II

But for Cyril, I suppose the Major would have remained a chair warmer

indefinitely.

Cyril was the Major's nephew, doing a bit of globe trotting after

getting out of college, and he dropped in out of a clear sky, taking the

Major entirely by surprise. We heard later that all the Major said was,

"Bless me, it's Cyril, isn't it?"

Looking at the boy, you knew at once what the Major had been like at

twenty-five or thereabouts; so it goes without saying that Cyril was no

motion-picture type for beauty. He was tall and thin and gangling, his

feet were always in his way, his clothes did not fit him and would not

have fitted anything human, his cloth hats were really not hats at all

but speckled poultices, and he was as British as the unicorn itself. He

was almost painfully shy when among strangers, and blushed if any one

spoke to him; but his coming seemed to cheer the Major tremendously. It

hadn't occurred to me before, but I presume the D.O.S. had been lonely

for his kind. Cyril was his kind--no question about that--and the pair

of them held a love feast which lasted all of one afternoon. Waddles

witnessed this touching family reunion and told us about it afterward,

but it is likely he handled the truth in his usual nonchalant manner.

Waddles would never spoil a good story for the sake of mere accuracy.

"It was great stuff!" said he. "They sat out there on the porch and

gabbled terribly. A dumb man couldn't have got a word in edge-wise. The

Major was never at a loss for a topic of conversation. As fast as one

was exhausted he would look in his glass and say, 'Shan't we have

another, dear boy?' Friend Nephew never missed his cue once. 'Rawther!'

he'd say, or 'Right-oh!' Then the Major would hoist signals of distress

and make signs at the waiter. Oh, it was lovely to see them taking so

much comfort in each other's society--and so much nourishment."

"What I want to know is this," put in Jay Gilman: "Did it liven 'em up

any?"

"Not so you could notice it with the naked eye. For all the effect that

anybody could see, the stuff might just as well have been poured into a

pair of gopher holes. They went away at six o'clock, solemn and

dignified, loaded to capacity but not even listing the least bit from

the cargo they'd taken on. A lot of raw material wasted. That sort of

thing is inhuman--uncanny. It must be a gift that runs in

families--what?"

Before long we had a real sensation--the Major blossomed out into a

playing member. A mummy doing a song and dance wouldn't have created any

more excitement round the clubhouse. Even the caddies were talking about

it.

Sam broke the news to me while I was practising mid-iron shots on the

other side of the eighteenth green. Sam has carried my bag for years. He

is too old to be a caddie, too young to be a member of the Supreme

Court, and too wise for either job. He shoots the course in the

seventies every time he can dodge the greens keeper--play by employes

being strictly prohibited. He has forgotten more golf than I shall ever

know, and tries hard to conceal the superiority he feels, but never

quite makes the grade. You know the sort of caddie I mean--every club

has a few like Sam.

"There you go again! What did I tell you about playin' the ball too far

off your right foot? Stiffen up those wrists a bit--don't let 'em flop

so. Put some forearm into the shot, and never mind lookin' up to see

where the ball goes.... Say, that long, thin gentleman, him with the

nose and teeth--the one they call the Major, that sits on the porch so

much liftin' tall ones--I caddied for him this morning."

"You don't tell me so!"

"Yeh, I do. Sure! Him and his relative--the young fellah. Serial, ain't

it? Well, they was both out early this morning, the Major beefin' a

little about losin' his sleep, and sayin' he wouldn't make a fool of

himself for anybody else on earth; but after he connected with a few

shots he began to enjoy it and talk about what a lovely day it was goin'

to be. You know how it is: any weather looks good to you when your shots

are comin' off."

"Can he play at all?"

"Who, the Major? A shark, I tell you! That old boy has been a great

golfer in his day, and it wasn't so long ago neither. To look at him you

wouldn't think he had a full cleek shot in his system, but that's where

he'd fool you. What's more, he knows where it's goin' when he ties into

it. The young fellah plays a mighty sweet game--mighty sweet. He hits

everything clean and hard and right on the line, but give the Major a

few days' practise and he'll carry my small change every time. Knows

more golf than Serial--got more shots, and he's a whale with his irons.

He's a little wild with his wood off the tee--hooks too much and gets

into trouble--but when he straightens out that drive he'll have Serial

playin' the odd behind him. Say, it'd be great to get 'em both into the

Invitation Tournament, eh?"

Now our Invitation Tournament is the big show of the year in golfing

circles. Waddles sees to that. All members of the association are

eligible, but visitors have to have a card and an invitation as well.

Waddles always scans these visitors very closely, and if a man is known

as a cup hunter no amount of pressure can get him in. The Major, being a

member of the club, was automatically invited to participate, but Cyril

must be classed as a visitor.

I went to Waddles and told him what Sam had told me, suggesting that

here was the chance to coax the Major off the porch for good, and

perhaps get him onto the team later. I said that I thought it would be a

graceful thing to issue an invitation to Cyril without waiting for a

request from the Major.

"You poor fish!" said Waddles. "I was going to do that anyway. Do you

think I'm asleep all the time?"

That is the way with Waddles. He can catch an idea on the fly, and

before it settles he has adopted it as his own. He doesn't care a

brass-mounted continental who scared it up in the first place. Before it

lights it is his--all his. He said he didn't believe the Major was half

so good as his advance notices, and, as for the full cleek shot, he

pooh-poohed that part of the story entirely. Waddles has never mastered

the cleek, but he is a demon with a bulldog spoon or with a brassy.

"I'll do this thing--as a common courtesy to a member," said Waddles;

"but I'm not counting on the Major's golf. A man can't lay off for

months and come back playing any sort of a game."

So the invitation was issued in Cyril's name, and we went in search of

the Major. He was on the porch and Cyril was practising putts on the

clock green.

Waddles can be very formal and dignified and diplomatic when he wants to

be, and as a salve spreader he has few equals and no superiors. He pays

a compliment in such a bluff, hearty fashion that it carries with it an

air of absolute sincerity.

"Major," he began, "I can't tell you how delighted I am to hear that you

have taken up the game again. Aside from the pleasure, it is bound to

benefit your health."

"Eh?" said the Major, staring at Waddles intently. "Oh, yes! I'm feeling

quite well at present, thanks."

"And you'll feel better for taking exercise," continued Waddles. "We are

hoping that you will enter our Invitation Tournament next week. You'll

get a number of good matches, meet some charming people and make some

friends. Play begins on Wednesday."

"Ah!" said the Major.

"You can pick your own partner in the qualifying round." And here

Waddles brought out the envelope containing the invitation. "I thought

likely you might want to play with your nephew."

The Major took the envelope and opened it. After he had read the

inclosure he looked up at Waddles and smiled.

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said he. "Most kind. Cyril will appreciate

this.... Shan't we have a drink?"

"Can you beat him?" said Waddles to me when we were back in the lounging

room. "Just about as chummy as an oyster!"

"Either that or very inattentive," said I; "but just the same I think

he'll play. Cyril will persuade him."

"I don't care a whoop whether he plays or not," growled Waddles. "I hate

a man who can't loosen up and _talk_!"

"There is only one thing worse," said I, "and that is a man who talks

too much."

Waddles took my remark as personal and wolfed at me for half an hour.

Why is it that the man who has no consideration for your feelings is

always so confoundedly sensitive about his own?