 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, Jonathan'sGolfShop.blogspot.com, Perth, Western Australia, August 2009. The Clicking of Cuthbert by PG Woodhouse. Forward. Dedication. To the immortal memory of John Henry and Pat Rogie, who at Edinburgh in the year 1593 AD, were imprisoned for playing of the golf on the links of Leith, every Sabbath the time of the sermons is. Also of Robert Robertson, who got it in the neck in 1604 AD for the same reason. Four. This book marks an epoch in my literary career. It is written in blood. It is the outpouring of a soul as deeply seared by fates unkindness as the pretty on the dog leg hole of the second nine was ever seared by my iron. It is the work of a very nearly desperate man, an 18 handicap man who has got to look extremely slippy if he doesn't want to find himself in the 20s again. As a writer of light fiction, I have always till now been handicapped by the fact that my disposition was cheerful, my heart intact, and my life unsoured. Handicapped, I say, because the public likes to feel that a writer of farcical stories is frequently miserable in his private life, and that if he turns out anything amusing, he does it simply in order to obtain relief from the almost insupportable weight of an existence, which he has long since realized to be a washout. Well, today I am just like that. Two years ago, I admit, I was a shallow farcer. My work lacked depth. I wrote flippantly simply because I was having a thoroughly good time. Then I took up golf, and now I can smile through the tears and laugh, like Figaro, that I may not weep, and generally hold my head up and feel that I am entitled to respect. If you find anything in this volume that amuses you, kindly bear in mind that it was probably written on my return home after losing three balls in the gorse, or breaking the head off a favorite driver, and with a murmured, brave fellow, brave fellow, recall the story of the clown jesting while his child lay dying at home. That is all. Thank you for your sympathy. It means more to me than I can say. Do you think that if I tried the square stance for a bit? But after all, this cannot interest you. Leave me to my misery. Postscript In the second chapter, I allude to stout Cortes staring at the Pacific. Shortly after the appearance of this narrative in serial form in America, I received an anonymous letter containing the words, You big stiff, it wasn't Cortes, it was Balboa. This, I believe, is historically accurate. On the other hand, if Cortes was good enough for Keats, he is good enough for me. Besides, even if it was Balboa, the Pacific was open for being stared at about that time, and I see no reason why Cortes should not have had a look at it as well. PG Woodhouse End of forward. Chapter 1 of The Clicking of Cuthbert This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, August 2009. The Clicking of Cuthbert by PG Woodhouse. Chapter 1. The Clicking of Cuthbert The young man came into the smoking-room of the clubhouse, and flugged his bag with a clatter on the floor. He sank moodily into an armchair and pressed the bell. Wait a— Suu. The young man pointed at the bag with every evidence of distaste. You may have these clubs, he said. Take them away. If you don't want them, yourself, give them to one of the caddies. Across the room, the oldest member gazed at him with a grave sadness through the smoke of his pipe. His eye was deep and dreamy. The eye of a man who, as the poet says, has seen golf steadily, and seen it whole. You are giving up golf, he said. He was not altogether unprepared for such an attitude on the young man's part. For from his eye-ree on the terrace above the ninth-green, he had observed him start out on the afternoon's round, and had seen him lose a couple of balls in the lake at the second hole after taking seven strokes in the first. Yes, pried the young man fiercely, forever, dammit, footling game, blanked infernal, fat-headed, silly ass of a game, nothing but a waste of time. The sage winced. Don't say that, my boy. But I do say it. What earthly good is golf? Life is stern and life is earnest. We live in a practical age. All around us we see foreign competition making life unpleasant, and we spend our time playing golf. What do we get out of it? Is golf any use? That's what I'm asking you. Can you name me a single case where devotion to this pestilential pastime has done a man any practical good? The sage smiled gently. I could name a thousand. One will do. I will select, said the sage, from the innumerable memories that rushed to my mind the story of Cuthbert Banks. Never heard of him. Be of good cheer, said the oldest member. You are going to hear of him now. It was in the picturesque little settlement of Woodhills, said the oldest member, that the incidents occurred which I am about to relate. Even if you have never been in Woodhills, that suburban paradise is probably familiar to you by name. Situated at a convenient distance from the city, it combines in a notable manner the advantages of town life with the pleasant surroundings and helpful air of the country. Its inhabitants live in commodious houses, standing in their own grounds, and enjoy so many luxuries such as gravel soil, main drainage, electric light, telephone, baths, HNC, and company's own water, that you might be pardoned for imagining life to be so ideal for them that no possible improvement could be added to their lot. Mrs. Willoughby Smithhurst was under no such delusion. What Woodhills needed to make it perfect, she realized, was culture. Material comforts are all very well. But if the summum bonum is to be achieved, the soul also demands a look in, and it was Mrs. Smithhurst's unfaltering resolve that never while she had her strength should the soul be handed the loser's end. It was her intention to make Woodhills a center of all that was most cultivated and refined, and golly how she had succeeded. Under her presidency, the Woodhills Literary and Debating Society had tripled its membership. But there is always a fly in the ointment, a caterpillar in the salad, the local golf club, an institution to which Mrs. Smithhurst strongly objected, had also tripled its membership, and the division of the community into two rival camps, the golfers and the cultured, had become more marked than ever. This division, always acute, had attained now to the dimensions of a schism. The rival sex treated one another with a cold hostility. Unfortunate episodes came to widen the breach. Mrs. Smithhurst's house adjoined the links, standing to the right of the fourth tee, and as the literary society was in the habit of entertaining visiting lecturers, many a golfer had foosled his drive owing to sudden loud outbursts of applause coinciding with his downswing. And not long before this story opens, a sliced ball whizzing in at the open window had come with an ace of incapacitating Raymond Parcelot Devine, the rising young novelist who rose at that moment a clear foot and a half from any further exercise of his art. Two inches, indeed to the right, and Raymond must inevitably have handed in his dinner pail. To make matters worse, a ring at the front doorbell followed almost immediately, and the maid ushered in a young man of pleasing appearance in a sweater and baggy knickerbuckers, who apologetically but firmly insisted on playing his ball where it lay, and what with the shock of the lecturers' narrow escape, and the spectacle of the intruder standing on the table and working away with a niblick, the afternoon session had to be classed as a complete frost. Mr. Devine's determination, from which no argument could swerve him, to deliver the rest of his lecture in the coal cellar, gave the meeting a jolt, from which it never recovered. I have dwelt upon this incident, because it was the means of introducing Cuthbert Banks to Mrs. Smithhurst's niece, Adeline. As Cuthbert, for it was he who had so nearly reduced the muster role of rising novelist by one, hopped down from the table after his stroke, he was suddenly aware that a beautiful girl was looking at him intently. As a matter of fact, everyone in the room was looking at him intently, none more so than Raymond Postlow Devine, but none of the others were beautiful girls. Long as the members of Woodhill's Literary Society were on brain, they were short on looks, and to Cuthbert's excited eye, Adeline Smithhurst stood out like a jewel in a pile of coke. He had never seen her before, for she had only arrived at her aunt's house on the previous day, but he was perfectly certain that life, even when lived in the midst of gravel-soil main drainage in company's own water, was going to be a pretty poor affair if he did not see her again. Yes, Cuthbert was in love, and it is interesting to record, as showing the effect of the tender emotion on a man's game, that twenty minutes after he had met Adeline he did the short eleventh in one, and as near as the toucher got a three on the four hundred yard twelfth. I will skip lightly over the intermediate stages of Cuthbert's courtship, and come to the moment when, at the annual ball in aid of the local cottage hospital, the only occasion during the year on which the lion, so to speak, lay down with the lamb, and the golfers in the cultured met on terms of easy comradeship, their differences temporary laid aside, he proposed to Adeline, and was badly stymied. That fair, soulful girl could not see him with a spy-glass. Mr. Banks, she said, I will speak frankly. Charge right ahead, assented Cuthbert, deeply sensible as I am of, I know of the honor and the compliment and all that, but passing lightly over that guff, what seems to be the trouble? I love you to distraction. Love is not everything. You're wrong, said Cuthbert earnestly. You're right off it. Love! And he was about to dilate on the theme when she interrupted him. I am a girl of ambition. And very nice, too, said Cuthbert. I am a girl of ambition, repeated Adeline, and I realized that the fulfillment of my ambitions must come through my husband. I am very ordinary myself. What! cried Cuthbert. You ordinary? Why you are a pearl among women, the queen of your sex. You can't have been looking in a glass lately. You stand alone. Simply alone. You make the rest look like battered repaints. Well, said Adeline, softening a trifle, I believe I am fairly good looking. Anybody who was content to call you fairly good looking would describe the Taj Mahal as a pretty nifty tomb. But that is not the point. What I mean is, if I marry a non-entity, I shall be a non-entity myself forever, and I would sooner die than be a non-entity. And if I follow your reasoning, you think that that lets me out. Well, really, Mr. Banks, have you done anything or are you likely to ever do anything worthwhile? Cuthbert hesitated. It's true, he said. I didn't finish in the first ten in the open, and I was knocked out of the semifinal in the amateur. But I won the French Open last year. The what? The French Open Championship. Golf, you know. Golf. You waste all your time playing golf. I admire a man who is more spiritual, more intellectual. A pang of jealousy, rent Cuthbert's bosom. Like what's his name, Devine, he said sullenly. Mr. Devine, replied Adeline, lushing faintly, is going to be a great man. Already he has achieved much. The critics say that he is more Russian than any other young English writer. And is that good? Of course it's good. I should have thought the wheeze would be to be more English than any other young English writer. Nonsense, who wants an English writer to be English? You've got to be Russian or Spanish or something to be a real success. The mantle of the great Russians has descended on Mr. Devine. From what I've heard of Russians, I should hate to have that happen to me. There is no danger of that, said Adeline Scornfully. Oh, well let me tell you that there is a lot more in me than you think. That might easily be so. You think I'm not spiritual intellectual, said Cuthbert, deeply moved. Very well. Tomorrow I join the literary society. Even as he spoke the words, his leg was itching to kick himself for being such a chump. But the sudden expression of pleasure on Adeline's face soothed him, and he went home that night with the feeling that he had taken on something rather attractive. It was only in the cold gray light of the morning that he realized what he had let himself in for. I do not know if you have had any experience of suburban literary societies, but the one that flourished under the eye of Mrs. Willoughby Smithhurst at Wood Hills