Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was no
delay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There was
considerable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major to
the limit.
"You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injured
tone of voice.
"Make it a hundred if you want to," was Jay's come-back.
"Fifty is plenty, thanks."
"What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit on
the conversation!"
"Got you!" snapped Waddles.
He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him to
it. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch of
sand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamer
dead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then he
stepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled--actually
cackled like a hen.
"Do you know," said he, addressing Waddles--"I believe I've burst my
belt! Yes, I'm quite certain I have; but don't fear, old chap. I
sha'n't be indecent. I have braces on. Ho, ho, ho!"
Waddles paused with his mouth open. At first I thought he was going to
say something, but evidently nothing occurred to him, so he teed his
ball and took his stance.
"It was an old one," said the Major. "I've worn it for ages. Given me by
Freddy Fitzpatrick. Queer chap, Fitz.... You don't mind my babbling a
little, do you? Dare say I'm a bit nervous."
"Oh, not in the least," grunted Waddles, addressing his ball. He hit his
usual drive, with the usual result, but his ball was at least forty
yards short of the Major's.
"Very fortunate, sir!" bleated the Major, following Waddles from the
tee. "Blest if I see how you do it! Your form--you don't mind criticism,
old chap?--your form is wretchedly bad. Atrocious! Your swing is
cramped, your stance is awkward, yet somehow you manage to get over the
bunkers. Extraordinary, I call it. Some day you shall teach me the
stroke if you will, eh?"
Waddles didn't say a word. He tucked his chin down into his collar and
made tracks for his ball, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes. He
didn't seem to know what to make of this sudden flood of conversation.
The Major was with him every step of the way, blatting about his friend
Fitzpatrick.
"He had a stroke like yours, old Fitz. Frightfully crippled up with
rheumatism, poor chap! Abominable golfer! No form, no swing, but the
devil's own luck.... I say, what club shall you use next? I should take
a cleek, but you don't carry one, I've noticed. Too bad. Very useful
club, but it calls for a full, clean swing. You'd boggle a cleek
horribly.... You're taking a brassy? Quite right, old chap, quite right.
I should, too, if I couldn't depend on my irons."
Waddles waved the Major aside, and pulled off his shot; but it seemed to
me that he hurried the least little bit. Perhaps he was expecting
another outburst of language. His ball stopped ten yards short of the
putting green.
"Ah!" said the Major. "You stabbed at that one, dear boy. Old Fitz
stabbed his second shots too. Nervousness, I dare say; but you haven't
the look of a man with nerves. Rather beefy for that, I should think.
Tight match, and all. Too much food, perhaps. Never can tell, eh? Old
Fitz was a gross feeder too.... Now I'm going to take an iron, and if
you don't mind I wish you'd stand behind me and tell me how to shorten
my swing a bit. I'm inclined to play an iron too strong.... A little
farther over, if you please. I don't want you where I can see you, old
chap, but I sha'n't mind your talking."
The Major pulled his mid-iron out of the bag and Waddles obliged with a
steady stream of advice, not one item of which was heeded:
"Advance that left foot a little, and don't drop your shoulder so much!
Come back a bit slower, keep your eye on the ball, start your swing
higher up----"
At this point the blade of the mid-iron connected with the ball and sent
it sailing straight for the pin--a beautiful shot, and clean as a
whistle. A white speck bounded on the green and rolled past the hole.
"You see?" cried the Major. "Too strong--oh, much too strong!"
"You're up there for a putt!" snorted Waddles. "What did you expect--at
this distance?"
"With your assistance," continued the Major, ignoring Waddles' sarcasm,
"I shall shorten my swing. You've the shortest swing I've ever seen.
Shorter than poor old Fitz's. I'm sorry about that belt, but I sha'n't
be indecent. I have braces on--suspenders, I believe you call them." He
squinted at his ball as he advanced. "Too strong. Never mind. I dare say
I shall hole the putt.... You're taking a mashie next? Tricky
shot--very, especially on a fast green."
Waddles composed himself with a visible effort and really achieved a
very fine approach shot. The ball had the perfect line to the hole, but
was three feet short of the cup.
