IV

One week ago last Saturday, Sam Totten staged his annual show. Totten

Day is ringed with red on all calendars belonging to Class-B golfers. It

is the day when men win cups who never won cups before. All Class-A men

are barred; it is strictly a Class-B party. Those with handicaps from

twelve to twenty-four are eligible, and there are cups for all sorts of

things--the best gross, the best first nine, the best second nine, the

best score with one hole out, the best score with two holes out, and so

on. Sam always buys the big cup himself--the one for the best gross

score--and he sandbags his friends into contributing at least a dozen

smaller trophies. The big cup is placed on exhibition before play

begins, but the others, as well as the conditions of award, remain under

cover, thus introducing the element of the unexpected. The conditions

are made known as the cups are awarded and the ceremony of presentation

is worth going a long way to see and a longer way to hear.

On Totten Day three of us were looking for a fourth man, and we

encountered Henry Peacock, in his chronic state of loneliness. The Bish

is sometimes a very secretive person, but he might have spared my

feelings by giving me a hint of his intentions. Henry advanced on us,

expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, but convinced that there was no

harm in the asking. He used the threadbare formula:

"Any vacancy this afternoon, gentlemen?"

"Why, yes!" said the Bish. "Yes, we're one man short. Want to go round

with us?"

Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell all

over himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time would

suit him--just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he would

be at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of the

players, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was a

twelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not.

Yes, anything would suit him--and he scuttled away toward the

dining-room.

I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listened

without so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip.

"All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. I

took him in with us because this is Totten Day."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. If

he tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. I

want to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts and

has his card turned in."

"But you don't want that old stiff to win a cup, do you?"

"I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it.

That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is a

frightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kicking

about? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, and

you can have Dale."

When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple of

subdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken into

Class-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten,

Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Sam

was acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodson

who came forward and patted Henry on the back.

"Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get another

eighty-two!"

"I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"--here he

addressed Henry--"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we go

along. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can."

"I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I need

pointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated."

"That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back and

almost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount to

anything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!"

Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one of

his justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made room

for Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interest

shown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henry

change his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ball

entirely, topping it into the bunker.

"Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, taking

Henry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot."

Arriving at the bunker Henry armed himself with his niblick.

"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can't

you play your jigger at all?"

"My jigger!" exclaimed Henry. "But--it's a niblick shot, isn't it?"

"That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a good

lie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it up

clean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball."

Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get away

with it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dub

like Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting under

instructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit the

sand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely.

"Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-class

excavating. Scoop her out with the niblick."

Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassy

wall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged.

"Now your wood," said he.

"But I play a cleek better."

"Nonsense! Take a good hard poke at it with the brassy!"

And poke it he did--a nasty slice into rough grass.

"I could have kept it straight with an iron," said Henry reproachfully.

"Well, of course," said the Bish, "if you don't want me to advise

you----"

"But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine

how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!"

"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels.

By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that

first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he

could do better than that.

"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you,

Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn

there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny."

"Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now."

"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get

something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen

competition--and advice."

Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and the

advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone

with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself,

nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots.

If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If

he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in

nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all

putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the

extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum.

"He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?"

I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing out

of that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the first

time since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of the

scores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head--and when

you find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's score

would have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and double

figures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottom

of the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots he

amassed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleated

plaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised him

to put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on his

shots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone,

but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrate

on anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the last

hole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades.

"You'll be all right, Peacock, if you just remember what I've told you.

The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendency

to underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of getting

too much distance."

"I--I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all you

gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you again

soon--er--quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything you

can tell me----"

Henry continued to babble and the Bish drew me aside.

"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talk

to him about his game--anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep him

there!"

Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard him

demanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail.

* * * * *

The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usual

ceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms,

escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selecting

an obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but when

the jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke of

needing a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my good

fairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup.

Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famous

victory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice of

clubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh hole

when Totten made his last speech.

"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashie

and not quite far enough for the----"

There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over the

sea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a large

green felt bag under his arm.

"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen--if you are gentlemen!--I crave your

indulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an added

trophy--a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!"

He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by cries

of "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprised

expression on his face told me that this part of the programme was not

of his making.

"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awarded

for a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me that

this is manifestly one-sided and unfair."

"Hear! Hear!" cried a voice.

"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cup

which I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever made

by a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America."

Henry Peacock jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laid

my hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door.

"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar had

subsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a double

distinction. He is the holder of two records--one for the lowest net

score on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peacock shot

the course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes....

Bring the gentleman forward, please!"

There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of the

confusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surrounded

him, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to the

table, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him and

surged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over and

placed the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lip

was trembling with rage.

"Open it up! Come on, let's see it!"

Mr. Peacock cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged his

hand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but it

was a cup, sure enough--a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feeble

imitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents.

And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was the

record of Mr. Peacock's activities for the afternoon, in gross and

detail, as follows: