Of course you know the theory of the mixed foursome. There are four
players, two men and two women, and each couple plays one ball. It
sounds very simple. Miss Jones and Mr. Brown are partners. Miss Jones
drives, and it is up to Mr. Brown to play the next shot from where the
ball lies, after which Miss Jones takes another pop at the pill, and so
on until the putt sinks. Yes, it sounds like an innocent pastime, but of
all forms of golf the mixed foursome carries the highest percentage of
danger and explosive material. It is the supreme test of nerves and
temper, and the trial-by-acid of the disposition.
In our club there is an unwritten law that no wife shall be partnered
with her husband in a mixed-foursome match, because husbands and wives
have a habit of saying exactly what they think about each other--a
practise which should be confined to the breakfast table. There was a
case once--but let us avoid scandal. She has a new husband and he has a
new wife.
Waddles' mixed-foursome tournament was scheduled for a Thursday, and it
was amazing how many of the male members discovered that imperative
business engagements would keep them from participating in the contest.
The women were willing enough to play--they always are, bless 'em!--but
it was only after a vast amount of effort and Mexican diplomacy that
Waddles was able to lead six goats to the slaughter. Six, did I say?
Five. Russell Davidson needed no urging.
The man who gave Waddles the most trouble was Bill Hawley. Bill was
polite about it, but firm--oh, very firm. He didn't want any mixed
foursomes in his young life, thank you just the same. More than that, he
was busy. Waddles had to put it on the ground of a personal favour
before Bill showed the first sign of wavering.
When I arrived at the club on Thursday noon I found Waddles sweating
over the handicaps for his six couples. Now it is a cinch to handicap
two women or two men if they are to play as partners, but to handicap a
woman and a man is quite another matter, and all recognised rules go by
the board. I watched the old boy for some time, but I couldn't make head
or tail of his system. Finally I asked him how he handicapped a mixed
foursome.
"With prayer," said Waddles. "With prayer, and in fear and trembling.
And sometimes that ain't any good."
I noted that he had given Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson the lowest
mark--10. Beth Rogers and Bill Hawley were next with 16, and the other
couples ranged on upward to the blue sky.
"Of course," I suggested, "the low handicap is something of a
compliment, but haven't you slipped Davidson a bit the worst of it?"
"Not at all," growled Waddles. "He was just crazy to get into this
thing, and he wouldn't have been unless he figured to have a cinch;
consequently, hence and by reason of which I've given him a mark that'll
make him draw right down to his hand. He won't play any four-flush
here." Waddles then arranged the personnel of the foursomes, and jotted
down the order in which they would leave the first tee. When I saw which
quartette would start last I offered another suggestion.
"You're not helping Bill's game any," said I. "You know that he doesn't
like Davidson, and----"
Waddles stopped me with his frozen-faced, stuffed-owl stare. In deep
humiliation I confess that at the time I attributed it to his distaste
for criticism. I realise now that it must have been amazement at my
stupidity.
"Excuse me for living," said I with mock humility.
"There is no excuse," said Waddles heavily.
Bill turned up on the tee at the last moment, and if he didn't like the
company in which he found himself he masked his feelings very well.
"How do, Mary? Beth, this is a pleasure. How are you, Davidson? Ladies
first, I presume?"
"Drive, Miss Rogers," said Davidson.
Now a fluffy blonde is all right, I suppose, if she wears a hair net.
Beth doesn't, and her golden aureole would make a Circassian woman
jealous. Still, there are people who think Beth is a beauty. I more than
half suspect that Beth is one of them. Beth drove, and the ball plumped
into the cross bunker.
"Oh, partner!" she squealed. "Can you ever forgive me?"
"That's all right," Bill assured her. "I've often been in there myself.
Takes a good long shot to carry that bunker."
"It's perfectly dear of you to say so!"
"Fore!" said Mary, who was on the tee, and the conversation ceased.
"Better shoot to the left," advised Russell, "and go round the end of
the bunker."
Mary stopped waggling her club to look at him. If there is anything in
which the female of the golfing species takes sinful pride it is the
length of her drive. She likes to stand up on a tee used by the men and
smack the ball over the cross bunker. She wouldn't trade a
two-hundred-yard drive for twenty perfect approach shots. She may be a
wonder on the putting green, but she offers herself no credit for that.
It is the long tee shot that takes her eye--the drive that skims the
bunker and goes on up the course. Waddles says the proposition of sex
equality has a bearing on the matter, but I claim that it is just
ordinary, everyday pride in being able to play a man's game, man
fashion.
