by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. III
MR. HARDING WINS A BET
I have met Harding, the western railroad magnate, and he is a character.His wife is in the city, but will be out here in a few days.
Harding--I call him Mister when addressing him, since he is worth thirtymillions or more, and he is old enough to be my father--Harding strolledout to the first tee early this morning and stood with his hands in hispockets watching some of the fellows drive off.
I should judge him to be a man of about fifty-five, or perhaps a year oftwo older. He stands more than six feet, is broad of shoulder andequally broad of waist, ruddy of complexion, clear of eye and quick ofmotion. He is of the breezy, independent type peculiar to those who haverisen to fortune with the wonderful development of our western country,and it is difficult to realise that he is a real live magnate.
His close-cropped beard shows few gray hairs, and does not entirely hidethe lines of a resolute chin. He looks like a prosperous farmer who hasbeen forced to become familiar with metropolitan conventionalities, butwhose rough edges have withstood the friction. His voice is heavy butnot unpleasant, and his laugh jovial but defiant. He reminds me of noone I have seen, and I shall study him with much interest.
He was with Carter, who seemed well acquainted with him, and he greetedeach drive whether it was good or bad with a sneering smile. This toldme that he had never played the game, and that he had all of theoutsider's contempt for it. I knew exactly what he thought, for I wasonce as ignorant and unappreciative as he is now.
A mutual contempt exists between those who play golf and those who donot. Those who have not played are sure they could become expert in aweek, if they had so little sense as to waste time on so simple andobjectless a game. Those who are familiar with the game know that no manliving can ever hope to approach its possibilities, and they also knowthat it is the grandest sport designed since man has inhabited thisglobe.
I have sometimes thought that this old globe of ours is nothing more norless than a golf ball, brambled with mountains and valleys, and scarredwith ravines where the gods in their play have topped their drives. Thespin around its axis causes it to slice about the sun. This strikes meas rather poetic, and when I write a golf epic I shall elaborate on thisfancy.
Harding has no such conception of this whirling earth of ours. He isfully convinced that it was created for the purpose of beingcross-hatched with railroads, and that it never had any real utilityuntil he gridironed the western prairies with ten thousand miles of rustand grease. I thought of that as I watched him standing by the side ofCarter, his huge hands thrust deep in his pockets, his bushy head thrownback, and a tolerant grin on his bearded lips.
I was practising putting on a green set aside for that purpose, andCarter saw me and motioned me to come to him. He introduced Harding, whoshook hands and then glanced curiously at my putter.
"What do you call that?" he asked, taking it from my hand. It was analuminum putter of my own design, and I have won many a game with it. Itold him what it was.
"Looks like a brake shoe on the new-model hand-cars," he said, swingingit viciously with one hand. "How far can you knock one of those littlepills with it?"
"I see that you do not play golf," I said, rather offended at hismanner.
"No, there are a lot of things I do not do, and this is one of them," hereplied, and then he laughed. "But let me tell you," he added, "I usedto be a wonder at shinny."
I would have wagered he would make some such remark.
"Do you see that scar on the bridge of my nose?" he asked. "That camefrom a crack with a shinny club when I was not more than ten years old.Shinny is a great game; a great game! It requires quickness of eye andlimb, and more than that it demands a high degree of courage. It teachesa boy to stand a hard knock without whimpering. Yes, sir, shinny is agreat game, and all boys should play it," and he rubbed the scar on hisnose tenderly.
A man who would compare golf with shinny is capable of contrastingVenice with a drainage canal, and I came near telling him so. Golf andshinny! Whist and old maid! Pink lemonade and champagne!
"No, sir, I never could see much in this golf game," said Harding,handing back my putter. "It certainly isn't much of a trick to hit oneof those balls with a mallet like that. When I was your age," turning toCarter, "I could swing a maul and send a railroad spike into five inchesof seasoned oak, and never miss once a week, and I'll bet that if I hadto I could do it again. That was what your father used to do for aliving, and if he hadn't worked up from a section boss to the presidencyof a railroad you would have something else to do besides batting ballsaround a farm and then hunting for 'em. But I suppose you must like itor you wouldn't do it."
"I think you would find the game interesting if you took it up,"suggested Carter, whose father is nearly as rich as Harding. "Smith andI will initiate you into the mysteries of the game."
"Oh, I suppose I'll have to play now that I'm here," he said, with themost exasperating complacency. "My daughter plays some, and she is ascrazy about it as the rest of them. I don't see where the fascinationcomes in. I called the other day on a man who was once in the Cabinet.He is rich and famous, and can have anything or do anything he likes,but he spends most of his time playing golf. I went to him and attemptedto induce him to represent us in a big railway lawsuit, but he said itwould prevent his playing in some tournament where he expected to winfive dollars' worth of plated pewter. What do you think of that?Wouldn't take the case, and there was fifty thousand in it for him! Iroasted the life out of him."
"'If you would drop this fool game and pay the same amount of attentionto your political fortunes,' I said to him, 'you would have a right toaspire to the Presidency of the United States.' And what do you supposehe said to me?"
