As the runabout coughed and sputtered along the county road the man at
the wheel had time to think over the whole matter. Everything
considered, he decided that he had acted wisely.
"Been playing too much golf, anyway," he told himself. "Wednesday and
Saturday afternoons, Sundays and holidays--too much!... And then
worrying about my game in between. It'll be off my mind now.... One
thing sure--Mary'll be glad to hear the news. That old joke of hers
about being a golf widow won't go any more. Yes, she'll have to dig up a
new one.... Maybe I have been a little selfish and neglectful. I'll make
up for it now, though. Sundays we can take the big car and go on
picnics. The kids'll like that."
He pursued this train of thought until he felt almost virtuous. He could
see himself entering the house; he could picture his wife's amazement
and pleasure; he could hear himself saying something like this:
"Well, my dear, you've got your wish at last. After thinking it all over
I've decided to cut out the golf and devote myself to the family. Yes;
I'm through!"
In this highly commendable spirit he arrived at home, only to find the
shades drawn and the front door locked. As Coyne felt for his key ring
he remembered that his wife had said something about taking the children
to spend the day with her mother. It was also the servant's afternoon
off and the house was empty. Coyne was conscious of a slight
disappointment; he was the bearer of glad tidings, but he had no
audience.
"Oh, well," he thought; "it's been a long time since I had a quiet
Sunday afternoon at home. Do me good. Guess I'll read a while and then
run over to mother's for supper. I don't read as much as I used to. Man
ought to keep up to date."
Then, because he was a creature of habit and the most methodical of men,
he must have his pipe and slippers before sitting down with his book.
Mary Coyne was a good wife and a faithful mother, but she abominated a
pipe in the living room; and she tolerated slippers only when they were
of her own choosing.
Now there are things which every woman knows; but there is one thing
which no woman has ever known and no woman will ever know--namely, that
she is not competent to select slippers for her lord and master. Bob
Coyne was a patient man, but he loathed slippers his wife picked out for
him. He was pledged to a worn and disreputable pair of the pattern known
as Romeos--relics of his bachelor days. They were run down at the heel
and thin of sole; but they were dear to his heart and he clung to them
obstinately in spite of their shabby appearance. After the honeymoon it
had been necessary to speak sternly with his wife on the subject of the
Romeos, else she would have thrown them on the ash heap. Since that
interview Mrs. Coyne--obedient soul!--had spent a great portion of her
married life in finding safe hiding places for those wretched slippers;
but no matter where she put them, they seemed certain of a triumphant
resurrection.
Coyne went on a still hunt for the Romeos, and found them at last,
tucked away in the clothes closet of the spare room upstairs. This
closet was a sort of catchall, as the closets of spare rooms are apt to
be; and as Coyne stooped to pick up the slippers he knocked down
something which had been standing in a dark corner. It fell with a heavy
thump, and there on the floor at his feet was a rusty old mid-iron--the
first golf club Coyne had ever owned.
He had not seen that mid-iron in years, but he remembered it well. He
picked it up, sighted along the shaft, found it still reasonably
straight and unwarped, balanced the club in his hands, waggled it once
as if to make a shot; then he replaced it hastily, seized the slippers,
and hurried downstairs.
The book of his selection was one highly recommended by press and
pulpit, hence an ideal tale for a Sunday afternoon; so he dragged an
easy-chair to the front window, lighted his pipe, put his worn Romeos
on a taboret, and settled down to solid comfort. In spite of the fact
that the book was said to be gripping, and entertaining from cover to
cover, Coyne encountered some difficulty in getting into the thing. He
skimmed through the first chapter, yawned and looked at his watch.
"They're just getting away for the afternoon round," said he; and then,
with the air of one who has caught himself in a fault, he attacked
Chapter Two. It proved even worse than the first. He told himself that
the characters were out of drawing, the situations impossible, and the
humour strained or stale.
At the end of Chapter Three he pitched the book across the room and
closed his eyes. Five minutes later he rose, knocked the ashes from his
pipe, and went slowly upstairs. He assured himself he was not in search
of anything; but his aimless wanderings brought him at last to the spare
room, where he seated himself on the edge of the bed. He remained there
for twenty minutes, motionless, staring into space. Then he rose,
crossed the room and disappeared in the clothes closet. When he came out
the rusty mid-iron came with him. Was this a sign of weakness, of
deterioration in the moral fibre, an indication of regret! Perish the
thought! The explanation Mr. Coyne offered himself was perfectly
satisfactory. He merely wished to examine the ten-year-old shaft and
ascertain whether it was cracked or not. He carried the venerable
souvenir to the window and scrutinised it closely; the shaft was sound.
"A good club yet," he muttered.
As he stood there, holding the old mid-iron in his hands, ten years
slipped away from him. He remembered that club very well--almost as well
as a man remembers his first sweetheart. He remembered other things
too--remembered that, as a youth, he had never had the time or the
inclination to play at games of any sort. He had been too busy getting
his start, as the saying goes. Then, at thirty, married and well on his
way to business success, he had felt the need of open air and exercise.
He had mentioned this to a friend and the friend had suggested golf.