Coming from a total stranger, that suggestion about driving to the left
would have been regarded as a deadly insult; coming from Russell----
"But I think I can carry it," said Mary with a tiny pout.
"Change your stance and drive to the left." The suggestion had become a
command.
"Fore!" said Mary again--and whacked the ball straight into the
bunker--straight into the middle of it.
"Now, you see?" Russell was aggravated, and showed it. "If you had
changed your stance and put that ball somewhere to the left you might
have given me a chance to reach the green. As it is----"
He was still enlarging upon her offence as they moved away from the tee.
Mary did not answer him, but she gave Beth a bright smile, as much as to
say, "What care I?" Bill trailed along in the rear, juggling a niblick,
his homely face wiped clean of all expression.
There wasn't much to choose between the second shots--both lies were
about as bad as could be--but Russell got out safely and Bill
duplicated the effort.
Beth then elected to use her brassy, and sliced the ball into the long
grass. Of course she had to wail about it.
"Isn't that just too maddening? Partner, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't you care," grinned Bill. "That's just my distance with a mashie.
And as for long grass, I dote on it."
Mary was taking her brassy out of the bag when Russell butted in
again--with excellent advice, I must confess.
"You can't reach the green anyway," said he, "so take an iron and keep
on the course."
There was a warning flash in Mary's eye which a wiser man would not have
ignored.
"Remember you've got a partner," urged Russell. "Take an iron, there's a
good girl."
"Oh, Russell! Do be still; you fuss me so!"
"But, my dear! I'm only trying to help----"
The swish of the brassy cut his explanation neatly in two, and the ball
went sailing straight for the distant flag--a very pretty shot for any
one to make.
"Oh, a peach!" cried Bill. "A peach!"
"And you," said Mary, turning accusingly to Russell, "you wanted me to
take an iron!"
"Because you can keep straighter with an iron," argued Davidson.
"Wasn't that ball straight enough to please you?" asked Mary with just a
touch of malice.
"You had luck," was the ungracious response, "but it doesn't follow that
all your wooden-club shots will turn out as well. The theory of the
mixed foursome is to leave your partner with a chance to hit the ball."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Beth. "Now you're making me feel like a criminal!"
"Lady," said Bill, "if I don't mind, why should you?"
"I think you're an angel!" gushed Beth.
"Yep," replied Bill, "I am; but don't tell anybody."
While Mary and Russell were discussing the theory of the mixed foursome
old Bill made a terrific mashie shot out of the grass, and the ball
reached the edge of the green. Beth applauded wildly, Mary chimed in,
but Davidson did not open his mouth. He was irritated, and made no
secret of it, but his irritation did not keep him from dropping the next
shot on the putting green.
Bill didn't even blink when Beth took her putter and overran the hole by
ten feet. Beth said she knew he'd never, never speak to her again in
this world, and she couldn't blame him if he didn't.
"Well," said Bill cheerfully, "you gave the ball a chance, anyhow.
That's the main thing. It's better to be over than short."
"You're a perfect dear!" said Beth. "I'll do better--see if I don't."
Mary then prepared to putt, Russell's approach having left her twelve
feet short of the hole. "And be sure to get it there," cautioned her
partner. "It's uphill, you know. Allow for it."
Mary bit her lip and hit the grass an inch behind the ball. It rolled
something less than four feet.
"Hit the ball! Hit the ball!" snapped Russell angrily. "What's the
matter with you to-day?"
Mary apologised profusely--probably to keep Russell quiet; and she
laughed too--a dry, hard little laugh that didn't have any fun in it.
Bill glared at Davidson for an instant, and his mouth opened, but he
swallowed whatever impulse was troubling him, and carefully laid his
ball on the lip of the cup for a two-inch putt that not even Beth could
have missed. Russell then holed his long one, which seemed to put him in
a better humour, and the men started for the second tee. In mixed
foursomes the drive alternates.
Mary and Beth took the short cut used by the caddies, and I followed
them at a discreet distance. Mary babbled incessantly about everything
in the world but golf, which was her way of conveying the impression
that nothing unusual had happened; and Beth, womanlike, helped her out
by pretending to be deeply interested in what Mary was saying. And yet
they tell you that if women could learn to bluff they would make good
poker players!
As I waited for the men to drive I thought of the Mary Brooke I used to
know--the leggy little girl with her hair in pigtails--and I remembered
that in those days she would stand just so much teasing from the boys,
and then somebody would be slapped--hard. Had she changed so much, I
wondered?
On the third hole Russell began nagging again, and Bill's face was a
study. For two cents I think he would have choked him. Mary tried to
carry it off with a smile, but it was a weak effort. Nothing but
absolute obedience and recognition of his right to give orders would
satisfy Russell.