was rather more so than the average. With my feeble powers of narrative, I cannot hope to make clear to you all that Cuthbert Banks endured in the next few weeks, and even if I could, I doubt if I should do so. It is all very well to excite pity and terror, as Aristotle recommends, but there are limits. In the ancient Greek tragedies it was an ironclad rule that all the real rough stuff should take place off stage, and I shall follow this admirable principle. It will suffice, if I say merely, that Jay Cuthbert Banks had a thin time. After attending eleven debates and fourteen lectures on Verse Libre, poetry, the seventeenth-century essayist, the neo-scandinavian movement in Portuguese literature, and other subjects of a similar nature, he grew so enfeebled that, on the rare occasions when he had time for a visit to the links, he had to take a full iron for his mashy shots. It was not simply the oppressive nature of the debates and lectures that zapped his vitality. What really got right in amongst him was the torture of seeing Adeline's adoration of Raymond Parcelot de Veen. The man seemed to have made the deepest possible impression upon her plastic emotions. When he spoke, she leaned forward with parted lips and looked at him. When he was not speaking, which was seldom, she leaned back and looked at him. And when he happened to take the next seat to her, she leaned sideways and looked at him. One glance at Mr. de Veen would have been more than enough for Cuthbert, but Adelaide found him a spectacle that never pawled. She could not have gazed at him with a more rapturous intensity if she had been a small child, and he a saucer of ice cream. All this Cuthbert had to witness, while still endeavouring to retain the possession of his faculties sufficiently to enable him to duck and back away, if somebody suddenly asked him what he thought of the sombre reel of his It is little wonder that he tossed in bed, picking at the coverlet through sleepless nights, and had to have all his waistcoats taken in three inches to keep them from sagging. This Vladimir Brusilov, to whom I have referred, was the famous Russian novelist, and owing to the fact of his being in the country on a lecturing tour at the moment, there had been something of a boom in his works. The Woodhills Literary Society had been studying them for weeks, and never since his first entrance into intellectual circles had Cuthbert Banks come nearer to throwing in the towel. Vladimir specialized in grey studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happened till page 380 when the Muzhik decided to commit suicide. It was tough going for a man whose deepest reading hitherto had been vaarden on the push-shot, and there can be no greater proof of the magic of love than the fact that Cuthbert stuck it without a cross, than the fact that Cuthbert stuck it without a cry. But the strain was terrible, and I am inclined to think that he must have cracked had it not been for the daily reports in the papers of the internecine strife which was proceeding so briskly in Russia. Cuthbert was an optimist at heart, and it seemed to him that, at the rate at which the inhabitants of that interesting country were murdering one another, the supply of Russian novelists must eventually give out. One morning, as he taught her down the road for the short walk, which was now almost the only exercise to which he was equal, Cuthbert met Adeline. A spasm of anguish flitted through all his nerve centers, as he saw that she was accompanied by Raymond Paraslo Devine. Good morning, Mr. Banks, said Adeline. Good morning, said Cuthbert Hollily. Such good news about Vladimir Brusilov. Dead, said Cuthbert, with a touch of hope. Dead, of course not. Why should he be? No, Aunt Emily met his manager after his lecture at Queen's Hall yesterday, and he has promised that Mr. Brusilov shall come to her next Wednesday reception. Oh, ah, said Cuthbert, Dully. I don't know how she managed it. I think she must have told him that Mr. Devine would be there to meet him. But you said he was coming, argued Cuthbert. I shall be very glad, said Raymond Devine. Of the opportunity of meeting Brusilov. I'm sure, said Adeline. He will be very glad of the opportunity of meeting you. Possibly, said Mr. Devine. Possibly. Competent critics have said that my work closely resembles that of the great Russian masters. Your psychology is so deep. Yes, yes. And your atmosphere? Quite. Cuthbert, in a perfect agony of spirit, prepared to withdraw from this love-feast. The sun was shining brightly, but the world was black to him. Birds sang in the treetops, but he did not hear them. He might have been a moujik for all the pleasure he found in life. You will be there, Mr. Banks? said Adeline as he turned away. Oh, all right, said Cuthbert. When Cuthbert had entered the drawing-room on the following Wednesday, and had taken his usual place in the distant corner where, while able to feast his gaze on Adeline, he had a sporting chance of being overlooked or mistaken for a piece of furniture, he perceived the great Russian thinker seated in the midst of a circle of admiring females. Raymond Parcelo Devine had not yet arrived. His first glance at the novelist surprised Cuthbert. Doubtless with the best motives, Vladimir Bruzilov had permitted his face to become almost entirely concealed behind a dense zareba of hair, but his eyes were visible through the undergrowth, and it seemed to Cuthbert that there was an expression in them not unlike that of a cat in a strange backyard surrounded by small boys. The man looked forlorn and hopeless, and Cuthbert wondered whether he had had bad news from home. That was not the case. The latest news which Vladimir Bruzilov had had from Russia had been particularly cheering. Three of his principal creditors had perished in the last massacre of the bourgeoisie, and a man whom he owed for five years for a Samovar and a pair of Overshoes had fled the country and had not been heard of since. It was not bad news from home that was depressing Vladimir. What was wrong with him was the fact that this was the 82nd suburban literary reception he had been compelled to attend since he had landed in the country on his lecturing tour, and he was sick to death of it. When his agent had first suggested the trip, he had signed on the dotted line without an instant hesitation. Worked out in rubles, the fees offered had seemed just about right, but now, as he peered through the brushwood of the faces around him, and realized that eight out of ten of those present had manuscripts of some sort concealed on their persons, and were only waiting for an opportunity to whip them out and start reading, he wished he had stayed at his quiet home in Nizhki Novgorod, where the worst thing that could happen to a fellow was a brace of bombs coming in through the window and mixing themself up with his breakfast egg. At this point in his meditations, he was aware that his hostess was looming up before him with a pale young man in horned room spectacles at her side. There was in Mrs. Smithers' demeanor something of the unction of the master of ceremonies at the big fight who introduces the earnest gentleman who wishes to challenge the winner. Oh, Mr. Brusilov, said Mrs. Smithers, I do so want you to meet Mr. Raymond Parslow-Deveen, whose work I expect you to know. He is one of our younger novelists. The distinguished visitor peered in a wary and defensive manner through the shrubbery, but did not speak. Inwardly he was thinking how exactly like Mr. Deveen was to the 81 other younger novelists to whom he had been introduced at various hamlets throughout the country. Raymond Parslow-Deveen bowed courteously, while Cuthbert, wedged into his corner, glowered at him. The critics, said Mr. Deveen, have been kind enough to say that my poor efforts contain a good deal of the Russian spirit. I owe much to the great Russians. I have been greatly influenced by Sovietsky. Down in the forest, something stirred. It was Vladimir Brusilov's mouth opening as he prepared to speak. He was not a man who prattled readily, especially in a foreign tongue. He gave the impression that each word was excavated from his interior by some up-to-date process of mining. He glared bleakly at Mr. Deveen, and allowed three words to drop out of him. Sovietsky, no good! He paused for a moment, set the machinery working again, and delivered five more at the pit-head. I spit me of Sovietsky! There was a painful sensation. The lot of a popular idol is in many ways an enviable one, but it has the drawback of uncertainty. Here today, and gone tomorrow. Until this moment, Raymond Parslow-Deveen's stock had stood at something considerably over par in Woodhill's intellectual circles, but now there was a rapid slump. Hitherto, he had been greatly admired for being influenced by Sovietsky. But it appeared, now, that this was not a good thing to be. It was, evidently, a rotten thing to be. The law could not touch you for being influenced by Sovietsky, but there is an ethical as well as a legal code, and this it was obvious that Raymond Parslow-Deveen had transgressed. Women drew away from him slightly, holding their skirts. Men looked at him sensoriously. Adeline Smithers started violently and dropped a teacup. And Cuthbert Banks, doing his popular imitation of a sardine in his corner, felt for the first time life held something of sunshine. Raymond Parslow-Deveen was plainly shaken, but he made an adroit attempt to recover his lost prestige. When I say I have been influenced by Sovietsky, I mean, of course, that I was once under his spell. A young writer commits many follies. I have long since passed through that phase. The false glamour of Sovietsky has ceased to dazzle me. I now belong wholeheartedly to the school of Nastikov. And there was a reaction. People nodded at one another sympathetically. After all, we cannot expect old heads on young shoulders, and a lapse at the outset of one's career should not be held against one who has eventually seen the light. Nastikov, no good, said Vladimir Brusilov coldly. He paused, listening to the machinery. Nastikov, worse than Sovietsky. He paused again. I spit me of Nastikov, he said. This time there was no doubt about it. The bottom had dropped out of the market, and Raymond Parslow-Deveen preferred were down in the cellar with no takers. It was clear to the entire assembled company that they had been all wrong about Raymond Parslow-Deveen. They had allowed him to play on their innocence and sell them a pup. They had taken him at his own valuation, and had been cheated into admiring him as a man who amounted to something, and all the while he had belonged to the school of Nastikov. You never can tell. Mrs. Smithers' guests were well-bred, and there was consequently no violent demonstration. But you could see by their faces what they felt. Those nearest Raymond Parslow jostled to get further away. Mrs. Smithered eyed him stonely through a raised lawn yet. One or two low hisses were heard, and over at the other end of the room somebody opened the window in a marked manner. Raymond Parslow-Deveen hesitated for a moment, then realizing his situation turned and slunk to the door. There was an audible sigh of relief as it closed behind him. Vladimir Bruzilov proceeded to sum up. No novelist any good except me. Soviesky. Nastikov. I spit me of them all. No novelist anywhere any good except me. PG Woodhouse and Tolstoy not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelist any good except me. And having uttered this dictum, he removed a slab of cake from a nearby plate, steered it through the jungle, and began to champ. It is too much to say that there was a dead silence. There could never be that in any room in which Vladimir Bruzilov was eating cake, but certainly what you might call the general chit-chat was pretty well down and out. Nobody liked to be the first to speak. The members of the Woodhills Literary Society looked at one another timidly. Cuthbert, for his part, gazed at Adeline, and Adeline gazed into space. It was plain that the girl was deeply stirred. Her eyes were open wide, a faint flush crimson her cheeks, and her breath was coming quickly. Adeline's mind was in a whirl. She felt as if she had been walking gaily along a pleasant path, and had stopped suddenly on the very brink of a precipice. It would be idle to deny that Raymond Parzlo Devine had attracted her extraordinarily. She had taken him at his own valuation as an extremely hot potato, and her hero worship had gradually been