"Never up, never in!" cackled the Major, and proceeded to sink a
three--a nasty, twisting twelve-footer, and downhill at that. There was
a patter of applause from the gallery, started by Gilman and Cyril. The
Major marched to the second tee, babbling continually:
"I owe you an apology. Never had a three there before. Never shall
again. Stroke under par, isn't it? Not at all bad for a beginning.
Better luck next time. Wish I hadn't broken this belt. Puts me off my
shots."
"What do you mean--better luck next time?" demanded Waddles, but got no
response. The Major had switched to his friend Fitzpatrick, and was
chirping about rheumatism and gout and heaven knows what all. He stopped
talking just long enough to peel off another tremendous drive, and if he
had taken the ball in his hand and carried it out on the course he
couldn't have selected a better spot from which to play his second.
It was on this tee that Waddles tried to hand the Major's stuff back to
him, probably figuring that he could stand as much conversation as his
opponent, and last longer at the repartee. He began to tell the story of
the Scotch golfer and his collie dog, which is one of the best things he
does, but I noticed that when it came time for him to drive he grunted
as he hit the ball, and when Waddles grunts it is a sign that he is
calling up the reserves. He got the same old shot and the same old run,
and would have finished the same old story, but the Major horned in with
a long-winded reminiscence of his own, and the collie was lost in the
shuffle. Another animal was lost too--a goat belonging to Waddles. He
spoke sharply to his opponent before playing his second, and then sliced
a spoon shot deep into the rough.
"Ah, too bad!" chirruped the Major. "And the grass is quite deep over
there, isn't it? Now I shall use the mid-iron again, and you shall watch
and tell me about my swing--that is, if you don't mind, old chap."
Waddles didn't mind. He told the Major enough things to rattle a wooden
Indian, and just as the club had started to descend he raised his voice
sharply. It would have made me miss the ball entirely, but it seemed to
have no effect on the Major, who did not even flinch but lined one out
to the green.
Waddles wandered off into the rough, mumbling to his caddie. The third
shot was a remarkable one. He tore the ball out of the thick grass,
raised it high in the air and put it on the green, six feet from the
cup. The Major then laid his third shot stone-dead for a four. Waddles
still had a difficult putt to halve the hole, but while he was studying
the roll of the green the Major spoke up.
"I shan't ask you to putt that," said he. "I concede you a four."
Waddles stared at him with eyes that fairly bulged.
"You--what?" said he. "You give me this putt?"
The Major nodded and walked off the green. Waddles looked first at his
ball, then at the cup, and then at the crowd of spectators. At last he
picked up and followed, and a whisper ran through the gallery. The
general impression prevailed that conceding a six-foot putt at the
outset of an important match was nothing short of emotional insanity.
Of course since he had been offered a four on the hole Waddles could do
nothing but accept it gracefully--and begin wondering why on earth his
opponent had been so generous. I dare any golfer to put himself in
Waddles' place and arrive at a conclusion soothing to the nerves and the
temper. The most natural inference was that the Major held him cheaply,
pitied him, did not fear his game.
I thought this was what the old fellow was getting at, but it was not
until they reached the third putting green that I began to appreciate
the depth of the Major's cunning and the diabolical cleverness of his
golfing strategy.
Waddles had a two-foot putt to halve the third hole--a straight, simple
tap over a perfectly flat surface--the sort of putt that he can make
with his eyes shut, ninety-nine times out of the hundred. The Major had
already holed his four, and I knew by the careless manner in which
Waddles stepped up to his ball that he expected the Major to concede the
putt. It was natural for him to expect it, since he had already been
given a difficult six-footer.
Waddles stood there, waggling his putter behind the ball and waiting for
the Major to say the word, but the word did not come. This seemed to
irritate Waddles. He looked at the Major, and his expression said, plain
as print, "You don't really insist on my making this dinky little putt?"
It was all wasted, for the Major was regarding him with a fishy
stare--looking clear through him in fact. The expectant light faded out
of Waddles' eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and gave his attention to
the shot, examining every inch of the line to the cup. It seemed to be a
straight putt, but was it? Waddles took his lower lip in his teeth and
tapped the ball very gently. It ran off to the left, missing the cup by
at least three inches.
