IV

Our team veterans did not lack sympathetic encouragement on the last

nine holes, and all four matches tightened up to such an extent that we

wavered between hope and fear until Crane's final putt on the

seventeenth green dropped us into the depths of despair.

Gilmore, setting the pace with Jordan, gave us early encouragement by

maintaining a safe lead throughout and winning his match, 3 to 2. First

blood was ours, but the period of rejoicing was a short one; for the

deliberate Lounsberry, approaching and putting with heartbreaking

accuracy, disposed of Bishop on the seventeenth green.

"One apiece," said Doc Pinkinson. "Now what's Elder doing?"

The Elder-Smathers match came to Number Seventeen all square; but our

man ended the suspense by dropping a beautiful mashie pitch dead to the

pin from a distance of one hundred yards. Smathers' third shot also

reached the green; but his long putt went wide and Elder tapped the ball

into the cup, adding a second victory to our credit.

"It's looking better every minute!" chirped the irrepressible Doc

Pinkinson. "Now if Moreman can lick his man we're all hunky-dory. If he

loses--good-a-by, cup! No use figuring on that red-headed snipe of a

kid. MacNeath has sent him to the cleaner's by now, sure!"

The gallery waited at the seventeenth green, watching in anxious silence

as Crane and Moreman played their pitch shots over the guarding bunker.

Both were well on in threes; but the Bellevue caddie impudently held his

forefinger in the air as a sign that his man was one up. Moreman made a

good try, but his fourth shot stopped a few inches from the cup; and

Crane, after studying the roll of the green for a full minute, dropped a

forty-foot putt for a four--and dropped our spirits with it.

"That settles it!" wheezed Daddy Bradshaw. "No need to bother about that

other match.... Oh, if Anderson was so set on breaking his leg, why

didn't he wait till to-morrow?"

"Then he could have busted 'em both," remarked the unfeeling Pinkinson,

"and nobody would have said a word. Might's well pay those bets, I

reckon. We got as much chance as that snowball they're always talking

about. If it didn't melt, somebody would eat it."

He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on the

skyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first one

was tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, and

even at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger.

"Hello!" ejaculated Pinkinson. "Ain't that MacNeath and the kid, going

to Sixteen? It is, by golly! D'you reckon they're playing out the bye

holes just for fun--or what?"

"It can't be anything else," said Bradshaw. "The boy couldn't have

carried him that far."

Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, very

much out of breath.

"Mister Phipps says--if you want to see--some reg'lar golf--you'd

better catch the finish--of his match. He says--bring all the gang with

you."

"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean that

they're still playing?"

"Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when I

left 'em."

All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various

groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the

clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All

square? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holding

MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the

doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement

backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an

objective point.

It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the

contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised

and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There

was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some

mysterious wireless of their own devising.

"MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddy

has got to sink this one."

Ambrose's ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took one

look at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without an

instant's hesitation--a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance to

waver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarrie

himself could not have shown more confidence. MacNeath's caddie replaced

the flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved them

back and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answered

the question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter of

applause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at us

with a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me.

He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign of

nervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he stepped

forward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, and

got off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he did

not raise his head until the ball was well down the course.

"He's countin' three before he looks up!" whispered a voice in my ear;

and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth,

and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can never

express in words.

"Then he's really been playing good golf?" I asked.

"Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It's a dingdong match, an' just a

question which one will crack fir-rst."

MacNeath's drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under the

strain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the machinelike

precision of the veteran golfer--stance, swing and follow-through

standardised by years of experience.

Our seventeenth hole is a long one, par 5, and the approach to the

putting green is guarded by an embankment, paralleled on the far side by

a wide and treacherous sand trap, put there to encourage clean mashie

pitches. The average player cannot reach the bunker on his second, much

less carry the sand trap on the other side of it; but the long drivers

sometimes string two tremendous wooden-club shots together and reach the

edge of the green. More frequently they get into trouble and pay the

penalty for attempting too much.

The two balls were close together; but Ambrose's shot was the longer one

by a matter of feet, and it was up to MacNeath to play first. Would he

gamble and go for the green, or would he play short and make sure of a

five? The veteran estimated the distance, looked carefully at his lie,

and then pulled an iron from his bag. Instantly I knew what was passing

in his mind--sensed his golfing strategy: MacNeath intended to place his

second shot short of the bunker, in the hope that Ambrose would be

tempted into risking the long, dangerous wooden-club shot across to the

green.

"Aha!" whispered MacQuarrie. "The old fox! He'll not take a chance

himself, but he wants the lad to take one. '"Will ye walk into my

parlour!" says the spider to the fly.' Ay; that's just it--will he,

now?"

Ambrose gave us no time for suspense. MacNeath's ball had hardly stopped

rolling before his decision was made--and a sound one at that! He

whipped his mid-iron from the bag.

"'Fraid I'll have to fool you, old chap," said he airily. "You wanted me

to go for the green--eh, what? Well, I hate to disappoint you; but I

can't gamble in an even game--not when the kitty is a sand trap....

Ride, you little round rascal; ride!"

The last remark was addressed to the ball just before the blade of the

mid-iron flicked it from the grass. Again there were two white specks in

the distance, lying side by side. If MacNeath was disappointed he did

not show it, but tramped on down the course, silent as usual and

absorbed in the game. Both took fives on the hole, missing long putts;

and the battle was still all square.

Our home hole is a par 4--a blind drive and an iron pitch to the green;

and the vital shot is the one from the tee. It must go absolutely

straight and high enough to carry the top of the hill, one hundred and

forty yards away. To the right is an abrupt downward slope, ending in a

deep ravine. To the left, and out of sight from the tee, is a wide sand

trap, with the father of all bunkers at its far edge. The only safe ball

is the one that sails over the direction post.

Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ball

had the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, I

thought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead of

that, it seemed to duck in flight, caught the hard face of the incline,

and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which broke

all our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in the

sand trap.

"Hard luck!" said MacNeath; and I think he really meant to be

sympathetic.

Ambrose looked at him as a bulldog might look at a mastiff.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that!" he answered, rather stiffly. "I like to play

my second shot from over there."

"You're welcome!" said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture by

poling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction post

and went sailing on up the plateau toward the clubhouse.

No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled up

the hill I tried to say something hopeful.

"He may have stopped short of the trap."

"Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in--up to

his neck."

Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful

statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper

distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I

swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in

and what sort of a lie it had found.

"Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away from

the wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft to

it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's just

possible."

"But not probable," said I. "What on earth is he waiting for?"

Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from

the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette.

"You don't mind if I study this situation a bit?" said he to MacNeath.

"Take your time," said the veteran.

"Because I wouldn't want to use the wrong club here," continued Ambrose.

The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red

head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a

glimpse of me and beckoned.

"How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?" he asked.

"All even--two matches to two."

"That," said Ambrose after a thoughtful pause, "seems to put it up to

me."

At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for his

bag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; but

Ambrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but a

hundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club--out of a trap?

Suicide! Sheer suicide! An iron might give him a fighting chance to

halve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club in

the boy's hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said something

of the sort to MacQuarrie.

"Sh-h!" he whispered. "Yon's a baffy. I made it for him."

"What's a baffy?"

"Well, it's just a kind of an exaggerated bulldog spoon--ye might almost

call it a wooden mashie, wi' a curvin' sole on it. It's great for

distance. The lie is good, the wind's behind him, an' if he can only hit

it clean--clean!----Oh, ye little red devil, keep your head down--keep

your head down an' hit it clean!"

I shall never forget the picture spread out along the edge of that green

plateau--the red-headed stocky youngster in the sand trap taking his

stance and whipping the clubhead back and forth; MacNeath coolly leaning

on his driver and smiling over a match already won; the two caddies in

the background, one sneeringly triumphant, the other furiously angry;

the rim of spectators, motionless, hopeless.

Everybody was watching Ambrose, and I think Old MacQuarrie was the only

onlooker who was not absolutely certain that the choice of a wrong club

was throwing away our last slender chance.

When the tension was almost unbearable the redhead turned and grinned at

MacNeath.

"I suppose you'd shoot this with an iron," said he; "but the baffy is a

great club--if you've got the nerve to use it."

Ambrose settled his feet firmly in the sand, craned his neck for a final

look at the flag, two hundred yards away, dropped his chin on his chest,

waggled the clubhead over the ball, and then swung with every ounce of

strength in his sturdy body. I heard a sharp click, saw a tiny feather

of sand spurt into the air, and against the blue sky I caught a glimpse

of a soaring white speck, which went higher and higher until I lost it

altogether. The next thing I knew, the spectators were cheering,

yelling, screaming; and some one was hammering me violently between the

shoulder blades. It was the unemotional Dunn'l MacQuarrie, gone

completely daft with excitement.

"Oh, man!" he cried. "He picked it up as clean as a whistle, an' he's on

the green--on the green!"

"Told you that was a sweet little club!" said Ambrose as he climbed out

of the trap. "Takes nerve to use one though. On the green, eh? Well, I

guess that'll hold you for a while."

His prediction soon had a solid backing of fact. MacNeath, the iron man,

the dependable Number One, the match player without nerves, was not

proof against a miracle. Ambrose's phenomenal recovery had shaken the

veteran to the soles of his shoes.

MacNeath's second shot was an easy pitch to the green, but he lingered

too long over it; the blade of his mashie caught the turf at least three

inches behind the ball and shot it off at an angle into the thick, long

grass that guards the eighteenth green. He was forced to use a heavy

niblick on his third; but the ball rolled thirty feet beyond the pin. He

tried hard for the long putt, but missed, and picked up when Ambrose

laid his third shot on the lip of the cup.

By the most fortunate fluke ever seen on a golf course our little red

Ishmael had won for us the permanent possession of the Edward B. Wimpus

Trophy.

MacNeath was game. He picked up his ball with the left hand and offered

his right to Ambrose. "Well done!" said he.

"Thanks!" responded Ambrose. "Guess I kind of jarred you with that baffy

shot. It's certainly a dandy club in a pinch. Better let MacQuarrie make

you one."

MacNeath swallowed hard and nearly managed a smile.

"It wasn't the club," said he. "It was just burglar's luck. You couldn't

do it again in a thousand years!"

"Maybe not," replied the victor; "but when you get back to Bellevue you

tell all the dear chappies there that I got away with it once--got away

with it the one time when it counted!"

At this point the gallery closed in and overwhelmed young Mr. Phipps.

Inside of a minute he heard more pleasant things about himself than had

come to his ears in a lifetime. He did not dispute a single statement

that was made; nor did he discount one by so much as the deprecating

lift of an eyebrow. For once in his life he agreed with everybody. In

the stag celebration that followed--with the Edward B. Wimpus Cup in the

middle of the big round table--he was easily induced to favour us with a

few brief remarks. He informed us that tin cups were nothing in his

young life, club spirit was nothing, but that gameness was

everything--and the cheering was led by the Dingbats!

* * * * *

Now you know why we feel that we owe Ambrose something; and, if I am any

judge, that debt will be paid with heavy interest. Dunn'l MacQuarrie is

also a winner. He has booked so many orders for baffles that he is now

endeavouring to secure the services of a first-class club maker.

As Ambrose often tells us, the baffy is a sweet little club to have in

the bag--provided, of course, you have the nerve to use it.