by Julie Ganz
Whipple was weak on putting, and his first stroke with an iron failed to carry his ball to the hole. West, on the contrary, was a sure player on the green, and now with his ball but four yards from the hole he had just the opportunity he desired to better his score. The green was level and clean, and West selected a small iron putter, and addressed the ball with all the attention to form that the oldest St. Andrews veteran might desire. Playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, West gave a long stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view. Whipple holed out on his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood fifteen strokes each.
The honor was West’s, and he led off for End Hole with a beautiful brassie drive that cleared the first two bunkers with room to spare. Whipple, for the first time in the round, drove poorly, toeing his ball badly, and dropping it almost off of the course and just short of the second bunker. West’s second drive was a loft over Halfway Bunker that fell fairly on the green and rolled within ten feet of the hole. From there, on the next shot, he holed out very neatly in eighteen. Whipple meanwhile had redeemed himself with a high lofting stroke that carried past the threatening dangers of Masters Bunker and back on to the course within a few yards of West’s lie. But again skill on the putting green was wanting, and he required two strokes to make the hole. Once more the honor was West’s, and that youth turned toward home with a short and high stroke. The subsequent hole left the score “the like” at 22, and the seventh gave Whipple, 25, West 26.
“But here’s where Mr. West takes the lead,” confided that young gentleman to Joel as they walked to the teeing ground. “From here to Lake Hole is four hundred and ninety-six yards, and I’m going to do it in three shots on to the green. You watch!”
Four hundred and ninety-odd yards is nothing out of the ordinary for an older player, but to a lad of seventeen it is a creditable distance to do in three drives. Yet that is what West did it in; and strange to relate, and greatly to that young gentleman’s surprise, Whipple duplicated the performance, and amid the excited whispers of the onlookers the two youths holed out on their next strokes; and the score still gave the odd to West—29 to 30.
“I didn’t think he could do it,” whispered West to Joel, “and that makes it look bad for your uncle Out. But never mind, my lad, there’s still Rocky Bunker ahead of us, and——” West did not complete his remark, but his face took on a very determined look as he teed his ball. The last hole was in sight, and victory hovered overhead.
Now, the distance from Lake Hole to the Home Hole is but a few yards over three hundred, and it can be accomplished comfortably in two long brassie drives. Midway lies The Hill, a small elevation rising from about the middle of the course to the river bluff, and there falling off sheer to the beach below. It is perhaps thirty yards across, and if the ball reaches it safely it forms an excellent place from which to make the second drive. So both boys tried for The Hill. Whipple landed at the foot of it, while West came plump upon the side some five yards from the summit, and his next drive took him cleanly over Rocky Bunker and to the right of the Home Green. But Whipple summoned discretion to his aid, and instead of trying to make the green on the next drive, played short, and landed far to the right of the Bunker. This necessitated a short approach, and by the time he had gained the green and was “made” within holing distance of the flag, the score was once more even, and the end was in sight.
And now the watchers moved about restlessly, and Joel found his heart in his throat. But West gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the situation. It was quite possible for a skillful player to hole out on the next stroke from Whipple’s lie. West, on the contrary, was too far distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in one play. Whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in bettering his lie was the question. Whipple, West knew, was weak on putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent’s weakness. While West pondered, Whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for an occasional nervous whisper.
Then West leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. It was the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but West was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted him. His mind was made up. Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant goal. Then there was a pause. Whipple no longer studied his own play; his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently against the grass. Joel leaned breathlessly forward. Professor Beck muttered under his breath, and then cried “S—sh!” to himself in an angry whisper. And then West’s club swung back gently, easily, paused an instant—and—forward sped the ball—on and on—slower— slower—but straight as an arrow—and then—Presto! it was gone from sight!
A moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that moment Professor Beck announced:
“The odd to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-three.” Then the group became silent again. Whipple addressed his ball. It was yet possible to tie the score. His face was pale, and for the first time during the tournament he felt nervous. A better player could scarce have missed the hole from Whipple’s lie, but for once that youth’s nerve forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole. The game was decided. Professor Beck again announced the score:
“The two more to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-four.” Again Whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng broke silence. And as West and Whipple, victor and vanquished, shook hands over the Home Hole, Professor Beck announced:
“Thirty-two to thirty-five. West wins the Cup!”
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THE STORY OF SIMPSON AND HIS DECISION TO TAKE UP GOLF
A. A. MILNE
Well,” said Dahlia, “what do you think of it?”
I knocked the ashes out of my after-breakfast pipe, arranged the cushions of my deck-chair, and let my eyes wander lazily over the house and its surroundings. After a year of hotels and other people’s houses, Dahlia and Archie had come into their own.
“I’ve no complaints,” I said, happily.
A vision of white and gold appeared in the doorway and glided over the lawn toward us—Myra with a jug.