turning into love. And now her hero had been shown to have feet of clay. It was hard, I consider, on Raymond Parzlo Devine, but that is how it goes in this world. You get a following as a celebrity, and then you run up against another bigger celebrity, and you're admirer as dessert you. One could moralize on this at considerable length. But better not, perhaps. Enough to say that the glamour of Raymond Devine ceased abruptly in that moment for Adeline, and her most coherent thought at this juncture was the resolve, as soon as she got up to her room, to burn the three-signed photographs he had sent her, and to give the autographed presentation set of his books to the grocers' boy. Mrs. Smithurst, meanwhile, having rallied somewhat, was endeavoring to set the feast of reason and flow of soul going again. And how do you like England, Mr. Bruseloff? She asked. The celebrity paused in the act of lowering another segment of cake. Damn good, he replied cordially. I suppose you've traveled all over the country by this time. You said it, agreed the thinker. Have you met many of our great public men? Yes, yes, quite a few of the nibs. Lloyd George, I meet him. But beneath the matting, a discontented expression came into his face, and his voice took on a peevish note. But I not meet your real great men, your Arb Nichelle, your Arrivadan. I not meet them. That's what gives me the pipivitch. Have you ever met Arb Nichelle in Arrivadan? A strained anguish look came into Mrs. Smithurst's face, and was reflected in the faces of the other members of the circle. The eminent Russian had sprung two entirely new ones on them, and they felt that their ignorance was about to be exposed. What would Vladimir Bruseloff think of the Woodhills Literary Society? The reputation of the Woodhills Literary Society was at stake, trembling in the balance, and coming up for the third time. In dumb agony, Mrs. Smithurst rolled her eyes about the room searching for someone capable of coming to the rescue. She drew blank. And then, from a distant corner, there sounded a deprecating cough. And those neareth Cuthbert Banks saw that he had stopped twisting his right foot around his left ankle, and his left foot around his right ankle, and was sitting up with the light of almost human intelligence in his eyes. Ah, said Cuthbert, lushing as every eye in the room seemed to fix itself on him. I think he means Abe Mitchell and Harry Varden. Abe Mitchell and Harry Varden, repeated Mrs. Smithurst blankly, I never heard of, yes, yes, most, very, shouted Vladimir Bruseloff enthusiastically. Are Michelle and Harry Varden? You know them, yes, what, no, perhaps? I played with Abe Mitchell often, and I was partnered with Harry Varden in last year's Open. The great Russian uttered a cry that shook the chandelier. You play in the Open? Why? He demanded reproachfully of Mrs. Smithurst, was I not been introduced to this young man who play in Opens? Well, really, faltered Mrs. Smithurst. Well, the fact is, Mr. Bruseloff, she broke off. She was unequal to the task of explaining, without hurting anyone's feelings, that she had always regarded Cuthbert as a piece of cheese and a blot on the landscape. Introduct me, thundered the celebrity. Why, certainly, certainly, of course. Mrs. Mr. She looked appealingly at Cuthbert. Banks, prompted Cuthbert. Banks, cried Vladimir Bruseloff. Not Cuthbert, Banks. Is your name Cuthbert? Asked Mrs. Smithurst faintly. Well, it's Cuthbert. Yes, yes, Cuthbert. There was a rush and swirl, as the effervescent Muscovite burst his way through the throng and rushed to where Cuthbert sat. He stood for a moment, eyeing him excitedly, then, stooping swiftly, kissed him on both cheeks before Cuthbert could get his guard up. My dear young man, I saw you, winzy French open. Great, great, grand, superb, hot stuff, and you can say I said so. Will you permit one who is but 18 at Nizhny Novgorod to salute you once more? And he kissed Cuthbert again, then brushing aside one or two intellectuals who were in the way. He dragged up a chair and sat down. You are a great man, he said. Oh no, said Cuthbert, honestly. Yes, great, most very, the way your approach puts dead from anywhere. Oh, I don't know. Mr. Brusilov drew his chair closer. Let me tell you one very funny story about putting. It was one day I played Nizhny Novgorod with the pro against Lenin and Trotsky, and Trotsky had a two-inch putt for the whole. But just as he addresses the ball, someone in the crowd, he tries to assassinate Lenin with a revolver. You know, that is our great national sport, trying to assassinate Lenin with revolvers. And the bang puts Trotsky off his stroke, and he goes five yards past the hole, and then Lenin, who is rather shaken, you understand, he misses again himself, and we win the hole and match, and I clean up 396,000 rubles, or 15 shillings in your money. Some game of itch. And now let me tell you one other very funny story. Desultory conversation had begun in murmurs over the rest of the room, as the Wood Hills intellectuals politely endeavored to conceal the fact that they realized that they were about as much out of it at this reunion of twin souls as cats at a dog show. From time to time they started as Vladimir Brusilov's laugh boomed out. Perhaps it was a consolation to them to know that he was enjoying himself. As for Adeline, how shall I describe her emotions? She was stunned. Before her very eyes, the stone which the builders had rejected had become the main thing. The hundred-to-one shot had walked away with the race. A rush of tender admiration for Cuthbert Banks flooded her heart. She saw that she had been all wrong. Cuthbert, whom she had always treated with patronizing superiority, was really a man to be looked up to in worship. A deep, dreamy sigh shook Adeline's fragile form. Half an hour later, Vladimir and Cuthbert Banks rose. Guttabai, Mrs. Smetthirst, said the celebrity. Thank you for a more charming visit. My friend Guttaboot and me, we go now to shoot a few holes. You will lend me clubs, friend Guttaboot. Any you want. The Niblikski is what I use most. Guttabai, Mrs. Smetthirst. They were moving to the door when Cuthbert felt a light touch on his arm. Adeline was looking at him tenderly. May I come, too, and walk round with you? Cuthbert's bosom heaved. Oh, he said, with a tremor in his voice, that you would walk round with me for life. Her eyes met his. Perhaps, she whispered softly, it could be arranged. And so, concluded the eldest member, you see that golf can be of the greatest practical assistance to a man in life's struggle. Raymond Poslo Devine, who is no player, had to move out of the neighborhood immediately, and is now, I believe, writing scenarios out in California for the Flickr film company. Adeline is married to Cuthbert, and it was only his earnest pleading which prevented her from having their eldest son christened Abe Mitchell ribbed face-mashing banks. For she is now as keen a devotee of the great game as her husband. Those who know them say that theirs is a union so devoted, so the sage broke off abruptly. For the young man had rushed to the door and out into the passage. Through the open door he could hear him crying passionately to the waiter to bring back his clubs. Chapter 2 A Woman is Only a Woman by P. G. Woodhouse On a fine day in the spring, summer, or early autumn, there are few spots more delightful than the terrace in front of our golf club. It is a vantage point peculiarly fitted to the man of philosophic mind, for from it may be seen that varied, never-ending pageant which men call golf in a number of its aspects. To your right, on the first tee, stand the cheery optimists who are about to make their opening drive happily conscious that even a topped shot will trickle a measurable distance down the steep hill. Away in the valley, directly in front of you, is the lake-hole, where these same optimists will be converted to pessimism by the wet splash of a new ball. At your side is the ninth green with its sinuous undulations which have so often wrecked the returning traveller inside of home. And at various points within your line of vision are the third tee, the sixth tee, and the sinister bunkers about the eighth green, none of them lacking in food for the reflective mind. It is on this terrace that the oldest member sits, watching the younger generation knocking at the divot. His gaze wanders from Jimmy Fathergill's 220-yard drive down the hill to the silver drops that flash up in the sun as young Freddy Woosley's mashy shot drops weakly into the waters of the lake. Returning, it rests upon Peter Willard, large and tall, and James Todd, small and slender, as they struggle up the fairway of the ninth. Love, says the oldest member, is an emotion which your true golfer should always treat with suspicion. Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying that love is a bad thing, only that it is an unknown quantity. I have known cases where marriage improved a man's game, and other cases where it seemed to put him right off his stroke. There seems to be no fixed rule. But what I do say is that a golfer should be cautious. He should not be led away by the first pretty face. I will tell you a story that illustrates the point. It is the story of those two men who have just got onto the ninth green, Peter Willard and James Todd. There is about great friendships between man and man, said the oldest member, a certain inevitability that can only be compared with the age-old association of ham and eggs. No one can say when it was that these two wholesome and palatable foodstuffs first came together, nor what was a mutual magnetism that brought their deathless partnership about. One simply feels that it is one of the things that must be so. Similarly with men, who can trace to its first beginnings the love of Damon for Pythias, of David for Jonathan, of Swan for Edgar, who can explain what it was about Cross that first attracted Blackwell. We simply say, these men are friends, and leave it at that. In the case of Peter Willard and James Todd, one may hazard the guess that the first link in the chain that bound them together was the fact that they took up golf within a few days of each other and contrived, as time went on, to develop such equal form at the game that the most expert critics are still baffled in their efforts to decide which is the worst player. I have heard the point argued a hundred times without any conclusion being reached. Supporters of Peter claim that his driving off the tee entitles him to an unchallenged preeminence among the world's most hopeless fuselors, only to be discomfited later when the advocates of James show, by means of diagrams, that no one has ever surpassed their man in absolute incompetence with the spoon. It is one of those problems where debate is futile. Few things draw two men together more surely than a mutual inability to master golf, coupled with an intense and ever-increasing love for the game. At the end of the first few months, when a series of costly experiments had convinced both Peter and James that there was not a tottering greybeard, nor a tottering infant in the neighborhood, whose downfall they could encompass, the two became inseparable. It was pleasanter, they found, to play together, and go neck and neck round the eighteen holes, than to take on some lissum youngster who could splatter them all over the course with one old ball and a cut-down clique stolen from his father, or some spavined elder who not only rubbed it into them, but was apt, between strokes, to bore them with personal reminiscences of the Crimean War. So they began to play together early and late. In the small hours before breakfast, long ere the first faint piping of the waking caddy made itself heard from the caddy shed, they were half-way through their opening round. And at close of day, when bats wheeled against the steely sky and the pros had stolen home to rest, you might see them in the deepening dusk, going through the concluding exercises of their final spasm. After dark they visited each other's houses and read golf books. If you have gathered from what I have said that Peter Willard and James Todd were fond of golf, I am satisfied. That is the impression I intended to convey. They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing of the spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke. It must not be thought, however, that they devoted too much of their time in their thoughts to golf, assuming indeed that such a thing is possible. Each was connected with a business in the metropolis, and often, before he left for the lynx, Peter would go to the trouble and expense of ringing up the office to say he would not be coming in that day. While I myself have heard James, and this not once but frequently, say, while lunching in the clubhouse, that he had half a mind to get Grace Church Street on the phone and ask how things were going. They were, in fact, the type of men of whom England is proudest, the backbone of a great country, toilers in the mart, untired businessmen, keen red-blooded men of affairs. If they played a little golf besides, who shall blame them? So they went on day by day, happy and contented, and then the woman came into their lives, like the serpent in the lynx of Eden, and perhaps for the first time they realized that they were not one entity, not one single indivisible something that made for top drives and short putts, but two individuals in whose breasts nature had implanted other desires than the simple ambition some day to do the dog-leg-hole on the second nine in under-double figures. My friends tell me that, when I am relating a story, my language is inclined at times a little to obscure my meaning. But if you understand from what I have been saying that James Todd and Peter Willard both fell in love with the same woman, all right, let us carry on. That is precisely what I was driving at. I have not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with Grace Forrester. I have seen her in the distance watering the flowers in her garden, and on these occasions her stance struck me as graceful, and once at a picnic I observed her killing wasps with a teaspoon, and was impressed by the freedom of the wrist action of her backswing. Beyond this I can say little, but she must have been attractive, for there can be no doubt of the earnestness with which both Peter and James fell in love with her. I doubt if either slept a wink the night of the dance at which it was their privilege first to meet her. The next afternoon, happening to encounter Peter in the bunker near the eleventh green, James said, That was a nice girl that miss— what's her name? And Peter, pausing for a moment from his trench digging, replied, Yes. And then James, with a paying, knew that he had a rival, for he had not mentioned Miss Forrester's name, and yet Peter had divine that it was to her that he had referred. Love is a fever, which, so to speak, drives off without wasting time on the address. On the very next morning, after the conversation which I have related, James Todd rang Peter Willard up on the phone, and cancelled their golf engagements for the day, on the plea of a sprained wrist. Peter, acknowledging the cancellation, stated that he himself had been on the point of ringing James up to say that he would be unable to play, owing to a slight headache. They met at tea-time at Miss Forrester's house. James asked how Peter's headache was, and Peter said it was a little better. Peter inquired after James sprained wrist, and was told it seemed on the mend. Miss Forrester dispensed tea and conversation to both impartially. They walked home together. After an awkward silence of twenty minutes, James said, There is something about the atmosphere, the aura, shall I say, that emanates from a good woman that makes a man feel that life has a new, a different meaning. Peter replied, Yes. When they reached James's door, James said, I won't ask you in to-night, old man, you want to go home and rest and cure that headache. Yes, said Peter. There was another silence. Peter was thinking that, only a couple of days before, James had told him that he had a copy of Sandy McBean's How to Become a Scratchman Your First Season by Studying Photographs, coming by parcel post from town, and they had arranged to read it aloud together. By now, thought Peter, it must be lying on his friend's table. The thought saddened him. And James, guessing what was in Peter's mind, was saddened too. But he did not waver. He was in no mood to read McBean's masterpiece that night. In the twenty minutes of silence, after leaving Miss Forrester, he had realized that grace rhymes with face, and he wanted to sit alone in his study and write poetry. The two men parted with a distant nod. I beg your pardon? Yes, you are right. Two distant nods. It was always a failing of mine to count the score erroneously. It is not my purpose to worry you by a minute recital of the happenings of each day that went by. On the surface, the lives of these two men seemed unchanged. They still played golf together, and during the round, achieved towards each other a manner that, superficially, retained all its ancient cheeriness and affection. If, I should say, when James topped his drive, Peter never failed to say hard luck, and when, or rather if Peter managed not to top his, James invariably said, Great! But things were not the same, and they knew it. It so happened, as it sometimes will on these occasions, for fate is a dramatist who gets his best effects with a small cast, were the only visible aspirants for the hand of Miss Forrester. Right at the beginning, young Freddie Woosley had seemed attracted by the girl, and had called once or twice with flowers and chocolates, but Freddie's affections never centered themselves on one object for more than a few days, and he had dropped out after the first week. From that time on, it became clear to all of us that, if Grace Forrester intended to marry anyone in the world, it would be either James or Peter, and a good deal of interest was taken in the matter by the local sportsman. So little was known of the form of the two men, neither having figured as principal in a love affair before, that even money was the best you could get, and the market was sluggish. I think my own flutter of twelve golf balls taken up by Percival Brown was the most substantial of any of the wagers. I selected James as the winner. Why, I can hardly say, unless that he had an aunt who contributed occasional stories to the woman's sphere. These things sometimes weigh with the girl. On the other hand, George Lucas, who had half a dozen of ginger ale on Peter, based his calculations on the fact that James wore nickerbockers on the links, and that no girl could possibly love a man with calves like that. In short, you see, we really had nothing to go on. Nor had James and Peter. The girls seemed to like them both equally. They never saw her except in each other's company. And it was not until one day, when Grace Forrester was knitting a sweater, that there seemed a chance of getting a clue to her hidden feelings. When the news began to spread through the place that Grace was knitting this sweater, there was a big sensation. The things seemed to us practically to amount to a declaration. That was the view that James Todd and Peter Willard took of it, and they used to call on Grace, watch her knitting, and come away with their heads full of complicated calculations. The whole thing hung on one point. To wit, what size the sweater was going to be, if it was large, then it must be for Peter. If small, then James was the lucky man. Neither dared to make open inquiries, but it began to seem almost impossible to find out the truth without them. No masculine eye can reckon up pearls and planes and estimate the size of chest which the garment is designed to cover. Moreover, with amateur knitters, there must always be allowed a margin for involuntary error. There were many cases during the war where our girls sent sweaters to their sweethearts, which would have induced strangulation in their young brothers. The amateur sweater of those days was, in fact, practically tantamount to German propaganda. Peter and James were accordingly baffled. One evening the sweater would look small, and James would come away jubilant. The next it would have swollen over a vast area, and Peter would walk home singing. The suspense of the two men can readily be imagined. On the one hand they wanted to know their fate. On the other they fully realized that whoever the sweater was for would have to wear it, and as it was a vivid pink and would probably not fit by a mile, their hearts quailed at the prospect. In all affairs of human tension there must come a breaking point. It came one night as the two men were walking home. Peter, said James, stopping in mid stride, he mopped his forehead. His manner had been feverish all the evening. Yes, said Peter. I can't stand this any longer. I haven't had a good night's rest for weeks. We must find out definitely which of us is to have that sweater. Let's go back and ask her, said Peter. So they turned back and rang the bell and went into the house and presented themselves before Miss Forrester. Lovely evening, said James to break the ice. Superb, said Peter. Delightful, said Miss Forrester, looking a little surprised at finding the troupe playing a return date without having booked it in advance. To settle a bet, said James, will you please tell us who, I should say, whom you are knitting that sweater for? It is not a sweater, replied Miss Forrester, with a womanly candor that well became her. It is a sock. And it is for my cousin Juliet's youngest son, Willie. Good night, said James. Good night, said Peter. Good night, said Grace Forrester. It was during the long hours of the night when ideas so often come to wakeful men that James was struck by an admirable solution of his and Peter's difficulty. It seemed to him that, were one or the other to leave Woodhaven, the survivor would find himself in a position to conduct his wooing as wooing should be conducted. Hitherto, as I have indicated, neither had allowed the other to be more than a few minutes alone with the girl. They watched each other like hawks, when James called, Peter called. When Peter dropped in, James invariably popped round. The thing had resolved itself into a stalemate. The idea which now came to James was that he and Peter should settle their rivalry by an eighteen-hole match on the links. He thought very highly of the idea before he finally went to sleep, and in the morning the scheme looked just as good to him as it had done overnight. James was breakfasting next morning, preparatory to going round to disclose his plan to Peter, when Peter walked in, looking happier than he had done for days. Morning, said James. Morning, said Peter. Peter sat down and toyed absently with a slice of bacon. I've got an idea, he said. One isn't many, said James, bringing his knife down with a jerk shot on a fried egg. What is your idea? Got it last night as I was lying awake. It struck me that, if either of us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fair chance. You know what I mean, with her. At present we've got each other stymied. Now how would it be, said Peter, abstractly spreading marmalade on his bacon, if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, the loser to leg out of the neighborhood and stay away long enough to give the winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood? James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye with his fork. That's exactly the idea I got last night, too. Then it's a go. It's the only thing to do. There was silence for a moment. Both men were thinking. Remember, they were friends. For years they had shared each other's sorrows, joys, and golf balls, and sliced into the same bunkers. Presently, Peter said, I shall miss you. What do you mean, miss me? When you're gone, Woodhaven won't seem the same place, but of course you'll soon be able to come back. I shan't waste any time proposing. Leave me your address, said James, and I'll send you a wire when you can return. You won't be offended if I don't ask you to be best man at the wedding. In the circumstances, it might be painful to you. Peter sighed dreamily. We'll have the sitting-room done in blue. Her eyes are blue. Remember, said James, there will always be a knife and fork for you at our little nest. Grace is not the woman to want me to drop my bachelor friends. Touching this match, said Peter, strict royal and ancient rules, of course. Certainly. I mean to say no offence, old man, but no grounding niblicks in bunkers. Precisely. And without hinting at anything personal, the ball shall be considered hold out only when it is in the hole, not when it stops on the edge. Undoubtedly. And, you know, I don't want to hurt your feelings. Missing the ball counts as a stroke, not as a practice swing. Exactly. And, you'll forgive me if I mention it, a player whose ball has fallen in the rough may not pull up