All right," said I. "Have it your own way. Perhaps it was a mistake to
mention MacNeath's name."
"What do you mean--a mistake?" He fired up instantly.
"Well," said I, "you must know Mac by reputation. He's one of the best
golfers in the state and a tough proposition to beat. He's their Number
One man--their star player. He shoots pretty close to par all the time."
"What's that got to do with it?" asked Ambrose.
"Why, nothing; only----"
"Only what?"
"Well, they all said you wouldn't want to go up against such a strong
player."
"Who said that?"
"Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I'm frank
enough to say that I wouldn't tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath is
hard game."
"Look here!" snapped the redhead. "You're off on the wrong foot
entirely. You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not because I'm afraid
of this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman this
morning, and I guess you'll agree he's not soft picking. It's just that
I don't feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me."
"A favour! Why, man alive, it's a compliment to stick you in at Number
One--the biggest compliment we can pay you!"
"Well," said Ambrose slowly, "if you look at it in that light----"
"I most certainly do.... But if you'd rather not meet MacNeath----"
Ambrose dropped his cue with a crash.
"You don't really think I'm _yellow_, do you?" he cried.
"If you are," said I, "you're the first redhead that ever got his colour
scheme mixed."
The little rascal grinned like a gargoyle.
"Listen!" said he confidentially. "You've used me pretty well--to my
face, anyhow--and I'll tell yon this much: I don't care the snap of my
fingers for your ratty old cup. I care even less for the members of this
club--present company excepted, you understand; but I can't stand it to
have anybody think I'm not _game_. Ever since I was a runt of a kid I've
had to fight, and they can say anything about me except that I'm a
quitter.... Why, I've stuck round here for nearly five months just
because I wouldn't let a lot of old fossils drive me out and make me
quit--five months without a friend in the place, and only MacQuarrie to
talk to.
"If I'd been yellow it would have shown that first Saturday when
everybody turned me down so cold. I wanted to walk out and never come
back. I wanted to; but I stuck. Honest, if I'm anything at all I'm
game--game enough to stand the gaff and take the worst of it; and I'll
prove it to you by playing this bird, no matter how good he is. I'll
fight him every jump of the way, and if he licks me he'll have to step
out some to do it. What's a licking, anyway? I've had a thousand of 'em!
Plenty of people can lick me; but you bet your life nobody ever scared
me!"
"Good kid!" said I, and held out my hand.
After an instant's hesitation Ambrose seized it. "Now lead me to this
MacNeath person," said he. "I suppose we ought to be introduced, eh? Or
has he been told that I'm the Country Club leper?"
It was a sorely disappointed gallery that welcomed the
substitute--disappointed and amazed; but the few Bellevue members were
openly jubilant. They had reason to be, for word had been brought back
to them that Lounsberry and Crane were running away with their matches.
Between them and the cup they saw only a golfing novice, a junior member
without a war record. They immediately began offering odds of two to one
on the MacNeath-Phipps match; but there were no takers. The Dingbats
held a lodge of sorrow in the shade of the caddie house and mournfully
estimated their losses, while our feminine contingent showed signs of
retreating to the porch and spending the afternoon at bridge.
MacNeath was first on the tee--a tall, flat-muscled, athletic man of
forty; and, as the veteran was preparing to drive, Ambrose and
MacQuarrie held a whispered conversation.
"I'd like to grab some of that two to one," said the boy.
"Don't be foolish," counselled the canny Scot. "Ye'll have enough on
your mind wi'out makin' bets; an' for pity's sake, remember what I've
told ye--slow back, don't press, keep your head down, an' count three
before ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-rnin' an' ye've a grand
chance to win."
MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long,
well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silence
that was almost painful.
"Mighty pretty," said he with a careless nod at his opponent. "Hope I do
as well."
"Ye can," muttered old Dunn'l, "if ye'll keep your fool mouth shut an'
your eye on the ball!"
As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of the
gallery--a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his next
move--expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitude
of the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused for
an instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant ease
was gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. He
looked again at MacNeath's ball, a white speck far down the fairway.
MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head.
"Never mind that one!" he whispered to himself savagely. "Play the one
on the tee!"
Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot
to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He
seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to
the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly
stiffened in every muscle and joint--gone tense with the nervous strain.
He did manage to remember about the back swing--it was slow enough to
suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long
enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised
this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the
ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned
it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was
a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it
reached the bunker.
"Well, by the sweet and suffering----"
This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a
gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath
followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just
the thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face.
Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began
to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite
enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment:
"No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks.
Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was
a fizzer--a false alarm."
"Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw.
"Might just as well put _me_ in there against MacNeath! Fools!"
MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil.
"He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an'
he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Come
along, sir!"
I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried
in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie,
an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly
what his lunacy deserved--a much worse lie than before, close against
the bank--and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his
audience.
"What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four and
picked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to be _good_."