A Fool and His Money Part 59

"Mr. Scott's got rheumatiz, Mr. t.i.tus. He begs to be excused--"

"Buncombe!" snapped Mr. t.i.tus. "He's afraid to play me. Well, this means no game for me. A beautiful day like this and--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. t.i.tus," said I, stepping forward. "If you don't mind taking on a stranger, I will be happy to go around with you. My name is Smart. I think you must have heard of me through the Countess and your--"

"Great Scott! Smart? Are--are you the author, James Byron Smart?

The--the man who--" He checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the hand and, as he wrung it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the men behind the desk.

"I am John Bellamy Smart," said I, a little miffed.

His shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. The crustiness left it as if by magic. His countenance radiated joy.

"I owe you a debt of grat.i.tude, Mr. Smart, that can never be lifted.

My daughter has told me everything. You must have put up with a fearful lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. I know her well.

She's spoiled and she's got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems different nowadays. There _is_ a change in her, by George."

"She's had her lesson," said I. "Besides I didn't find she had a bad temper."

"And say, I want to tell you something else before I forget it: I fully appreciate your views on international marriage. Allie told me everything you had to say about it. You must have rubbed it in! But I think it did her good. She'll never marry another foreigner if I can help it, if she never marries. Well, well, I am glad to see you, and to shake your hand. I--I wish I could really tell you how I feel toward you, my boy, but I--I don't seem to have the power to express myself. If I--"

I tried to convince him that the pleasure had been all mine, and then inquired for Mrs. t.i.tus and the Countess.

"They're both here, but the good Lord only knows where. Mrs. t.i.tus goes driving every morning. Roads are fine if you can stick to them.

Aline said something last night about riding over to Fa.s.sifern this forenoon with Amberdale and young Skelly. Let's see, it's half-past ten. Yes, they've gone by this time. Why didn't you write or telegraph Aline? She'll be as mad as a wet hen when she finds you've come without letting her know." "I thought I should like to take her by surprise,"

I mumbled uncomfortably.

"And my son Jasper--why, he will explode when he hears you're here.

He's gone over to Covington to see a girl off on the train for Louisville. You've never seen such a boy. He is always going to Covington with some girl to see that she gets the right train home, But why are we wasting time here when we might be doing a few holes before lunch? I'll take you on. Of course, you understand I'm a wretched player, but I've got one virtue: I never talk about my game and I never tell funny stories while my opponent is addressing the ball. I'm an old duffer at the game, but I've got more sense than most duffers."

We sauntered down to the club house where he insisted on buying me a dozen golf b.a.l.l.s and engaging a caddy for me by the week. Up to the moment we stepped up to the first tee he talked incessantly of Aline and Rosemary, but the instant the game was on he settled into the grim reserve that characterises the man who takes any enterprise seriously, be it work or play.

I shall not discuss our game, further than to say that he played in atrociously bad form but with a purpose that let me, to some degree, into the secret of his success in life. If I do say it myself, I am a fairly good player. My driving is consistently long. It may not be difficult for even you who do not go in for golf to appreciate the superior patience of a man whose tee shots are rarely short of two hundred and twenty yards when he is obliged to amble along doing nothing while his opponent is striving to cover the same distance in three or four shots, not counting the misses. But I was patient, agreeably patient, not to say tolerant. I don't believe I was ever in a better humour than on this gay November morn. I even apologised for Mr. t.i.tus's execrable foozles; I amiably suggested that he was a little off his game and that he'd soon strike his gait and give me a sound beating after the turn. His smile was polite but ironic, and it was not long before I realised that he knew his own game too well to be affected by cajolery. He just pegged away, always playing the odd or worse, uncomplaining, unresentful, as even-tempered as the May wind, and never by any chance winning a hole from me. He was the rarest "duffer" it has ever been my good fortune to meet. As a rule, the poorer the player the loader his execrations. Jasper t.i.tus was one of the worst players I've ever seen, but he was the personification of gentility, even under the most provoking circ.u.mstances. For instance, at the famous "Crater,"

it was my good fortune to pitch a ball fairly on the green from the tee. His mashie shot landed his ball about twenty feet up the steep hill which guards the green. It rolled halfway back. Without a word of disgust, or so much as a scowl, he climbed up and blazed away at it again, not once but fourteen times by actual count. On the seventeenth stroke he triumphantly laid his ball on the green. Most men would have lifted and conceded the hole to me. He played it out.

"A man never gets anywhere, Mr. Smart," said he, unruffled by his miserable exhibition, "unless he keeps plugging away at a thing. That's my principle in life. Keep at it. There is satisfaction in putting the d.a.m.ned ball in the hole, even if it does require twenty strokes. You did it in three, but you'll soon forget the feat. I'm not likely to forget the troubles I had going down in twenty, and there lies the secret of success. If success comes easy, we pa.s.s it off with a laugh, if it comes hard we grit our teeth and remember the ways and means.