all the bushes within a radius of three feet. In fact, strict rules. Strict rules. They shook hands without more words, and presently Peter walked out, and James, with a guilty look over his shoulder, took down Sandy McBean's great work from the bookshelf, and began to study the photograph of the short approach shot showing Mr. McBean swinging from point A through dotted line B-C to point D, his head the while remaining rigid at the spot marked with a cross. He felt a little guiltily that he had stolen a march on his friend, and that the contest was as good as over. I cannot recall a lovelier summer day than that on which the great Todd Willard 18-hole match took place. It had rained during the night, and now the sun shone down from a clear blue sky onto turf that glistened more greenly than the young grass of early spring. Butterflies flitted to and fro, birds sang merrily. In short, all nature smiled. And it is to be doubted if nature ever had a better excuse for smiling, or even laughing outright, for matches like that between James Todd and Peter Willard do not occur every day. Whether it was that love had keyed them up, or whether hours of study of Brady's advanced golf, and the badminton book had produced a belated effect, I cannot say. But both started off quite reasonably well. Our first hole, as you can see, is a bogey four, and James was dead on with the pin in seven, leaving Peter who had twice hit the United Kingdom with his mashy, in mistake for the ball, a difficult putt for the half. Only one thing could happen when you left Peter a difficult putt, and James advanced to the lake-hole one up, Peter, as he followed, trying to console himself with the thought that many of the best golfers prefer to lose the first hole and save themselves for a strong finish. Peter and James had played over the lake-hole so often that they had become accustomed to it, and had grown into the habit of sinking a ball or two as a preliminary formality with much the same stoicism displayed by those kings in ancient and superstitious times who used to fling jewelry into the sea to propitiate it before they took a voyage. But today, by one of those miracles without which golf would not be golf, each of them got over with his first shot, and not only over, but dead on the pin. Our pro himself could not have done better. I think it was at this point that the two men began to go to pieces. They were in an excited frame of mind, and this thing unmanned them. You will, no doubt, recall Keats' poem about Stout Cortez staring with eagle eyes at the Pacific, while all his men gazed at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a peak in Darien. Precisely so did Peter Willard and James Todd stare with eagle eyes at the second lake-hole, and gaze at each other with a wild surmise, silent upon a tea in Woodhaven. They had dreamed of such a happening so often, and woke to find the vision false, that at first they could not believe that the thing had actually occurred. I got it over, whispered James, in an odd voice. So did I, muttered Peter, in one, with my very first. They walked in silence around the edge of the lake and holed out. One putt was enough for each, and they have the hole with a two. Peter's previous record was eight, and James had once done a seven. There are times when strong men lose their self-control, and this was one of them. They reached the third tea in a daze, and it was here that mortification began to set in. The third hole is another bogie four, up the hill and past the tree that serves as a direction post, the hole itself being out of sight. On his day James had often done it in ten, and Peter in nine. But now they were unnerved. James, who had the honour, shook visibly as he addressed his ball. Three times he swung and only connected with the ozone. The fourth time he topped badly. The discs had been set back a little way, and James had the mournful distinction of breaking a record for the course by playing his fifth shot from the tea. It was a low, raking, brassy shot which carried a heap of stones twenty feet to the right and finished in a furrow. Peter, meanwhile, had pumped up a lofty ball which came to rest behind a stone. It was now that the rigid rules governing this contest began to take their toll. Had they been playing an ordinary, friendly round, each would have teed up on some convenient hillock and probably been past the tree with their second. For James would, in ordinary circumstances, have taken his drive back and regarded the strokes he had made as a little preliminary practice to get him into mid-season form. But today it was war to the nibblic and neither man asked nor expected quarter. Peter's seventh shot dislodged the stone, leaving him a clear field, and James, with his eleven, extricated himself from the furrow. Fifty feet from the tree, James was eighteen, Peter twelve. But then the latter, as every golfer does at times, suddenly went right off his game. He hit the tree four times, then hooked into the sandbunkers to the left of the hole. James, who had been playing a game that was steady without being brilliant, was on the green in twenty-six. Peter taking twenty-seven. Poor putting lost James the hole. Peter was down in thirty-three, but the pace was too hot for James. He missed a two-foot putt for the half, and they went to the fourth tee all square. The fourth hole follows the curve of the road, on the other side of which are picturesque woods. It presents no difficulties to the expert, but it has pitfalls for the novice. The dashing player stands for a slice, while the more cautious are satisfied if they can clear the bunker that spans the fairway and lay their ball well out to the left, whence an iron shot will take them to the green. Peter and James combined the two policies. Peter aimed to the left and got a slice, and James also aiming to the left, topped into the bunker. Peter, realizing from experience the futility of searching for his ball in the woods, drove a second, which also disappeared into the jungle, as did his third. By the time he had joined James in the bunker, he had played his sixth. It is the glorious uncertainty of golf that makes it the game it is. The fact that James and Peter, lying side by side in the same bunker, had played respectively one and six shots, might have induced an unthinking observer to fancy the chances of the former. And, no doubt, had he not taken seven strokes to extricate himself from the pit, while his opponent, by some act of God, contrived to get out in two, James's chances might have been extremely rosy. As it was, the two men staggered out onto the fairway again with a score of eight apiece. Once past the bunker and round the bend of the road, the hole becomes simple. A judicious use of the clique put Peter on the green in 14, while James, with a braid iron, reached it in 12. Peter was down in 17, and James contrived to have. It was only as he was leaving the hole that the latter discovered that he had been putting with his niblick, which cannot have failed to exercise a pre-judicial effect on his game. These little incidents are bound to happen when one is in a nervous and highly strung condition. The fifth and sixth holes produce no unusual features. Peter won the fifth and eleven, and James, the sixth and ten. The short seventh they halved in nine. The eighth, always a tricky hole, they took no liberties with. James, sinking along putt with his twenty-third, just managing to have. A ding-dong race up the hill for the ninth found James first at the pin, and they finished the first nine with James one up. As they left the green, James looked a little furtively at his companion. You might be strolling on to the tenth, he said. I want to get a few balls at the shop, and my mashy wants fixing up. I shan't belong. I'll come with you, said Peter. Don't bother, said James. You go on and hold our place at the tee. I regret to say that James was lying. His mashy was an excellent repair, and he still had a dozen balls in his bag, it being his prudent practice always to start out with eighteen. No, what he had said was mere subterfuge. He wanted to go to his locker and snatch a few minutes with Sandy McBean's How to Become a Scratchman. He felt sure that one more glance at the photograph of Mr. McBean driving would give him the mastery of the stroke, and so enable him to win the match. In this, I think, he was a little sanguine. The difficulty about Sandy McBean's method of tuition was that he laid great stress on the fact that the ball should be directly in a line, with a point exactly in the center of the back of the player's neck. And so far, James's efforts to keep his eye on the ball and on the back of his neck simultaneously had produced no satisfactory results. It seemed to James, when he joined Peter on the tenth tee, that the latter's manner was strange. He was pale. There was a curious look in his eye. James, old man, he said. Yes, said James. While you were away, I have been thinking. James, old man, do you really love this girl? James started. A spasm of pain twisted Peter's face. Suppose, he said in a low voice, she were not all you, we think she is. What do you mean? Nothing, nothing. Miss Forrester is an angel. Yes, yes, quite so. I know what it is, said James passionately. You're trying to put me off my stroke. You know that the least thing makes me lose my form. No, no. You hope that you can take my mind off the game and make me go to pieces, and then you'll win the match. On the contrary, said Peter, I intend to forfeit the match. James reeled. What? I give up. But, but... James shook with emotion, his voice quavered. Ah, he cried. I see now. I understand. You are doing this for me because I am your pal. Peter, this is noble. This is the sort of thing you read about in books. I've seen it in the movies, but I can't accept the sacrifice. You must. No, no. I insist. Do you mean this? I give her up, James, old man. I, I hope you will be happy. But I don't know what to say. How can I thank you? Don't thank me. But Peter, do you fully realize what you are doing? True, I am one up, but there are nine holes to go and I am not right on my game today. You might easily beat me. Have you forgotten that I once took forty-seven at the dog-leg hole? This may be one of my bad days. Do you understand that if you insist on giving up I shall go to Miss Forrester tonight and propose to her? I understand. And yet you stick to it that you are through. I do. And, but the way, there's no need for you to wait till tonight. I saw Miss Forrester just now outside the tennis court. She's alone. James turned crimson. Then I think perhaps you'd better go to her at once. I will, James extended his hand. Peter, old man, I shall never forget this. That's all right. What are you going to do? Now do you mean? Oh, I shall pot around the second nine. If you want me, you'll find me somewhere about. You'll come to the wedding, Peter, said James, wistfully. Of course, said Peter. Good luck. He spoke cheerily, but when the other had turned to go, he stood looking after him thoughtfully. Then he sighed a heavy sigh. James approached Miss Forrester with a beating heart. She made a charming picture as she stood there in the sunlight, one hand on her hip, the other swaying a tennis racket. How do you do, said James? How are you, Mr. Todd? Have you been playing golf? Yes. With Mr. Willard? Yes, we were having a match. Golf, said Grace Forrester, seems to make men very rude. Mr. Willard left me without a word in the middle of our conversation. James was astonished. Were you talking to Peter? Yes, just now. I can't understand what was the matter with him. He just turned on his heel and swung off. You oughtn't to turn on your heel when you swing, said James, only on the ball of your foot. I beg your pardon. Nothing, nothing. I wasn't thinking. The fact is, I've something on my mind. So has Peter. You mustn't think too hardly of him. We have been playing an important match, and it must have got on his nerves. You didn't happen by any chance to be watching us. No. I wish you had seen me at the lake hole. I did it one under par. Was your father playing? You don't understand. I mean, I did it in one better than even the finest player is supposed to do it. It's a mashy shot, you know. You mustn't play too light or you fall in the lake. And you mustn't play it too hard or you go past the hole into the woods. It requires the nicest delicacy and judgment, such as I gave it. You might have to wait a year before seeing anyone do it in two again. I doubt if the pro often does it in two. Now, directly we came to this hole today. I made up my mind that there was going to be no mistake. The great secret of any shot at golf is ease, elegance, and the ability to relax. The majority of men, you will find, think it important that their address should be good. How snobbish! What does it matter where a man lives? You don't absolutely follow me. I refer to the waggle in the stance before you make the stroke. Most players seem to fix in their minds the appearance of the angles which are presented by the position of the arms, legs, and club shaft, and it is largely the desire to retain these angles which results in their moving their heads and stiffening their muscles so that there is no freedom in the swing. There is only one point which vitally affects the stroke and the only reason why that should be kept constant is that you are enabled to see your ball clearly. That is the pivotal point marked at the base of the neck and a line drawn from this point to the ball should be at right angles to the line of flight. James paused for a moment for air and as he paused Miss Forrester spoke, This is all gibberish to me, she said. Gibberish, gasped James. I am quoting verbatim from one of the best authorities on golf. Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably. Golf, she said, bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest game ever invented. The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble amines of depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist has the advantage over the historian. Were I an artist I should show James at this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyes shut with a semicircular dotted line marking the progress of his flight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. There are no words that can adequately describe the sheer black horror that froze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears. He had never inquired into Miss Forrester's religious views before, but he had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she was polluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. It would be incorrect to say that James' love was turned to hate. He did not hate grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What he felt was not altogether loathing and not holy pity. It was a blend of the two. There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away. Peter was working moodily in the 12th bunker when his friend arrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other was alone, he came forward hesitatingly. Am I to congratulate you? James breathed deep breath. You are, he said, on an escape. She refused you. She didn't get the chance. Old man, have you ever sent one right up the edge of that bunker in front of the seventh and just not gone in? Very rarely. I did once. It was my second shot from a good lie with the light iron, and I followed well through and thought I had gone just too far, and when I walked up there was my ball on the edge of the bunker nicely teed up on a chunk of grass so that I was able to lay it dead with my mashy niblick holding out in six. Well, what I mean to say is I feel now as I felt then as if some unseen power had withheld me in time from some frightful disaster. I know just how you feel, said Peter gravely. Peter, old man, that girl said golf bored her pallid. She said she thought it was the silliest game ever invented. He paused to mark the effect of his words. Peter merely smiled a faint one smile. You don't seem revolted, said James. I am revolted, but not surprised. You see, she said the same thing to me only a few minutes before. She did. It amounted to the same thing. I had just been telling her how I did the lake hole today in two and she said that in her opinion golf was a game for children with water on the brain who weren't athletic enough to play animal grab. The two men shivered in sympathy. There must be insanity in the family, said James at last. That, said Peter, is the charitable explanation. We were fortunate to find it out in time. We were. We mustn't run a risk like that again. Never again. I think we had better take up golf really seriously. It will keep us out of mischief. You're quite right. We ought to do our four rounds a day regularly. In spring, summer, and autumn, and in winter, it would be rash not to practice most of the day at one of those indoor schools. We ought to be safe that way. Peter, old man, said James, I've been meaning to speak to you about it for some time. I've got Sandy McMeadon's new book, and I think you ought to read it. It is full of helpful hints. James. Peter. Silently the two men clasped hands. James Todd and Peter Willard wore themselves again. And so, said the oldest member, we come back to our original starting point, to wit that while there is nothing to be said definitely against love, your golfer should be extremely careful how he indulges in it. It may improve his game, or it may not. But if he finds that there is any danger that it may not, if the object of his affections is not the kind of girl who will listen to him with cheerful sympathy through the long evenings, while he tells her, illustrating stance and grip and swing with the kitchen poker, each detail of the day is round, then, I say, unhesitatingly, he had better leave it alone. Love has had a lot of press agenting from the oldest times, but there are higher nobler things than love. A woman is only a woman, but a hefty drive is a slosh. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Rosie Chapter 3 of The Clicking of Cuthbert This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 3 A Mixed Threesome by P. G. Woldhouse It was the holiday season, and during the holidays the Greens Committee have decided that the payment of 20 guiney shall entitle fathers of families not only to infest the course themselves, but also to decant their nearest and dearest upon it in whatever quantity they please. All over the links in consequence, happy, laughing groups of children had broken out like a rash. A wand faced a doll who had been held up for ten minutes while a drove of issue quarreled over whether little Claude had taken two hundred or two hundred and twenty approach shots to reach the ninth green, sank into a seat beside the oldest member. What luck, inquired the sage. None to speak of, returned the other moodily. I thought I had bagged a small boy in a Lord Funtleroy suit on the sixth, but he ducked. These children make me tired. They should be bowling their hoops in the road. Golf is a game for grown-ups. How can a fellow play with a platoon of progeny blocking him at every hole? The oldest member shook his head. He could not subscribe to these sentiments. No doubt, said the oldest member, the summer golf child is, from the point of view of the player who likes to get round the course in a single afternoon, something of a trial. But personally, I confess, it pleases me to see my fellow human beings. And into this category, golf children, though at the moment, you may not be broad-minded enough to admit it, undoubtedly fall, taking to the noblest of games at an early age. Golf, like measles, should become a young, for, if postponed to riper years, the results may be serious. Let me tell you the story of Mortimer Sturgis, which illustrates what I mean rather aptly. Mortimer Sturgis, when I first knew him, was a carefree man of thirty-eight, of amiable character and independent means, which he increased from time to time by judicious ventures on the stock exchange. Although he had never played golf, his had not been altogether an ill-spent life. He swung a credible racket at tennis and was always ready to contribute a baritone solo to charity concerts and gave freely to the poor. He was what you might call a golden mean man, good-hearted rather than magnetic, with no serious vices and no heroic virtues. For a hobby, he had taken up the collecting of porcelain vases, and he was engaged to Betty Weston, a charming girl of twenty-five, a lifelong friend of mine. I liked Mortimer. Everybody liked him. But at the same time, I was a little surprised that a girl like Betty should have become engaged to him. As I said before, he was not magnetic, and magnetism, I thought, was the chief quality she would have demanded in a man. Betty was one of those ardent, vivid girls with an intense capacity for hero worship, and I would have supposed that something more in the nature of a plune tonight were a corsair of the deep would have been her ideal. But, of course, if there is a branch of modern industry where the demand is greater than the supply, it is the manufacture of knights and corsairs, and nowadays, a girl, however flaming her aspirations, has to take the best she can get. I must admit that Betty seemed perfectly content with Mortimer. Such, then, was the state of affairs when Eddie Denton arrived, and the trouble began. I was escorting Betty home one evening after a tea party at which we had been fellow guests when, walking down the road, we happened to a spy Mortimer. He broke into a run when he saw us and galloped up, waving a piece of paper in his hand. He was plainly excited, a thing which was unusual in this well-balanced man. His broad, good-humored face was working violently. Good news, he cried. Good news! Dear old Eddie's back! Oh, how nice for you, dear, said Betty. Eddie Denton is Mortimer's best friend. Mortimer's best friend, she explained to me. He has told me so much about him. I have been looking forward to his coming home. Morty thinks the world of him. So will you when you know him, cried Mortimer. Dear old Eddie, he's a wonder, the best fellow on earth. We were at school in the varsity together. There's nobody like Eddie. He landed yesterday, just home from Central Africa. He's an explorer, you know, he said to me. Spends all his time in places where it's death for a white man to go. An explorer, I heard Betty breathe as if to herself. I was not so impressed I fear as she was. Explorers, as a matter of fact, leave me a trifle cold. It has always seemed to me that the difficulties of their life are greatly exaggerated, generally by themselves. In a large country like Africa, for instance, I should imagine that it was almost impossible for a man not to get somewhere if he goes on long enough. Give me the fellow who can plunge into the bowels of the earth, at Piccadilly Circus, and find the right tube train with nothing but a lot of misleading signs to guide him. However, we are not all constituted alike in this world, and it was apparent from the flush on her cheek and the light in her eyes that Betty admired explorers. I wired to him at once, went on Mortimer, and insisted on his coming down here. It's two years since I saw him. You don't know how I have looked forward, dear, to you and Eddie meeting. He's just your sort. I know how romantic you are and keen on adventure and all that. Well, you should hear Eddie tell the story of how he brought down the bull Bongo with his last cartridge after all the Pongos, or native bearers, had fled into the Dongo, or undergrowth. I should love to, whispered Betty, her eyes glowing. I suppose to an impressionable girl, these things really are of absorbing interest. For myself, Bongoes intrigued me even less than Pongos, while Dongoes frankly bore me. When do you expect him? He will get my wire tonight. I am hoping we shall see the dear old fellow tomorrow afternoon sometime. How surprised old Eddie will be to hear that I'm engaged. He's such a confirmed bachelor himself. He told me once that he considered the wisest thing ever said by human tongue was the Swahini proverb, whoso takeeth the woman into his crail depositeth himself straightway in the Wongo. Wongo, he tells me, is a sort of broth composed of herbs and meat bones corresponding to our soup. You must get Eddie to give it to you in the original Swahili. It sounds even better. I saw the girl's eyes flash, and there came into her face that peculiar set expression which married men know. It passed in an instant, but not before had it given me material for thought which lasted me all the way to my house and into the silent watches of the night. I was fond of Mortaror Sturgis, and I could see trouble ahead for him as plainly as though I had been a palmist reading his hand at two guineas of visit. There are other proverbs fully as wise as the one which Mortimer had translated from the Swahili, and one of the wisest is that quaint old East London saying, handed down from one generation