"But that's an old man's game!" Yes; he had said that very thing. His
ears burned at the recollection of his folly.
"Think so? Tackle it and see."
He had been persuaded to spend one afternoon at the Country Club. Is
there a golfer in all the world who needs to be told what happened to
Mr. Robert Coyne? He had hit one long, straight tee shot; he had holed
one difficult putt; and the whole course of his serious, methodical
existence had been changed. The man who does not learn to play any game
until he is thirty years of age is quite capable of going daft over
tiddledywinks or dominoes. If he takes up the best and most interesting
of all outdoor sports his family may count itself fortunate if he does
not become violent.
Never the sort of person who could be content to do anything badly, Bob
Coyne had applied himself to the Royal and Ancient Pastime with all the
simple earnestness and dogged determination of a silent, self-centred
man. He had taken lessons from the professional. He had brought his
driver home and practised with it in the back yard. He had read books on
the subject. He had studied the methods and styles of the best players.
He had formed theories of his own as to stance and swing. He had even
talked golf to his wife--which is the last stage of incurable golfitis.
As he stood at the window, turning the rusty mid-iron in his hands, he
recalled the first compliment ever paid him by a good player--the more
pleasing because he had not been intended to hear it. It came after he
had fought himself out of the duffer class and had reached the point
where he was too good for the bad ones, but not considered good enough
for the topnotchers.
One day Corkrane had invited him into a foursome--Coyne had been the
only man in sight--and Corkrane had taken him as a partner against such
redoubtable opponents as Millar and Duffy. Coyne had halved four holes
and won two, defeating Millar and Duffy on the home green. Nothing had
been said at the time; but later on, while polishing himself with a
towel in the shower room, Coyne had heard Corkrane's voice:
"Hey, Millar!"
"Well?"
"That fellow Coyne--he's not so bad."
"I believe you, Corky. He won the match for you."
"Thought I'd have to carry him on my back; but he was right there all
the way round. Yep; Coyne's a comer, sure as you live!"
And the subject of this kindly comment had blushed pink out of sheer
gratification.
A pretty good bunch, those fellows out at the club! If it had done
nothing else for him, Coyne reflected, golf had widened his circle of
friends. Suddenly there came to him the realisation that he would have a
great deal of spare time on his hands in the future. Wednesdays and
Saturdays would be long days now; and Sundays----Coyne sighed deeply and
swung the rusty mid-iron back and forth as if in the act of studying a
difficult approach.
"But what's the use?" he asked himself. "I haven't got a shot left--not
a single shot!"
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mid-iron between his knees and
his head in his hands. At the end of twenty minutes he rose and began to
prowl about the house, looking into corners, behind doors, and
underneath beds and bureaus.
"Seems to me I saw it only the other day," said he. "Of course Bobby
might have been playing with it and lost it."
It was in the children's playroom that he came upon the thing, which he
told himself he found by accident. It was much the worse for wear;
nearly all the paint had been worn off it and its surface was covered
with tiny dents. Bob Junior had been teaching his dog to fetch and carry
and the dents were the prints of sharp puppy teeth.
"Well, what do you think of that!" ejaculated Mr. Coyne, pretending to
be surprised. "As I live--a golf ball! Yes; a golf ball!"
He stood looking at it for some time; but at last he picked it up. With
the rusty mid-iron in one hand and the ball in the other, he went
downstairs, passed through the house, unlocked the back door and went
into the yard. Behind the garage was a smooth stretch of lawn, fifty
feet in diameter, carefully mowed and rolled. In the centre of this
emerald carpet was a hole, and in the hole was a flag. This was Mr.
Coyne's private putting green.
"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. All
confounded foolishness!"
So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his works
dropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The lie
did not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted his
disreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron a
few times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attempted
that most difficult of all performances--the chip shot. The ball hopped
across the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolled
straight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from the
hole.
"Heavens above!" gasped Mr. Coyne, rubbing his eyes. "Look at that, will
you? I hit the pin, by golly--_hit the pin_!"
* * * * *
At dusk Mrs. Coyne returned. The first thing she noticed was that a
large rug was missing from the dining room. Having had experience, she
knew exactly where to look for it. On the back porch she paused, her
hands on her hips. The missing rug was hanging over the clothesline, and
her lord and master, in shirtsleeves and the unspeakable Romeos, was
driving a single golf ball against it.
Whish-h-h! Click! Thud!
"And I guess that's getting my weight into the swing!" babbled Mr.
Coyne. "I've found out what I've been doing that was wrong. Watch me hit
this one, Mary."
Mrs. Coyne was everything that a good wife should be, but she sniffed
audibly.
"I've told you a dozen times that I didn't want you knocking holes in
that rug!" said she.
"Why, there isn't a hole in it, my dear."
"Well, there will be if you keep on. It seems to me, Bob, that you might
get enough golf out at the club. Then you won't scandalise the
neighbours by practising in the back yard on Sunday afternoons. What do
you suppose they'll think of you?"
"They'll think I'm crazy," was the cheerful response; "but, just between
you and me, my dear, I'm not near so crazy right now as I have been!"