“None at all,” said Simpson, sitting up eagerly.
“But Thomas isn’t quite satisfied with one of the bathrooms, I’m afraid. I heard him saying something in the passage about it this morning when I was inside.”
“I asked if you’d gone to sleep in the bath,” explained Thomas.
“I hadn’t. It is practically impossible, Thomas, to go to sleep in a cold bath.”
“Except, perhaps, for a Civil Servant,” said Blair.
“Exactly. Of the practice in the Admiralty, Thomas can tell us later on. For myself I was at the window looking at the beautiful view.”
“Why can’t you look at it from your own window instead of keeping people out of the bathroom?” grunted Thomas.
“Because the view from my room is an entirely different one.”
“There is no stint in this house,” Dahlia pointed out.
“No,” said Simpson, jumping up excitedly.
Myra put the jug of cider down in front of us.
“There!” she said. “Please count it, and see that I haven’t drunk any on the way.”
“’Tis awfully nice of you, Myra. And a complete surprise to all of us except Simpson. We shall probably be here again tomorrow about the same time.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the extremely jolly sound of liquid falling from a height.
Just as it was coming to an end Archie appeared suddenly among us and dropped on the grass by the side of Dahlia. Simpson looked guiltily at the e
mpty jug, and then leant down to his host.
“Tomorrow!” he said in a stage whisper. “About the same time.”
“I doubt it,” said Archie.
“I know it for a fact,” protested Simpson.
“I’m afraid Myra and Samuel made an assignation for this morning,” said Dahlia.
“There’s nothing in it, really,” said Myra. “He’s only trifling with me. He doesn’t mean anything.”
Simpson buried his confused head in his glass, and proceeded to change the subject.
“We all like your house, Archie,” he said.
“We do,” I agreed, “and we think it’s very nice of you to ask us down to open it.”
“It is rather,” said Archie.
“We are determined, therefore, to do all we can to give the house a homey appearance. I did what I could for the bathroom this morning. I flatter myself that the taint of newness has now been dispelled.”
“I was sure it was you,” said Myra. “How do you get the water right up the walls?”
“Easily. Further, Archie, if you want any suggestions as to how to improve the place, our ideas are at your disposal.”
“For instance,” said Thomas, “where do we play cricket?”
“By the way, you fellows,” announced Simpson, “I’ve given up playing cricket.”
We all looked at him in consternation.
“Do you mean you’ve given up bowling?” said Dahlia, with wide-open eyes.
“Aren’t you ever going to walk to the wicket again?”asked Blair.
“Aren’t you ever going to walk back to the pavilion again?” asked Archie.
“What will Montgomeryshire say?” wondered Myra in tones of awe.
“May I have your belt and your sand-shoes?” I begged.
“It’s the cider,” said Thomas. “I knew he was overdoing it.”
Simpson fixed his glasses firmly on his nose and looked round at us benignly.
“I’ve given it up for golf,” he observed.
“Traitor,” said every one.
“And the Triangular Tournament arranged for, and everything,” added Myra.
“You could make a jolly little course round here,” went on the infatuated victim. “If you like, Archie, I’ll—”
Archie stood up and made a speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “at 11:30 tomorrow precisely I invite you to the paddock beyond the kitchen-garden.”
“Myra and I have an appointment,” put in Simpson hastily.
“A net will be erected,” Archie went on, ignoring him, “and Mr. Simpson will take his stand therein, while we all bowl at him—or, if any prefer it, at the wicket—for five minutes. He will then bowl at us for an hour, after which he will have another hour’s smart fielding practice. If he is still alive and still talks about golf, why, then, I won’t say but what he mightn’t be allowed to plan out a little course—or, at any rate, to do a little preliminary weeding.”
“Good man,” said Simpson.
“And if anybody else thinks he has given up cricket for ludo or croquet or oranges and lemons, then he can devote himself to planning out a little course for that too—or anyhow to removing a few plantains in preparation for it. In fact, ladies and gentlemen, all I want is for you to make yourselves as happy and as useful as you can.”
“It’s what you’re here for,” said Dahlia.
A GALA PERFORMANCE
The sun came into my room early next morning and woke me up. It was followed immediately by a large blue-bottle which settled down to play with me. We adopted the usual formation, the blue-bottle keeping mostly to the back of the court whilst I waited at the net for a kill. After two sets I decided to change my tactics. I looked up at the ceiling and pretended I wasn’t playing. The bluebottle settled on my nose and walked up my forehead. “Heavens!” I cried, “I’ve forgotten my toothbrush!” This took it completely by surprise, and I removed its corpse into the candlestick.
Then Simpson came in with a golf club in his hand.
“Great Scott,” he shouted, “you’re not still in bed?”
“I am not. This is telepathic suggestion. You think I’m in bed; I appear to be in bed; in reality there is no bed here. Do go away— I haven’t had a wink of sleep yet.”