You may not believe it, but I took thirty-three strokes for that hole one day last week. Day before yesterday I did it in four. Perhaps it wouldn't occur to you to think that it's a darned sight easier to do it in four than it is in thirty-three. Get the idea?"

"I think I do, Mr. t.i.tus," said I. "The things that 'come easy' are never appreciated."

"Right, my boy. It's what we have to work for like nailers that we lie awake thinking about."

We came out upon the eminence overlooking the next hole, which lay far below us. As I stooped to tee-up my ball, a gleeful shout came up the hillside.

"h.e.l.lo, John Bellamy!"

Glancing down, I saw Jasper, Jr., at the edge of the wagon road. He was waving his cap and, even at that distance, I could see the radiance in his good-looking young face. A young and attractively dressed woman stood beside him. I waved my hand and shouted a greeting.

"I thought you said he'd gone to Covington to see her off," I said, turning to the young man's father with a grin.

"Not the same girl," said he succinctly, squinting his eyes. "That's the little Parsons girl from Richmond. He was to _meet_ her at Covington. Jasper is a scientific b.u.t.terfly. He makes both ends meet,--nearly always. Now no one but a genius could have fixed it up to see one girl off and meet another on the same train."

Later on, Jasper, Jr., and I strolled over to the casino verandah, the chatty Miss Parsons between us, but leaning a shade nearer to young t.i.tus than to me, although she appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed at meeting a real live author. Mr. t.i.tus, as was his habit, hurried on ahead of us. I afterwards discovered he had a dread of pneumonia.

"Aline never said a word about your coming, John," said Jasper, Jr.

He called me John with considerable gusto. "She's learning how to hold her tongue."

"It happens that she didn't know I was coming," said I drily. He whistled.

"She's off somewhere with Amberdale. Ever meet him? He's one of the finest chaps I know. You'll like him, Miss Parsons. He's not at all like a Britisher."

"But I like the British," said she.

"Then I'll tell him to spread it on a bit," said j.a.ppy obligingly.

"Great horseman, he is. Got some ripping nags in the New York show next week, and he rides like a dream. Watch him pull down a few ribbons and rosettes. Sure thing."

"Your father told me that the Countess was off riding with him and another chap,--off to Fa.s.sifern, I believe."

"For luncheon. They do it three or four times a week. Not for me. I like waiters with shirt fronts and nickle tags."

Alone with me in the casino half an hour later, he announced that it really looked serious, this affair between Aline and his lordship.

I tried to appear indifferent,--a rather pale effort, I fear.

"I think I am in on the secret, j.a.ppy," said I soberly.

He stared. "Has she ever said anything to you, old chap, that would lead you to believe she's keen about him?"

I temporised. "She's keen about somebody, my son; that's as far as I will go."

"Then it must be Amberdale. I'm on to her all right, all right. I know women. She's in love, hang it all. If you know a thing about 'em, you can spot the symptoms without the x-rays. I've been hoping against hope, old man. I don't want her to marry again. She's had all the h.e.l.l she's ent.i.tled to. What's the matter with women, anyhow? They no sooner get out of one muddle than they begin looking around for another. Can't be satisfied with good luck."

"But every one speaks very highly of Lord Amberdale. I'm sure she can't be making a mistake in marrying him."

"I wish she'd pick out a good, steady, simplified American, just as an experiment. We're not so darned bad, you know. Women can do worse than to marry Americans."

"It is a matter of opinion, I fancy. At any rate we can't go about picking out husbands for people who have minds of their own."

"Well, some one in our family picked out a lemon for Aline the first time, let me tell you that," said he, scowling.

"And she's doing the picking for herself this time, I gather."

"I suppose so," said he gloomily.

I have visited the popular and almost historic Fa.s.sifern farm a great many times in my short career, but for the life of me I cannot understand what attraction it possesses that could induce people to go there for luncheon and then spend a whole afternoon lolling about the place. But that seems to have been precisely what the Countess and his lordship did on the day of my arrival at the Homestead. The "other chap," Skerry, came riding home alone at three o'clock. She did not return until nearly six. By that time I was in a state of suppressed fury that almost drove me to the railway station with a single and you might say childish object in view.

I had a pleasant visit with Mrs. t.i.tus, who seemed overjoyed to see me. In fact, I had luncheon with her. Mr. t.i.tus, it appeared, never ate luncheon. He had a dread of typhoid, I believe, and as he already possessed gout and insomnia and an intermittent tendency to pain in his abdomen, and couldn't drink anything alcoholic or eat anything starchy, I found myself wondering what he really did for a living.

Mrs. t.i.tus talked a great deal about Lord Amberdale. She was most tiresome after the first half hour, but I must say that the luncheon was admirable. I happened to be hungry. Having quite made up my mind that Aline was going to marry Amberdale, I proceeded to upset the theory that a man in love is a creature without gastronomical aspirations by vulgarly stuffing myself with half a lamb chop, a slice of b.u.t.tered bread and nine pickles.