by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. VIII
DOWNFALL OF MR. HARDING
I do not know whether to be annoyed or amused over the result of mysecond golf game with Miss Harding. It was not in the least like myanticipations.
Our first game was so romantic. It was as if the kindly skies had raiseda dome over earth's most favoured spot and reserved it for our use. Itwas different to-day.
I presume it is necessary that beautiful maidens shall have fathers. Iraise no doubt that Mr. Harding is a wonderful financier and railroadgenius, and it is likely he is entitled to a vacation and to thatrelaxation which comes from taking exercise, but this does not justifyhim in--well, in "butting in" on our game. I don't use slang as a rule,but no other term so accurately describes the conduct of that gentlemanthis afternoon.
As for Carter--I have no words to express what I think of Carter.
If I had a daughter nineteen years old it would occur to me that shemight prefer to play golf with a young gentleman somewhere near her ownage rather than with me, especially if that young gentleman were a goodgolfer, and possessed of wealth, prospects, and honourable ambitions.But Mr. Harding treats her as if she were a school miss in shortdresses. He persists in calling her "Kid," and only rarely does headdress her by the beautiful name of Grace.
When Miss Harding started from the club house her father was on the lawnnot many yards away engaged in the interesting but expensive experimentof trying to drive balls across the lake. He was buying new balls by thebox--they cost $5.50 a box--with the joyous abandon of a pampered boypurchasing fire-crackers on the Fourth of July.
All he asks of a ball is "one crack at it," and the caddies were reapinga harvest. He had not made one decent drive, and was surprised andangry.
As luck would have it he turned and saw us as we were starting for thefirst tee. He had laid aside that flaming red-and-green coat, and was inhis shirt sleeves. His face was crimson from exertion, and his hair wetwith perspiration.
"Where are you going?" he called.
"We're going to play a round," I answered, with a sinking heart.
"Good; I'll go with you," he returned. "Chuck the rest of those ballsinto that sack," he said to one of his caddies, "and follow me."
What could I do but say we would be delighted to have him join us? Wewere waiting for him, when who should come from the club house butCarter.
"Hello there, Carter!" shouted Harding. "Come on and play with us! Thisis my first real game, and we'll make it a foursome, or whatever youcall it. What d'ye say?"
"That's fine!" declared Carter.
I happen to know that he had already made up a game with Marshall, Boyd,and Chilvers, but he did not hesitate to abandon them for hislong-coveted chance to play with Miss Harding.
"We'll have a great game," asserted Mr. Harding mopping his brow. "Howshall we divide up? I suppose you're the best player, Carter, and Smithcomes next, but I can beat the Kid, here," patting Miss Harding on theshoulder.
"I'll bet you cannot," I declared, angry that he should class Carterabove me.
"Bet I cannot beat my Grace?" he exclaimed. I told him that such was myopinion.
"Of course I can beat you, papa," laughed Miss Harding. "You have neverplayed, and know nothing of the game. I can beat you easily."
"Talk of the insolence and ingratitude of children!" he gasped. "Kid,I'm astonished at you! I'll teach both of you a lesson. What do you wantto bet, Smith?"
I suggested that a box of balls would suit me as a bet.
"Box of monkeys!" exclaimed Harding. "I thought you were a sport, Smith!A box of balls don't last me as long as a box of cigarettes does Carter.Tell you what I'll do. We'll all keep track of our shots, and for everyone I beat her you pay me a box of balls, and for every one she beats meI pay you a box of balls. How does that strike you?"
"Take him up, Mr. Smith," said Miss Harding, a smile on her lips and ameaning glance in her eyes. I would not have hesitated had I known itwould have cost me every dollar in the world.
"You are on, Mr. Harding," I said.
"We'll teach you a good lesson, Papa Harding," she declared, with aconfidence which surprised me. "You have never seen me play."
He roared with laughter.
"Talk about David and Goliath!" he exclaimed. "Tell you what I'll do,Kid. I'll make you a small bet on the side. You remember that sixtyhorse-power buzz wagon we were looking at in the city the other day?"
"The one in red that I admired so much?" asked Miss Harding.
"Yes, the one you tried to soft soap me into buying. Tell you what I'lldo. If you beat me I'll buy that machine for you, and if I beat you Iget a new hat which you pay for out of your pin money."
"It's a shame to take advantage of you, papa, dear," she hesitated, "butI want that machine awfully, and I'll make the wager."
"... and missed the ball by three inches"]
"If you never get it until you beat me at this shinny game you willwait a long time," he declared. "Who shoots first?"
"Miss Harding and I will be partners," suggested Carter, before I couldget the words out of my mouth.
"Since I am interested in Miss Harding's play to the extent of a box ofballs a stroke, I claim the right to act as her partner and adviser," Isaid, looking hard at Carter.
"Mr. Smith and I will be partners," said Miss Harding, and it was thehappiest moment of my life.
"I don't care who are partners," said Harding, stepping up to the tee."I'll shoot first, and you keep your eye on your Uncle Dudley!"
He piled up a hill of sand, gripped his club like grim death, drew back,swung with all his might--and missed the ball by three inches.
"One stroke!" laughed Miss Harding.
"That don't count!" he declared. "I didn't hit the blamed thing at all!Look at it! It's just where I fixed it a minute ago. Don't cheat, Kid!"
"A missed ball counts a stroke," laughed Carter.
"Are you sure that's the rule?"