“But, man, look at the lovely morning!”
“Simpson,” I said sternly, rolling up the sleeves of my pyjamas with great deliberation, “I have had one visitor already today. His corpse is now in the candlestick. It is an omen, Simpson.”
“I thought you’d like to come outside with me, and I’d show you my swing.”
“Yes, yes, I shall like to see that, but after breakfast, Simpson. I suppose one of the gardeners put it up for you? You must show me your box of soldiers and your tricycle horse, too. But run away now, there’s a good boy.”
“My golf swing, idiot.”
I sat up in bed and stared at him in sheer amazement. For a long time words wouldn’t come to me. Simpson backed nervously to the door.
“I saw the Coronation,” I said at last, and I dropped back on my pillow and went to sleep.
* * * * *
“I feel very important,” said Archie, coming on to the lawn where Myra and I were playing a quiet game of bowls with the croquet balls. “I’ve been paying the wages.”
“Archie and I do hate it so,” said Dahlia. “I’m luckier, because I only pay mine once a month.”
“It would be much nicer if they did it for love,” said Archie, “and just accepted a tie-pin occasionally. I never know what to say when I hand a man eighteen-and-six.”
“Here’s eighteen-and-six,” I suggested, “and don’t bite the half-sovereign, because it may be bad.”
“You should shake his hand,” said Myra, “and say, ‘Thank you very much for the azaleas.’”
“Or you might wrap the money up in paper and leave it for him in one of the beds.”
“And then you’d know whether he had made it properly.”
“Well, you’re all very helpful,” said Archie “Thank you extremely. Where are the others? It’s a pity that they should be left out of this.”
“Simpson disappeared after breakfast with his golf clubs. He is in high dudgeon—which is the surname of a small fish—because no one wanted to see his swing.”
“Oh, but I do!” said Dahlia, eagerly. “Where is he?”
“We will track him down,” announced Archie. “I will go to the stables, unchain the truffle-hounds, and show them one of his reversible cuffs.”
We found Simpson in the pigsty. The third hole, as he was planning it out for Archie, necessitated the carrying of the farm buildings, which he described as a natural hazard. Unfortunately, his ball had fallen into a casual pigsty. It had not yet been decided whether the ball could be picked out without penalty—the more immediate need being to find the blessed thing. So Simpson was in the pigsty, searching.
“If you’re looking for the old sow,” I said, “there she is, just behind you.”
“What’s the local rule about loose pigs blown on to the course?” asked Archie.
“Oh, you fellows, there you are!” said Simpson rapidly.” I’m getting on first-rate. This is the third hole, Archie. It will be rather good, I think; the green is just the other side of the pond I can make a very sporting little course.”
“We’ve come to see your swing, Samuel,” said Myra. “Can you do it in there, or is it too crowded?”
“I’ll come out. This ball’s lost, I’m afraid.”
“One of the little pigs will eat it,” complained Archie, “and we shall have india-rubber crackling.”
Simpson came out and proceeded to give his display. Fortunately the weather kept fine, the conditions indeed being all that could be desired. The sun shone brightly, and there was a slight breeze from the south which tempered the heat and in no way militated against the general enjoyment. The performance was divided into two parts. The first part consisted of Mr. Simpson’s swing without the b
all, the second part being dovoted to Mr. Simpson’s swing with the ball.
“This is my swing,” said Simpson.
He settled himself ostentatiously into his stance, and placed his club-head stiffly on the ground three feet away from him.
“Middle,” said Archie.
Simpson frowned and began to waggle his club. He waggled it carefully a dozen times.
“It’s a very nice swing,” said Myra, at the end of the ninth movement,” but isn’t it rather short?”
Simpson said nothing, but drew his club slowly and jerkily back, twisting his body and keeping his eye fixed on an imaginary ball until the back of his neck hid it from sight.
“You can see it better round this side now,” suggested Archie.
“He’ll split if he goes on,” said Thomas, anxiously. “Watch this,” I warned Myra. “He’s going to pick a pin out of the back of his calf with his teeth.”
Then Simpson let himself go, finishing up in a very creditable knot indeed.
“That’s quite good,” said Dahlia. “Does it do as well when there’s a ball?”
“Well, I miss it sometimes, of course.”
“We all do that,” said Thomas.
Thus encouraged, Simpson put down a ball and began to address it. It was apparent at once that the last address had been only his telegraphic one; this was the genuine affair. After what seemed to be four or five minutes there was a general feeling that some apology was necessary. Simpson recognized this himself.
“I’m a little nervous,” he said.
“Not so nervous as the pigs are,” said Archie.
Simpson finished his address and got on to his swing. He swung. He hit the ball. The ball, which seemed to have too much left-hand side on it, whizzed off and disappeared into the pond. It sank. . . .