The Ooley-cow's party was generally discussed during the next ten days,
the consensus of club opinion being that some one ought to teach
Poindexter and Sprott the difference between humour and petty larceny.
Most of the playing members were disgusted with the two old skinflints,
and one effect of this sentiment manifested itself in the number of
invitations that Perkins received to play golf with real people. He
declined them all, much to our surprise, and continued to wallop his way
round the course with Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott, apparently on as
cordial terms as ever.
"What are you going to do with such a besotted old fool as that?" asked
Henry Bauer. "Here I've invited him into three foursomes this week--all
white men, too--and he's turned me down cold. It's not that we want to
play with him, for as a golfer he's a terrible thing. It's not that
we're crazy about him personally, for socially he's my notion of zero
minus; but he took his stinging like a dead-game sport and he's entitled
to better treatment than he's getting. But if he hasn't any better sense
than to pass his plate for more, what are you going to do about it?"
"'Ephraim is joined to idols,'" quoted Little Doc Ellis. "'Let him
alone.'"
"No, it's the other way round," argued Bauer. "His idols are joined to
him--fastened on like leeches. The question naturally arises, how did
such a man ever accumulate a fortune? Who forced it on him, and when,
and where, and why?"
That very afternoon the Ooley-cow turned up with his guest, a large,
loud person, also from the Heidelberg of America, who addressed Perkins
as "Wesley," and lost no time in informing us that Southern California
would have starved to death but for Iowa capital. His name was
Cottle--Calvin D. Cottle--and he gave each one of us his card as he was
introduced. There was no need. Nobody could have forgotten him. Some
people make an impression at first sight--Calvin D. Cottle made a deep
dent. His age was perhaps forty-five, but he spoke as one crowned with
Methuselah's years and Solomon's wisdom, and after each windy statement
he turned to the Ooley-cow for confirmation.
"Ain't that so, Wesley? Old Wes knows, you bet your life! He's from my
home town!"
It was as good as a circus to watch Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott
sizing up this fresh victim. It reminded me of two wary old dogs
circling for position, manoeuvring for a safe hold. They wanted to
know something about his golf game--what was his handicap, for
instance?
"Handicap?" repeated Cottle. "Is that a California idea? Something new,
ain't it?"
Uncle Billy explained the handicapping theory.
"Oh!" said Cottle. "You mean what do I go round in--how many strokes.
Well, sometimes I cut under a hundred; sometimes I don't. It just
depends. Some days I can hit 'em, some days I can't. That's all there is
to it."
"My case exactly," purred Old Man Sprott. "Suppose we dispense with the
handicap?"
"That's the stuff!" agreed Cottle heartily. "I don't want to have to
give anybody anything; I don't want anybody to give me anything. I like
an even fight, and what I say is, may the best man win! Am I right,
gentlemen?"
"Absolutely!" chirped Uncle Billy. "May the best man win!"
"You bet I'm right!" boomed Cottle. "Ask old Wes here about me. Raised
right in the same town with him, from a kid knee-high to a grasshopper!
I never took any the best of it in my life, did I, Wes? No, you bet not!
Remember that time I got skinned out of ten thousand bucks on the land
deal? A lot of fellows would have squealed, wouldn't they? A lot of
fellows would have hollered for the police; but I just laughed and gave
'em credit for being smarter than I was. I'm the same way in sport as I
am in business. I believe in giving everybody credit. I win if I can,
but if I can't--well, there's never any hard feelings. That's me all
over. You may be able to _lick_ me at this golf thing--likely you will;
but you'll never _scare_ me, that's a cinch. Probably you gentlemen play
a better game than I do--been at it longer; but then I'm a lot younger
than you are. Got more strength. Hit a longer ball when I do manage to
land on one right. So it all evens up in the long run."
Mr. Cottle was still modestly cheering his many admirable qualities when
the Perkins party went in to luncheon, and the only pause he made was on
the first tee. With his usual caution Uncle Billy had arranged it so
that Dubuque was opposed to Southern California, and he had also
carefully neglected to name any sort of a bet until after he had seen
the stranger drive.