of costormongers to another, and whispered at midnight in the wigwams of the welk cellar, never introduce your doughnut to a pal. In those seven words is contained the wisdom of the ages. I could read the future so plainly. What but one thing could happen after Mortimer had influenced Betty's imagination with his stories of his friend's romantic career and added the finishing touch by advertising him as a woman-hater? He might just as well have asked for his ring back at once. My heart blood for Mortimer. I happened to call at his house on the second evening of the explorer's visit, and already the mischief had been done. Denton was one of those lean, heart-bitten men with smoldering eyes and a brick-red complexion. He looked what he was, the man of action and enterprise. He had the wiry frame and strong jaw without which no explorer is complete, and Mortimer, beside him, seemed but a poor, soft product of our hot-house civilization. Mortimer, I forgot to say, wore glasses. And if there was one time more than another when a man should not wear glasses, it is while a strong faced, keen-eyed wanderer in the wilds is telling a beautiful girl the story of his adventures. For this was what Denton was doing. My arrival seemed to have interrupted him in the middle of the narrative. He shook my hand in a strong, silent sort of way and resumed. Well, the natives seemed fairly friendly, so I decided to stay the night. I made a mental note never to seem fairly friendly to an explorer. If you do, he always decides to stay the night. In the morning, they took me down to the river. At this point, it widens into a Congo, or pool, and it was here they told me that the crocodile mostly lived, subsisting on the native oxen. The shorthorn jongles, which swept away by the current while crossing the fort above were carried down on the longgoes or rapids. It was not, however, till the second evening that I managed to catch sight of his ugly snout above the surface. I waited round, and on the third day, I saw him suddenly come out of the water and heave his whole length onto a sand bank in midstream and go to sleep in the sun. He was certainly a monster. Foley 30, you have never been in Central Africa, have you, Miss Weston? No? You ought to go then. Foley 50 feet from tip to tail. There he lay, glistening. I shall never forget the sight. He broke off till I had a cigarette. I heard Betty draw in her breath sharply. Mortimer was beaming through his glasses with the air of the owner of a dog which is astonishing a drawing-room with its clever tricks. And what did you do then, Mr. Denton? asked Betty breathlessly. Yes, what did you do then, old chap? said Mortimer. Denton blew off the match and dropped it on the ashtray. Eh, oh! he said carelessly. I swam across and shot him. Swam across and shot him! Yes, it seemed to me that the chance was too good to be missed. Of course, I might have had a pot at him from the bank, but the chance is where I wouldn't have hit him in a vital place. So I swam across to the sand bank, put the muzzle of my gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I have rarely seen a crocodile so taken aback. But how dreadfully dangerous! Oh, danger! Eddie Denton laughed lightly. One drops into the habit of taking a few risks out there, you know. Talking of danger, the time when things really did look a little nasty was when the wounded gongo cornered me in a narrow tongo, and I only had a pocket knife with everything in it broken except the corkscrew, and the thing for taking stones out of horseshoes. It was like this. I could bear no more. I am a tender-hearted man, and I made some excuse and got away. From the expression on the girl's face, I could see that it was only a question of days before she gave her heart to this romantic newcomer. As a matter of fact, it was on the following afternoon that she called on me and told me that the worst had happened. I had known her from a child, to understand, and she always confided her troubles to me. I want your advice, she began. I am so wretched. She burst into tears. I could see the poor girl was in a highly nervous condition, so I did my best to calm her by describing how I had once done the long hole in four. My friends tell me that there is no finer, so horrific, and it seemed as though they may be right for presently just as I had reached the point where I laid my approach putt dead from a distance of fifteen feet, she became quieter. She dried her eyes, yawned once or twice, and looked at me bravely. I love Eddie Denton, she said. I feared as much. When did you feel this coming on? It crashed on me like a thunderbolt last night after dinner. We were walking in the garden, and he was just telling me how he had been bitten by a poisonous zongo when I seemed to go all giddy. When I came to myself, I was in Eddie's arms. His face was pressed against mine, and he was gargling. Gargling? I thought so at first, but he reassured me he was merely speaking in one of those lesser-known dialects of the Walla Walla natives at eastern Uganda, into which he always drops in moments of great emotion. He soon recovered sufficiently to give me a rough translation, and then I knew that he loved me. He kissed me, I kissed him, we kissed each other, and where was Mortiver all this while? Indoors cataloging his collection of bases. For a moment, I confess, I was inclined to abandon Mortimer's cause. A man I felt who could stay indoors cataloging bases while his fiancée wandered in the moonlight with explorers deserved all that was coming to him. I overcame the feeling. Have you told him? Of course not. You don't think it might be of interest to him? How can I tell him? He would break his heart. I'm awfully fond of Mortimer. So was Eddie. We would both die rather than do anything to hurt him. Eddie is the soul of honor. He agrees with me that Mortimer must never know. Then you aren't going to break off your engagement? I couldn't. Eddie feels the same. He says that unless something can be done he will say goodbye to me and creep far, far away to some distant desert and there in the great stillness broken only by the cry of the prowling Yongo try to forget. When you say unless something can be done what do you mean? What can be done? I thought you might have something to suggest. Don't you think it possible that somehow Mortimer might take it into his head to break the engagement himself? Absurd. He loves you devotedly. I'm afraid so. Only the other day I dropped one of his best faces and he just smiled and said it didn't matter. I can give you even better proof than that. This morning Mortimer came to me and asked me to give him secret lessons in golf. Golf? But he despises golf. Exactly. But he's going to learn it for your sake. But why secret lessons? Because he wants to keep it a surprise for your birthday. Now can you doubt his love? I am not worthy of him, she whispered. The words gave me an idea. Suppose I said we could convince Mortimer of that. I don't understand. Suppose, for instance, he could be made to believe that you were let us say a dipsomaniac. She shook her head. He knows that already. What? Yes, I told him I sometimes walked in my sleep. I mean a secret drinker. Nothing will induce me to pretend to be a secret drinker. Then a drug fiend, I suggested hopefully. I hate medicine. I have it, I said. A kleptomaniac. What is that? A person who steals things. Oh, that's horrid. Not at all. It's a perfectly ladylike thing to do. You don't know you do it. But if I don't know I do it, how do I know I do it? I beg your pardon? I mean how can I tell Mortimer I do it if I don't know? You don't tell him, I will tell him. I will inform him tomorrow that you called on me this afternoon and stole my watch and, I glanced about the room, my silver matchbox. I'd rather have that little bit of grat. You don't get either. I merely say you stole it. What will happen? Mortimer will hit you with a cleak. Not at all. I am an old man. My white hairs protect me. What he will do is to insist on confronting me with you and asking you to deny the foul charge. And then? Then you admit it and release him from his engagement. She sat for a while in silence. I could see that my words had made an impression. I think it's a splendid idea. Thank you very much. She rose and moved to the door. I knew he would suggest something wonderful. She hesitated. You don't think it would make it sound more plausible if I really took the vinaigrette? She added a little wistfully. It would spoil everything, I replied firmly, as I reached for the vinaigrette and locked it carefully in my desk. She was silent for a moment and her glance fell on the carpet. That, however, did not worry me. It was nailed down. Well, goodbye, she said. Au revoir, I replied. I am meeting Mortimer at six thirty tomorrow. You may expect us round your house at about eight. Mortimer was punctual at the trist next morning. When I reached the tenth tea, he was already there. We exchanged a brief greeting and I handed him a driver, outlined the essentials of grip and swing, and bade him go to it. It seems a simple game, he said as he took his stance. You're sure it's fair to have the ball sitting on top of a young sand hill like this? Perfectly fair. I mean, I don't want to be coddled because I'm a beginner. The ball is always teed up for the drive, I assured him. Oh, well, if you say so. But it does seem to me to take all the element of sport out of the game. Where do I hit it? Oh, straight ahead. But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house over there? He indicated a charming bayou resident some five hundred yards down the fairway. In that case, I replied, the owner comes out in his pajamas and offers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar. He seemed reassured and began to address the ball. Then he paused again. Isn't there something you say before you start? He asked, five or something? You may say four if it makes you feel any easier, but it isn't necessary. If I'm going to learn this silly game, said Mortimer firmly, I'm going to learn it right. Four. I watched him curiously. I never put a club into the hand of a beginner without something of the feeling of the sculptor who surveys a massive, shapeless clay. I experienced the emotions of a creator. Here, I say to myself, is a semi-sentiment being into whose soulless carcass I am breathing life. A moment before, he was, though technically living, a mere clawed. A moment hence, he will be a golfer. While I was still occupied with these meditations, Mortimer swung at the ball. The club, whizzing down, rushed the surface of the rubber sphere, toppling it off the tee and propelling it six inches with a slight slice on it. Damnation, said Mortimer, unraveling himself. I nodded approvenly. His drive had not been anything to write to the golfing journals about, but he was picking up the technique of the game. What happened then? I told him in a word. Your stance was wrong, your stance was wrong, and your grip was wrong, and you moved your head and swayed your body and took your eye off the ball and pressed and forgot to use your wrists and swung back too fast and let the hands get ahead of the club and lost your balance and omitted to pivot on the ball of the left foot and bent your right knee. He was silent for a moment. There is more in this past time, he said, than the casual observer would suspect. I have noticed, and I suppose other people have noticed, that in the golf education of every man, there is a definite point at which he may be said to have crossed the dividing line, the Rubicon as it were, that separates the golfer from the non-golfer. This moment comes immediately after his first good drive. In the 90 minutes in which I instructed Mortimer Sturgis that morning in the rudiments of the game, he made every variety of drive known to science, but it was not till we were about to leave that he made a good one. A moment before he had surveyed his blistered hands with song for disgust. It's no good, he said. I shall never learn this beast of a game, and I don't want to either. It's only fit for lunatics. Where's the sense in it? Hitting a rotten little ball with a stick? If I want exercise, I'll take a stick and go rattle it along the railings. There's something in that. Well, let's be getting along. No good wasting the whole morning out here. Try one more drive and then we'll go. All right, if you like. No sense in it, though. He teed up the ball, took a careless stance and flicked boodily. There was a sharp crack. The ball