I assured him that I had not the slightest idea.
"'Mr. Harding,' he said to me in perfect seriousness, when I attemptedto put this presidential bee in his bonnet, 'Mr. Harding, I would ratherbe able to drive a golf ball two hundred and fifty feet than bePresident of the United States for life.' That's what he said, and Itold him he was crazy, and he is so mad at me that I don't dare go nearhim."
"Didn't he say two hundred and fifty yards?" asked Carter, who had beenlistening intently. "Two hundred and fifty feet is no drive."
"Mebbe it was yards," admitted Harding, disgusted that Carter ignoredthe point of his story, "but let me tell you that I'd rather bePresident of the United States for one minute than to be able to driveone of those little pellets two hundred and fifty miles! I'll tell youwhat I'll do!" he exclaimed, turning fiercely on both of us. "I nevertried to play this idiotic game in my life, but I'll bet the Scotch andsoda for the three of us that I can drive a ball further than either ofyou."
"That would hardly be fair," I protested, though I was delighted at thechance to take some of the conceit out of him. I have seen many of histype before, and it is a pleasure to witness their downfall.
"Why wouldn't it be fair?" he demanded.
"Because you know nothing of the swing of a club or of the followthrough," I attempted to explain.
"The follow what?" he asked.
"The follow through," I repeated.
"What the devil is the follow through?" he asked, reaching for Carter'sbag. "Let me take yours and I'll try it anyhow."
"The 'follow through' is not a club," I explained when we had ceasedlaughing, "but it is the trick of sending the face of the club after theball when you have hit it. It is the end of the stroke, and by it youget both distance and direction. Without a good follow through it isimpossible to drive a ball any considerable distance, no matter howgreat the strength with which you hit it. This knack can only beacquired after much practise."
"You don't say?" he laughed. "Let me tell you that when I used to playbaseball I had a 'follow through' which made the fielders get out so farwhen I came to bat that the spectators had to use fieldglasses to seewhere they were. If I hit that golf ball good and fair it will 'followthrough' into the next county, and don't
you forget that I told you so!Come on, boys!"
Carter looked at me and winked. There was no one waiting on the firsttee, and a clear field ahead. It was agreed that Carter should have thehonour, I to follow, and that Harding should drive last.
Harding stripped off his coat and waistcoat, removed his collar androlled up his sleeves. I was impressed with his magnificent physique,and do not recall when I have seen so massive and well-formed a forearm.From my bag he selected a driver which I seldom use on account of itsexcessive weight, and looked at it critically.
"Pretty fair sort of a stick," he observed, swinging it clumsily andviciously, "but I'd rather have one of those hickory roots we used tocut for shinny when I was a boy. Go ahead and soak it, Carter, so that Imay know what I've got to beat."
I mentally resolved to press even at the chance of flubbing. Carter hitthe ball too low, and it sailed into the air barely clearing the lane,stopping not more than one hundred and fifty yards away.
"That's not so much," said Harding, grimly. "Bat her out, Smith, andthen watch your Uncle Dudley!"
I carefully teed a new ball and took a practise swing or two. I feltmorally certain that Harding could not beat Carter's drive, poor as itwas, but I was anxious to show him how a golf ball will fly whenproperly struck.
I fell on that ball for one of the longest and cleanest drives I evermade, and it did not stop rolling until it was twenty yards past thetwo-hundred-yard post. I was properly proud of that shot, and despitehis loud talk I felt a sort of pity for Harding.
"Is that considered a fairly good shot?" he asked.
"It was a good one for Smith, or for that matter for anyone," repliedCarter, who was a bit sore that he had fallen down.
"It looks easy for me," calmly declared Harding stepping up to the tee."Can you make as high a pile of sand as you want to?"
"Yes, but it is better to tee it close to the ground," advised Carter."If you tee it high you are apt to go under it."
Ignoring Carter's advice he reached into the box, scooped out adouble-handful of sand and piled it in a pyramid at least four incheshigh. On the apex of this he placed a new ball I had taken from my bag,and which I felt reasonably certain would be cut in two in theimprobable event that he hit it. He stood back and surveyed hispreparations with evident satisfaction.
"... but there was blood in his eye"]
It was impossible for Carter and me to keep our faces straight, butHarding paid no attention to us.
"I ought to be able to hit that, all right," he said, walking around thesand pile and viewing it from all sides. Then he stood back and took apractise swing.
He stood square on both feet, his legs spread as far apart as he couldextend them. He grasped the shaft of the club with both hands, holdingthe left one underneath. His practise swing was the typical baseballstroke used by all novices, and I saw at a glance that in allprobability he would go under his ball.
"The blamed club is too light, but I suppose it's the best you've got,"he said. "It feels like a willow switch. Well, stand back and give melots of room. Here goes!"
As he grasped the club I saw the muscles of his right forearm stand outlike whipcords. His face was wrinkled in a frown, but there was, bloodin his eye.