"It's no use your telling me now that you're sorry," he scolded after
Mary had butchered a spoon shot on Number Three. "You won't take advice
when it's offered. I told you not to try that confounded spoon. A spoon
is no club for a beginner."
Mary gasped.
"But--I'm not a beginner! I've been playing ever and ever so long! And I
like that spoon."
"I don't care what you like. If we win this thing you must do as I say."
"Oh! So that's it--because you want to win?"
"What do you think I entered for--exercise? Nothing to beat but a lot of
dubs--and you're not even trying!"
"Bill is no dub." Mary flared up a bit in defence of her old friend.
"Ho!" sneered Russell. "So you call him Bill, do you?"
I lost the thread of the conversation there because Mary lowered her
voice, but she must have told the young man something for the good of
his soul. Anyway he was in a savage frame of mind when he stepped on the
fourth tee. He wanted to quarrel with some one, but it wouldn't have
been healthy to pick on old Bill, and Russell probably realised it. Bill
hadn't spoken to him since the first hole, and to be thus calmly ignored
was fresh fuel on a smouldering fire.
There was another explosion on Number Four--such a loud one that
everybody heard it.
"There you go again!" snarled Russell. "I give you a perfect drive--I
leave you in a position where all you have to do is pop a little mashie
over a bunker to the green--and see what a mess you've made of it! I'm
sorry I ever entered this fool tournament!"
"I'm sorry too," said Mary quietly, and walked away from him leaving him
fuming.
It must have been an uncomfortable situation for Beth and Bill. They
kept just as far away from the other pair as they could--an exhibition
of delicacy which I am sure Mary appreciated--and pretended not to hear
the nasty things Russell said, though there were times when Bill had to
hide his clenched fists in his coat pockets. He wanted to hit
something, and hit it hard, so he took it out on the ball, with
excellent results. And no matter what Beth did or did not do Bill never
had anything for her but a cheery grin and words of encouragement. They
got quite chummy, those two, and once or twice I thought I surprised
resentment in Mary's eye. I may have been mistaken.
Russell grew more rabid as the round proceeded, possibly because Mary's
manner was changing. After the seventh hole, where Russell said it was a
waste of time to try to teach a woman anything about the use of a wooden
club, Mary made not the slightest attempt to placate him. She
deliberately ignored his advice, and did it smilingly. She became very
gay, and laughed a great deal--too much, in fact--and of course her
attitude did not help matters to any appreciable extent. A bully likes
to have a victim who cringes under the lash.
The last nine was painful, even to a spectator, and if Russell Davidson
had been blessed with the intelligence which God gives a goose he would
have kept his mouth shut; but no, he seemed determined to force Mary to
take some notice of his remarks. The strangest thing about it was that
some fairly good golf was played by all hands. Even fuzzy-headed little
Beth pulled off some pretty shots, whereupon Bill cheered uproariously.
I think he found relief in making a noise.
While they were on the seventeenth green I spied old Waddles against
the skyline, cutting off the entire sunset, and I climbed the hill to
tell him the news. You may believe it or not, but up to that moment I
had overlooked Waddles entirely. I had been stupid enough to think that
the show I had been witnessing was an impromptu affair--a thing of pure
chance, lacking a stage manager. Just as I reached the top of the hill,
enlightenment came to me--came in company with Mary's laugh, rippling up
from below. At a distance it sounded genuine. A shade of disappointment
crossed Waddles' wide and genial countenance.
"So it didn't work," said he. "It didn't work--and I'm sixteen dollars
to the bad. Hey! Quit pounding me on the back! Anybody but a born ass
would have known the whole thing was cooked up for Mary's benefit--and
you've just tumbled, eh? Now then, what has he done?"
Briefly, and in words of one syllable, I sketched Russell's activities.
Waddles wagged his head soberly.
"Treated her just the same as if he was already married to her, eh? A
mixed foursome is no-o-o place for a mean man; give him rope enough and
he'll hang himself. How do they stand?"
I had not been keeping the score, so we walked down the hill to the
eighteenth tee.
"Pretty soft for you folks," said Waddles with a disarming grin.
"Pretty soft. You've only got to beat a net 98."
"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell snatched a score card from
his pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left his
face; his eyes sparkled; he smiled.
"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that--84. Why--it's a
cinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!"
"And you?" asked Waddles, turning to Bill.
"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's their
handicap?"
"Sixteen," answered Waddles.
"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to be
interesting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here.
Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Go
straight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three."
Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles--Waddles, with his
lip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cup
hunters and winter members who try to hog the course.
Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summit
of the hill.
"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we've
got 'em licked!"
Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots--two hundred
pounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind the
pill--and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, and
at every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ball
straight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as he
offered it. I never saw a man change so in a short space of time.
"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tiny
bit better----"
"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between
friends?"
"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling
silver, you poor cow!"
Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our
last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is
paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom
of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and
heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is
almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair
green there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball may
easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution.
"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we
need is a six."
"Boy," said Mary, addressing the caddie, "my brassy, please."
"Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me.
We've got this thing won now----"
"Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but most
men do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back,
stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings--four of
them. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing career
depended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club head
descended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followed
through beautifully--but at the click of contact a strangled howl of
anguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the rounded
toe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result was
a flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green--a
wretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. By
running at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as it
bounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled--the first
real smile of the afternoon.
"Isn't that provoking?" said she.
Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must have
been all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows and
half buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothing
short of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill.
Even Waddles applauded the shot.
Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked the
burs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers.
"Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means a
possible five--a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake,
Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to lay
the ball dead!"
Waddles sniffed.
"He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was Mary
Brooke----Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot at
it with that brassy!"
But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, he
entreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath.
"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice this
one. You watch me." She kept her promise--kept it with a savage hook,
which sailed clear across the course and into the thick grass. The ball
carried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, and
disappeared without even a bounce.
"That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a foot
deep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away."
Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar,
lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the putting
green, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough and
relieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit,
however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore through
that tangle of thick grass, cut under the ball and sent it spinning high
in the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green.
We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our reward
was a black scowl, which we shared with Mary.
"Lay it up!" said he curtly. "A seven may tie 'em. Lay it up!"
By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of the
match. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studied
the shot. It was an absurdly simple one--a 30-foot approach over a level
green, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then if
Beth missed her ten-footer----
"It's fast," warned Russell. "It's fast, so don't hit it too hard!"
Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly a
gasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watching
Russell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicate
shade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skate
merrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterward
expressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before it
stopped.
Mary ignored the polite murmur of sympathy from the gallery.
"Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'm
afraid you're away."
Waddles pinched my arm.
"Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? She
threw him down--threw him down cold!"
Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a noble effort to hole the
putt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ball
within three inches of the cup.
"Put it down!" grunted Russell. "Sink it--and let's get it done with!"
Bill tapped the ball into the hole, and the match was over.
"Why--why," stuttered Beth, "then--we've _won_!"
At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one more
exchange of remarks between the losers as they started for the
clubhouse.
"We had it won--if you'd only listened to me----" Russell began.
"Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you all
the afternoon--listening and learning!"
* * * * *
That very same evening I was sitting on my front porch studying the
stars and meditating upon the mutability of human relationships.
A familiar runabout drew up at the Brooke house, and a young man passed
up the walk, moving with a stiff and stately stride. In exactly twelve
minutes and thirty-two seconds by my watch the young man came out again,
bounced down the steps, jumped into his car, slammed the door with a
bang like a pistol shot, and departed from the neighbourhood with a
grinding and a clashing of gears which might have been heard for half a
mile.
The red tail light had scarcely disappeared down the street when big
Bill Hawley lumbered across the Brooke lawn, took the front steps at a
bound and rang the doorbell.
Not being of an inquisitive and a prying nature, I cannot be certain how
long he remained, but at 11:37 I thought I heard a door close, and
immediately afterward some one passed under my window whistling loudly
and unmelodiously. The selection of the unknown serenader was that
pretty little thing which describes the end of a perfect day.
"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR"
I
The front porch of our clubhouse is a sort of reserved-seat section from
which we witness the finish of all important matches. The big wicker
rocking-chairs command the eighteenth putting green, as well as the
approach to it, and when nothing better offers we watch the dub
foursomes come straggling home, herding the little white pills in front
of them.
We were doing this only yesterday--Waddles, the Bish and yours
truly--and Waddles was picking the winners and losers at a distance of
three hundred yards. The old rascal is positively uncanny at that sort
of thing; in fact, he rather prides himself on his powers of
observation. The Bish was arguing with him, as usual. Of course he isn't
really a bishop, but he has a long, solemn ecclesiastical upper lip and
a heavy manner of trundling out the most commonplace remarks, so we call
him the Bish, and there is nothing he can do about it. In justice to all
parties concerned I feel it my duty to state that in every other way he
is quite unlike any bishop I have ever met.
"Hello!" said Waddles, sitting up straight. "Here's the Old
Guard--what's left of it, at least."