We all assured him there was not the slightest doubt of it.
"All that I can say is that it's a fool rule," he protested, "but atthat, one missed swipe cuts little figure with me. Here goes for numbertwo!"
"Don't press!" cautioned Carter.
"I'll press all I darned please. Keep your eyes on this one!"
He grazed the ball enough to make it roll not more than twenty feet intoa clump of tall grass. He looked blankly at it, but did not say a word.Then he took a jack-knife from his pocket and cut two notches in theshaft of his club.
Carter drove out a good one, and I teed a ball for Miss Harding. Thelane is about a hundred yards away, and I thought of advising her toplay short, but on reflection determined not to embarrass her bysuggestions so early in the game.
The moment she took her stance and grasped her club I noted a differencein her style of play as compared with that of the preceding day. Herclub head came back with a free, even curve, and on the return shecaught the ball with a good though not perfect follow through. The ballcarried straight and true over the lane, and did not stop rolling untilit had passed the 130-yard mark. It was a nice clean drive, and I smiledmy approval.
"Good work, Kid," grinned Harding, but he did not seem the leastdismayed. I should not care to play poker with him. I lined out abeauty, and then Harding returned to the attack.
It took two strokes to get his ball out of the grass. On his fifth shotthe ball had a good lie about ten yards from the lane fence. He smashedat it with a brassie, but drove too low. The ball hit a fence post andbounded back fully seventy-five yards. In five strokes he had notgained a foot. After a combination of weird and wonderful shots hereached the green in twelve.
Harding's putting was a revelation in how not to drop a ball in a cup.He went back and forth over the hole like a shuttle. This performanceadded six to his score, and he holed out in nineteen. He was fightingmad, but did not say a word. While the rest of us were holing out hesullenly added seventeen notches to his club.
I was astonished and pleased at the reversal in
form shown by MissHarding. Two iron shots laid her ball on the green, her approach was alittle weak, and she missed an easy two-foot putt, but she made the holein seven, which is not at all bad for a woman. Carter and I both gotfours.
When Harding finally got his ball out of the old graveyard in playingthe second hole there was a dispute as to how many strokes he had taken.I counted twelve, but he claimed only nine, and we let him have his ownway about it. I did not dare to dispute with him, fearing that he mighthave a stroke of apoplexy. He marked eleven new notches on his clubshaft for this hole.
He made a fair drive over the marsh on his third hole, flubbed hissecond and third shots, but his fourth was a screaming brassie whichlanded him on the green within two inches of the cup. It was one ofthose freak shots which a man makes once a season, but Harding tookvast credit for it and was the happiest person on the links over hisbogy five for this long hole.
Miss Harding was playing like a veteran. This hole is 355 yards from thetee, but she was well on the green on her third, and holed out in six.Carter did the same, but I got a five and saved the hole for our side.
I do not know how to account for Miss Harding's improved playing. It wasnot in the least like that of the day when we were alone. For the entireeighteen holes she played steady, consistent golf. It was not brilliant,but it was a creditable exhibition for a woman. She kept on the course,missed only two drives, and rarely failed to get distance and direction.
Not until we had played half-way around and Harding was hopelesslybehind did he give voice to his amazement.
"This is the time you have got the old man down and out, Kid," he said,after she had made the ninth hole in four to his fourteen. "I'll admitthat there is a trick about this game that I'm not on to, but you justwait; you just wait. I seem to hit 'em all right, but confound 'em, theydon't go right. I don't understand it. I'd have bet a million dollarsagainst a perfecto cigar that I could drive a ball farther than a125-pound girl, even if she is my daughter."
"We will call our bet off, Mr. Harding," I suggested, satisfied that wehad tumbled him from the pedestal reared by his conceit.
"We'll call nothing off," he promptly declared. "Soak it to me as hardas you can; I'll get even with all of you before the season's over."
No language can describe the game played by the railway magnate. Hismiserable playing was supplemented by worse luck. A predatory cowswallowed his ball. He drove another one into the crotch of a tree, hitCarter in the shin, broke a window in the club house, tore his trousers,sprained his thumb, and poisoned his hands with ivy while searching fora lost ball. He conversed much with himself when Miss Harding was notnear.
The nicks in his club by which he kept score became so numerous, andthey so weakened the shaft, that he finally broke it; also one of thecommandments.
The story of his calamities and of his undoing is feebly indicated byhis score, which was as follows:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Out-- 19 11 5 7 12 9 8 16 14--101 In--- 8 6 10 5 7 7 11 5 12-- 71 --- Total --172
Miss Harding made it in 116, and with a reasonable amount of luck I amsure she would have done much better. I played a rattling good game,completing the round in 80, which is the best score I have made thisseason.
I put it all over Carter, who had made me a side bet of the dinners forthe four of us that his individual score would be better than mine.
Miss Harding won an automobile which will cost not less than $15,000; Iwon fifty-six dozen golf balls, enough to last me two years; Carter losta dinner which I thoroughly enjoyed, and Mr. Harding lost his temper,but I will give him credit for finding it the moment the game was over.
He laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
"You threw me down, Kid," he said to Miss Harding, "but I'll forgiveyou. You get the buzz wagon and Smith gets a cartload of balls, but I'lltell you one thing, and that is this: I'm going to learn how to hit oneof those blamed balls in the nose every time I swipe at it, even if Ihave to resign the presidency of the R.G. & K. railroad."
I can see that the golf microbe has marked him for a shining victim.