Carter and I stood well away so as to escape a flying club-head. Icannot describe how Harding made that swing; it was done so quickly thatI only noted what followed.
When the club came down there was a crack that sounded like a pistolshot, and at that instant I noted that the pyramid of sand was intact.Then I saw the ball! It was headed straight out the course, curvingwith that slight hook which contributes so much to distance.
When I first caught sight of it I should say it was fifty feet in theair and slowly rising. I never saw a ball travel so in my life. We hadsent a caddy out ahead, and he marked the spot where it landed. It wasmore than twenty-five yards beyond the two-hundred-yard mark, and theball rolled forty-five yards farther, making a total of two hundred andseventy yards.
It was within ten yards of the longest drive ever made by Kirkaldy, ourclub professional.
The exertion carried Harding fairly off his feet, and he landed squarelyon the tee. He half raised himself, and followed the flight of the ball.His shirt was ripped open at the shoulder and torn at the neck.
"If I hadn't slipped," he declared, rising to a sitting posture, "Icould have belted it twice as far as that, but I guess that's enough towin."
I heard the rustle of a woman's garment.
"Why, Papa Harding!" exclaimed a voice, musical as a silver bell. "Yousaid you never would play golf! You should see how you look!"
I turned and saw Grace Harding. She is the most beautiful creature Iever met in my life.
Before any of us could reach him, Harding scrambled to his feet. He wasstreaked with sand, but there was a merry twinkle in his eye.
"Did you see me soak it, Kid?" he asked, brushing the sand from histrousers, and fumbling at a broken suspender.
"You are nothing but a great big boy," she declared. "Are you sure youare not hurt, papa?"
"Hurt, nothing!" exclaimed Harding, "but I'll bet I hurt that ball. I'velost my collar button," he said, pawing about the tee with his feet."Your eyes are sharper than mine, Kid, see if you can find it. It mustbe around here somewhere."
"My friend, Mr. Smith," said Carter, presenting me to Miss Harding. Shedid not bow coldly, as do most young ladies in our set, neither wasthere anything bold in accepting this most informal introduction. Sheacted like a good fellow should act, and frankly offered her hand, hereyes dancing with amusement.
"Smith owns this land," volunteered Harding, still hunting for thebutton, "but he was too lazy to work it, so he turned it into a golfcourse. He and Carter are great players, so I have heard, but I havebeen putting it all over them driving a ball, and I didn't half try atthat."
"Did you hit it, papa?" she asked.
"Did I hit it?" he repeated, "Did I hit it? Ask them if I hit it. Wherein thunder is that collar-button?"
And then the four of us hunted for that elusive but useful article.Miss Harding found it in a tuft of grass, and I stood and stupidlywatched her while she put it in place, adjusted the collar and tied thecravat.
"Papa is very lucky in whatever he undertakes," she said, addressing merather than Carter, so I believe. "I could have warned you that he wouldhave beaten you, though I cannot understand how he happened to drive aball as far as that."
She smiled and looked proudly at the huge figure of her father, whopatted her on the cheek and laughed disdainfully.
Carter made some commonplace remark, but for the life of me I did notknow what to say. The proud little head, the arched eyebrows, the cheeksfaintly touched with a healthy tan, the little waist, the slender butperfect figure, and the toe of a dainty shoe held me in an aphasicspell. But the laughing eyes brought me out of it, and I made one of themost brilliant conversational efforts of my career.
"Do you play golf, Miss Harding?" I asked. Having thus broken the ice Iexperienced a vast sense of relief.
"I won a gold cup in a competition in Paris, didn't I, papa?"
"Sure thing," responded her father, "I ought to know; it cost me fifteendollars to pay duty on that ornament."
"And I once made the course in ninety-one," continued Miss Harding.
"I don't know anything about that," said Harding. "Is ninety-onesupposed to be any good?"
"It is a splendid record for a lady for eighteen holes!" I exclaimed,"and it is not a bad score for a man."
"But this was only a nine-hole course," explained Miss Harding, "andthere were many of the ladies who did not do anywhere near as well asthat. I have played considerably since then, and am confident that I cando much better."
"You'll have to excuse us, Kid," interrupted her father, patting her onthe arm with his huge hand. "I have important business in the club housewith these gentlemen, and it is a matter which takes precedence overeverything else. You can tell Smith about your golf triumphs some othe
rtime."
He talked to her as if she were a child who was in the way. I suppose itdoes not occur to him that she is a woman grown. I would rather haveremained where I was and attempted to talk to her, or even look at her,than to sip the finest Scotch whiskey ever bottled.
Now that I read this last line it does not convey much of a compliment,but I mean all that it implies. She certainly is very pretty. We madeour excuses to her, and went to the club cafe, and I have not seen hersince. She has gone to the city with her mother on a shopping tour andwill not be back for several days.
I wonder how Carter became acquainted with her. He seems to know hervery well, and must have met her many times. I should like to ask him,but of course that would not be the proper thing to do.
I had no idea that I would write so much as this when I started.