Away down to the right of the sycamore trees a single figure topped the
brow of the hill and stalked along the sky line. There was no mistaking
the long, thin legs or the stiff swing with which they moved.
"Walks like a pair of spavined sugar tongs," was Waddles' comment. "You
can tell Pete Miller as far as you can see him."
A second figure shot suddenly into view--the figure of a small, nervous
man who brandished a golf club and danced from sheer excess of emotion,
but even at three hundred yards it was evident that there was no joy in
that dance. Waddles chuckled.
"Bet you anything you like," said he, "that Sam Totten sliced his tee
shot into the apricot orchard. He's played about four by now--and
they're cutthroating it on the drink hole, same as they always do....
About time for Jumbo to be putting in an appearance."
While he was speaking a tremendous form loomed large on the sky line,
dwarfing Miller and Totten. Once on level ground this giant struck a
rolling gait and rapidly overhauled his companions--overhauled them in
spite of two hundred and sixty pounds and an immense paunch which
swayed from side to side as he walked.
"Little Jumbo," said Waddles, sinking back in his chair. "Little Jumbo,
with his bag of clubs tucked under his left arm--one driver and all of
three irons. He carries that awful load because his doctor tells him he
ought to reduce. And he eats four pieces of apple pie a la mode with his
lunch. But a fine old fellow at that.... Well, I notice it's still a
threesome."
"Notice again," said the Bish, pointing to the left of the sycamores.
Waddles looked, and rose from his chair with a grunt of amazement. A
fourth figure came dragging itself up the slope of the hill--the
particular portion of the slope of the hill where the deepest trouble is
visited upon a sliced second shot. Judging by his appearance and manner
this fourth golfer had been neck-deep in grief, to say nothing of cactus
and manzanita. His head was hanging low on his breast, his shoulders
were sagging, his feet were shuffling along the ground, and he trailed a
golf club behind him. When a man trails a club to the eighteenth putting
green it is a sure sign that all is over but the shouting; and the wise
observer will do his shouting in a whisper. Waddles sat down suddenly.
"Well, as I live and breathe and run the Yavapai Golf and Country Club!"
he ejaculated, "there's my old friend, Mr. Peacock, with all his tail
feathers pulled out! The deserter has joined the colours again, and the
Old Guard is recruited to full war strength once more! They've actually
taken him back, after the way he's acted, too! Now what do you think of
that, eh?"
"If you ask me," said the Bish in his booming chest notes, "I'd say it
was just a case of _similia similibus curantur_."
"Nothing of the sort!" said Waddles, bristling instantly; "and besides,
I don't know what you mean. Bish, when you cut loose that belly barytone
of yours you always remind me of an empty barrel rolling down the cellar
stairs--a lot of noise, but you never spill anything worth mopping up.
Come again with that foreign stuff."
"_Similia similibus curantur_," repeated the Bish. "That's Latin."
Waddles shook his head.
"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. While
you were hog-wrastling Caesar's Commentaries I was down in the Indian
Territory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. I
learned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as I
got. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plain
unvarnished United States."
"Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction,
"that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite."
"The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "The
hair--of--the--dog.... H'm-m."
"Oh, it's deep stuff," said the Bish. "Take a good long breath and dive
for it."
"The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," said
Waddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn't
drink."
The Bish made use of a very unorthodox expletive.
"Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something cured
him. Think it over."
Slowly the light of intelligence dawned in Waddles' eyes. He began to
laugh inwardly, quivering like a mould of jelly, but the joke was too
big to remain inside him. It burst forth, first in chuckles, then in
subdued guffaws, and finally in whoops and yells, and as he whooped he
slapped his fat knees and wallowed in his chair.
"Why," he panted, "I saw it all the time--of course I did! It was just
your fool way of putting it! The hair of the dog--oh, say, that's rich!
Make a note of that Latin thing, Bish. I want to spring it on the
Reverend Father Murphy!"
"Certainly--but where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"Me?" said Waddles. "I'm going to do something I've never done before.
I'm going to raise a man's handicap from twelve to eighteen!"
He went away, still laughing, and I looked over toward the eighteenth
green. Pete Miller was preparing to putt, Sam Totten and Jumbo were
standing side by side, and in the background was Henry Peacock, his
hands in his pockets, his cap tilted down over his eyes and his lower
lip entirely out of control. His caddie was already on the way to the
shed with the bag of clubs.
"From twelve handicap to eighteen," said I. "That's more or less of an
insult. Think he'll stand for it?"
"He'll stand for anything right now," said the Bish. "Look at him! He's
picked up his ball--on the drink hole too. Give him the once
over--'mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream!'"