"Aha!" chuckled the Major. "You thought I would give you that one too,
eh? Old Fitz used to say, 'Give a man a hard putt and he'll miss an easy
one. After that he'll never be sure of anything.' Extraordinary how
often it happens just that way. Seems to have an unsettling effect on
the nerves. Tricky beggar, Fitz. Won the Duffers' Cup at Bombay by
conceding a twenty-foot putt on the sixteenth green. Opponent went all
to little pieces. Finished one down, with a fifteen on the last hole.
Queer game, golf!"
"Yes," said Waddles, breathing hard, "and a lot of queer people play it.
Your honour, sir."
The Major smacked out another long one, but Waddles, boiling inside and
scarcely able to see the ball, topped his tee shot and bounded into the
bunker.
"You see what it does," said the Major. "You were still thinking about
that putt. The effect on the nerves----"
"Oh, cut it out!" growled Waddles. "Play the game right if you're going
to play it at all! Your mouth is the best club in your bag!"
The Major did not resent this in the least; paid no attention in fact.
He toddled away, blatting intermittently about his friend Fitz, and
Waddles knocked half the sand out of the bunker before he finally
emerged, spitting gravel and adjectives. Sore was no name for it! He
lost the hole, of course, making him three down.
The rest of the contest was interesting, but only from a psychological
point of view. Evidently considering that he had a safe lead the Major
cut out the conversation and the horseplay and settled down to par golf.
There was no lack of talk, however, for Waddles erupted constantly.
Braced by the thought that he was annoying his opponent by these verbal
outbursts, he managed to halve four holes in a row, but on the ninth
green he missed another short putt. In the explosion that followed he
blew off his safety valve completely, and the rest of the match
degenerated into a riotous procession, so far as noise was concerned.
The thing I could not understand was that the Major held on the even
tenour of his way, unruffled and serene as a June morning. The louder
Waddles talked the better the old fellow seemed to like it. Never once
did he seem disturbed; never once did he hesitate on a shot. With calm,
mechanical precision he proceeded to go through Waddles like a cold
breeze, and the latter was so busy thinking up things to say that he
flubbed disgracefully, and was beaten on the thirteenth green, seven and
five.
Well, Waddles may have his faults, but losing ungracefully is not one of
them. He will fight you to the very last ditch, but once the battle is
over he declares peace immediately. He walked up to the Major and held
out his hand. He grinned, too, though I imagine it hurt his face to do
it.
"You're all right, Major!" said he. "You're immense! You licked me and
you made me like it. If I had your nerves--if I could concentrate on my
shots and not let anything bother me----"
Some one behind me laughed. It was Jay Gilman.
"It has been a pleasure, dear chap," said the Major. "A pleasure, I
assure you!"
* * * * *
Several of us had dinner at the club that night, Jay offering to give
the party because of the money he had won from Waddles. When the coffee
came on, America's representative in the finals attempted to explain his
defeat.
"The Major began the gab-fest," said Waddles. "He started off chattering
like a magpie and trying to rattle me, and naturally I went back at him
with the same stuff. Fair for one as for the other, eh? I'll admit that
he out-generalled me by giving me that putt on the second hole, but the
thing that finally grabbed my angora was his infernal concentration.
Never saw anything like it! Why, he actually asked me to stand behind
him and criticise his swing--while he was shooting, mind you? Asked me
to do it! And when I saw that he went along steady as the rock of
Gibraltar--well, I blew, that's all. I went to pieces. The thing reacted
on me. I'll bet that old rascal could listen to you all day long-and
never top a ball!"
"You'd lose that bet," said Jay quietly.
"How do you mean--lose it?" demanded Waddles, bristling. "I talked my
head off, and he didn't top any, did he?"
"No; and he didn't listen any, either. As a matter of fact, you could
have fired a cannon off right at his hip without making him miss a
shot."
"You don't mean to tell me----" said Waddles, gaping.
Jay laughed unfeelingly.
"You had a fat chance of talking the old Major out of anything!" said
he. "He hasn't advertised it much, because he's rather sensitive about
his affliction; but he's----"
"Deaf!" gulped Waddles.
"As a post," finished Jay.
Waddles' jaw dropped.
There was a long, painful silence.
Then Waddles crooked his finger at the waiter.
"Boy!" he called. "Bring me this dinner check!"