shot off the tee, flew a hundred yards in a dead straight line, never ten feet above the ground, soared another seventy yards in a graceful art, struck the turf, rolled, and came to rest within easy mashing distance of the green. Splendid, I cried. The man seemed stunned. How did that happen? I told him very simply. Your stance was right and your grip was right and you kept your head still and you didn't sway your body and never took your eye off the ball and slowed back and let the arms come well through and rolled the wrists and let the clubhead leap and kept your balance and pivoted on the ball of your left foot and didn't duck the right knee. I see, he said. Yes, I thought that must be it. Now let's go home. Wait a minute. I just want to remember what I did while it's fresh in my mind. Let me see. This was the way I stood. Or was it more like this? No, like this. He turned to me beaming. What a great idea was my taking up golf. It's all nonsense what you read in the comic papers about people fuzzling all over the place and breaking clubs and all that. Even when he got to exercise, a little reasonable care. And what a corking game it is. Nothing like it in the world. I wonder if Betty is up yet. I must go round and show her how I did that drive. A perfect swing with every ounce of weight, wrist, and muscle behind it. I meant to keep it a secret from the dear girl till I had really learned, but of course I have learned now. Let's go round and rout her out. He had given me my cue. I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke sorrowfully. Mournabour, my boy. I fear I have bad news for you. Slow, back, keep the head. What's that? Bad news? About Betty. About Betty? What about her? Don't sway the body. Keep an eye on the prepare yourself for a shock, my boy. Yesterday afternoon, Betty called to see me. When she had gone, I found that she had stolen my silver matchbox. Stolen your matchbox? Stolen my matchbox. Oh, well, I daresay there were faults on both sides, said Mournabour. Tell me if I sway my body this time. You don't grasp what I have said. Do you realize that Betty, the girl you are going to marry, is a kleptomaniac? A kleptomaniac! That is the only possible explanation. Think what this means, my boy. Think how you will feel every time your wife says she's going out to do a little shopping. Think of yourself, left alone at home, watching the clock saying to yourself, now she's lifting a pair of silk stockings. Now she is hiding gloves in her umbrella. Just about this moment she's getting away with a pearl necklace. Would she do that? She would. She could not help herself. Or rather, she could not refrain from helping herself. How about it, my boy? It only draws us closer together, he said. I was touched, I own. My scheme had failed, but it had proved Mortimer Sturgis to be a pure gold. He stood gazing down the fairway, wrapped in thought. By the way, he said meditatively, I wonder if the dear girl ever goes to any of those sales, those auction sales, you know, where you're allowed to inspect the things the day before. They often have some pretty decent vases. He broke off and fell into a reverie. From this point onward, Mortimer Sturgis proved the truth of what I said to you about the perils of taking up golf at an advanced age. A lifetime of observing my fellow creatures has convinced me that nature intended us all to be golfers. In every human being, the germ of golf is implanted at birth, and suppression causes it to grow and grow till it may be at 40, 50, 60. It suddenly bursts its bonds and sweeps over the victim like a tidal wave. The wise man who begins to play in childhood is enabled to let the poison exude gradually from his system with no harmful results. But a man like Mortimer Sturgis, with 38 golfless years behind him, is swept up his feet. He is carried away. He loses all sense of proportion. He's like the fly that happens to be sitting on the wall of the dam just when the crack comes. Mortimer Sturgis gave himself up without a struggle to an orgy of golf such as I have never witnessed in any man. Within two days of that first lesson, he had accumulated a collection of clubs large enough to have enabled him to open a shop. And he went on buying them at the rate of two and three a day. On Sundays, when it was impossible to buy clubs, he was like a lost spirit. True, he would do his regular four rounds on the day of rest, but he never felt happy. The thought, as he sliced into the rough, that the patent wooden-faced clique which he intended to purchase next morning might have made all the difference completely spoiled his enjoyment. I remember him calling me up on the telephone at three o'clock one morning to tell me that he had solved the problem of putting. He intended in future, he said, to use a croquet mallet, and he wondered that no one had ever thought of it before. The sound of his broken groan when I informed him that croquet mallets were against the rules haunted me for days. His golf library kept pace with his collection of clubs. He bought all the standard works, subscribed to all the golfing papers, and when he came across a paragraph in a magazine to the effect that Mr. Hutchings, an ex-amateur champion, did not begin to play till he was past 40, and that, his opponent in the final, Mr. S. H. Fry, had never held a club till his 35th year, he had it engraved on vellum and framed and hung up beside his shaving mirror. And Betty, meanwhile, she, poor child, stared down the years into a bleak future in which she saw herself parted forever from the man she loved, and the gulf widow of another for whom, even when he won a medal for Lois Nett at a weekly handicap with a score of 103 minus 24, she could feel nothing warmer than respect. Those were dreary days for Betty. We three, she and I and Eddie Denton, often talked over Mortimer's strange obsession. Denton said that except that Mortimer had not come out in pink spots, his symptoms were almost identical with those of the dreaded Mongol-Mongo, the scourge of the West African hinterland. Poor Denton, he had already booked his passage for Africa and spent hours looking in the atlas for good deserts. In every fever of human affairs, there comes at last the crisis. We may emerge from it healed, or we may plunge into still deeper depths of soul sickness, but always the crisis comes. I was privileged to be present when it came in the affairs of Mortimer Sturgis and Betty Weston. I had gone into the clubhouse one afternoon, at an hour when it is usually empty, and the first thing I saw as I entered the main room, which looks out on the ninth green, was Mortimer. He was grobbling on the floor, and I confessed that when I caught sight of him my heart stood still. I feared that his reason, sapped by dissipation, had given way. I knew that for weeks, day in and day out, the nibblek had hardly ever been out of his hand, and no constitution can stand that. He looked up as he heard my footstep. Hello, he said. Can you see a ball anywhere? A ball? I backed away, reaching for the door handle. My dear boy, I said soothingly, you have made a mistake, quite a natural mistake, one anybody would have made. But as a matter of fact, this is the clubhouse. The links are outside there. Why not come away with me to very quietly, and let us see if we can't find some balls on the links? If you will wait here a moment, I will call up Dr. Smithson. He was telling me, only this morning, that he wanted a good spell of ball hunting to put him in shape. You don't mind if he joins us? It was a silver king with my initials on it. Mortimer went on, not heeding me. I got on the ninth grain in eleven with a nice, mashy niblick. But my approach putt was a little too strong. It came in through that window. I perceived for the first time that one of the windows facing the course was broken, and my relief was great. I went down on my knees and helped him in his search. We ran the ball to earth finally inside the piano. What's the local rule? inquired Mortimer. Must I play it where it lies, or may I tee up and lose a stroke? If I have to play it where it lies, I suppose a niblick would be the club. It was at this moment that Betty came in. One glance at her pale, set face told me that there was to be a scene, and I would have retired with that she was between me and the door. Hello, dear, said Mortimer, greeting her with a friendly waggle of his niblick. I'm buckered in the panel. My approach putt was a little strong, and I overran the grain. Mortimer, said the girl tensily, I want to ask you one question. Yes, dear, I wish, darling, you could have seen my drive at the eighth just now. It was a pip. Betty looked at him steadily. Are we engaged, she said, or are we not? Engaged? Oh, to be married? Why, of course. I tried the open stance for a change, and this morning you promised to take me for a ride. You never appeared. Where were you? Just playing golf. Golf? I'm sick of the very name. A spasm shook Mortimer. You mustn't let people hear you saying things like that, he said. I somehow felt the moment I began my upswing, that everything was going to be all right. I'll give you one more chance. Will you take me for a drive in your car this evening? I can't. Why not? What are you doing? Just playing golf. I'm tired of being neglected like this, cried Betty, stamping her foot. Poor girl, I saw her point of view. It was bad enough for her being engaged to the wrong man without having him treat her as a mere acquaintance. Her conscience fighting with her love for Eddie Denton had kept her true to Mortimer, and Mortimer accepted the sacrifice with an absent-minded carelessness which would have been galling to any girl. We might just as well not be engaged at all. You never take me anywhere. I asked you to come with me to watch the Open Championship. Why don't you ever take me to dances? I can't dance. You could learn. But I'm not sure if dancing is a good thing for a fellow's game. You never hear of any first-class pro-dancing. James Bray doesn't dance. Well, my mind's made up. Mortimer, you must choose between golf and me. But, darling, I went round in a hundred and one yesterday. You can't expect a fellow to give up golf when he's at the top of his game. Very well. I have nothing more to say. Our engagement is at an end. Don't throw me over, Betty, pleaded Mortimer, and there was in that his voice which cut me to the heart. You'll make me so miserable. And when I'm miserable, I always slice my approach shots. Betty Weston drew herself up. Her face was hard. Here is your ring, she said, and swept from the room. For a moment after she had gone, Mortimer remained very still, looking at the glistening circle in his hand. I stole across the room and pat at his shoulder. Bear up, my boy. Bear up, I said. He looked at me piteously. Stimey, he muttered. Be brave. He went on speaking as if to himself. I had pictured, ah, how often I had pictured, our little home. Hers and mine. She's sewing in her arm chair. I practicing putts on the hearth rug. He choked. While in the corner, little Harry Varden Sturgis played with little J.H. Taylor Sturgis. And round the room, reading busy with their childish tasks. Little George Duncan Sturgis. Abe Mitchell Sturgis. Harold Hilton Sturgis. Edward Ray Sturgis. Horace Hutchinson Sturgis. And little James Braid Sturgis. My boy, my boy, I cried. What's the matter? Weren't you giving yourself rather a large family? He shook his head mootily. Was I, he said, Dolly? I don't know. What's bogey? There was a silence. And yet, he said, at last, in a low voice. He paused. An odd bright look had come into his eyes. He seemed suddenly to be himself again, the old happy Mortimer Sturgis I had known so well. And yet, he said, who knows? Perhaps it is all for the best. They might all have turned out tennis players. He raised his niblik again, his face aglow. Playing 13, he said. I think the game here would be to chip out through the door and work round the clubhouse to the green, don't you? Little remains to be told. Betty and Eddie have been happily married for years. Mortimer's handicap is now down to 18, and he's improving all the time. He was not present at the wedding, being unavoidably detained by a medal tournament. But if you turn up the files and look at the list of presents, which were both numerous and costly, you will see, somewhere in the middle of the column, the words Sturgis, Jay Mortimer, two dozen Silver King golf balls, and one patent Sturgis aluminum self-adjusting, self-compensating putting clique. End of Chapter 3