Cottle teed his ball and stood over it, gripping his driver until his
knuckles showed white under the tan. "Get ready to ride!" said he.
"You're about to leave this place!"
The club head whistled through the air, and I can truthfully say that I
never saw a man of his size swing any harder at a golf ball--or come
nearer cutting one completely in two.
"Topped it, by gum!" ejaculated Mr. Cottle, watching the maimed ball
until it disappeared in a bunker. "Topped it! Well, better luck next
time! By the way, what are we playing for? Balls, or money, or what?"
"Whatever you like," said Uncle Billy promptly. "You name it."
"Good! That's the way I like to hear a man talk. Old Wes here is my
partner, so I can't bet with him, but I'll have a side match with each
of you gentlemen--say, ten great, big, smiling Iowa dollars. Always like
to bet what I've got the most of. Satisfactory?"
Uncle Billy glanced at Old Man Sprott, and for an instant the old
rascals hesitated. The situation was made to order for them, but they
would have preferred a smaller wager to start with, being petty
larcenists at heart.
"Better cut that down to five," said Perkins to Cottle in a low tone.
"They play a strong game."
"Humph!" grunted his guest. "Did you ever know me to pike in my life? I
ain't going to begin now. Ten dollars or nothing!"
"I've got you," said Old Man Sprott.
"This once," said Uncle Billy. "It's against my principles to play for
money; but yes, this once."
And then those two old sharks insisted on a foursome bet as well.
"Ball, ball, ball," said the Ooley-cow briefly, and proceeded to follow
his partner into the bunker. Poindexter and Sprott popped conservatively
down the middle of the course and the battle was on.
Battle, did I say! It was a massacre of the innocents, a slaughter of
babes and sucklings. Our foursome trailed along behind, and took note of
Mr. Cottle, of Dubuque, in his fruitless efforts to tear the cover off
the ball. He swung hard enough to knock down a lamp-post, but he seldom
made proper connections, and when he did the ball landed so far off the
course that it took him a dozen shots to get back again. He was
hopelessly bad, so bad that there was no chance to make the side matches
close ones. On the tenth tee Cottle demanded another bet--to give him a
chance to get even, he said. Poindexter and Sprott each bet him another
ten dollar note on the last nine, and this time Uncle Billy did not say
anything about his principles.
After it was all over Cottle poured a few mint toddies into his system
and floated an alibi to the surface.
"It was those confounded sand greens that did it," said he. "I'm used to
grass, and I can't putt on anything else. Bet I could take you to
Dubuque and flail the everlasting daylights out of you!"
"Shouldn't be surprised," said Uncle Billy. "You did a lot better on the
last nine--sort of got into your stride. Any time you think you want
revenge----"
"You can have it," finished Old Man Sprott, as he folded a crisp
twenty-dollar note. "We believe in giving a man a chance--eh, Billy?"
"That's the spirit!" cried Cottle enthusiastically. "Give a man a
chance; it's what I say, and if he does anything, give him credit. You
beat me to-day, but I never saw this course before. Tell you what we'll
do: Let's make a day of it to-morrow. Morning and afternoon both.
Satisfactory! Good! You've got forty dollars of my dough and I want it
back. Nobody ever made me quit betting yet, if I figure to have a
chance. What's money? Shucks! My country is full of it! Now then,
Wesley, if you'll come out on the practise green and give me some
pointers on this sand thing, I'll be obliged to you. Ball won't run on
sand like it will on grass--have to get used to it. Have to hit 'em a
little harder. Soon as I get the hang of the thing we'll give these
Native Sons a battle yet! Native Sons? Native Grandfathers! Come on!"
Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott and Old Man Sprott looked at Uncle
Billy, but they did not begin to laugh until the Ooley-cow and his guest
were out of earshot. Then they clucked and cackled and choked like a
couple of hysterical old hens.
"His putting!" gurgled Uncle Billy. "Did he have a putt to win a hole
all the way round?"
"Not unless he missed count of his shots. Say, Billy!"
"Well?"
"We made a mistake locating so far West. We should have stopped in Iowa.
By now we'd have owned the entire state!"