Fore! Part 19

"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell s.n.a.t.c.hed a score card from his pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left his face; his eyes sparkled; he smiled.

"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that--84. Why--it's a cinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!"

"And you?" asked Waddles, turning to Bill.

"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's their handicap?"

"Sixteen," answered Waddles.

"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to be interesting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here.

Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Go straight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three."

Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles--Waddles, with his lip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cup hunters and winter members who try to hog the course.

Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summit of the hill.

"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we've got 'em licked!"

Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots--two hundred pounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind the pill--and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, and at every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ball straight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as he offered it. I never saw a man change so in a short s.p.a.ce of time.

"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tiny bit better----"

"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between friends?"

"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling silver, you poor cow!"

Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair green there is a wide belt of thick long gra.s.s in which a ball may easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution.

"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we need is a six."

"Boy," said Mary, addressing the caddie, "my bra.s.sy, please."

"Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me.

We've got this thing won now----"

"Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but most men do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back, stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings--four of them. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing career depended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club head descended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followed through beautifully--but at the click of contact a strangled howl of anguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the rounded toe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result was a flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green--a wretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. By running at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as it bounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled--the first real smile of the afternoon.

"Isn't that provoking?" said she.

Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must have been all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows and half buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothing short of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill.

Even Waddles applauded the shot.

Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked the burs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers.

"Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means a possible five--a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake, Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to lay the ball dead!"

Waddles sniffed.

"He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was Mary Brooke----Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot at it with that bra.s.sy!"

But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, he entreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath.

"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice this one. You watch me." She kept her promise--kept it with a savage hook, which sailed clear across the course and into the thick gra.s.s. The ball carried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, and disappeared without even a bounce.

"That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a foot deep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away."

Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar, lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the putting green, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough and relieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit, however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore through that tangle of thick gra.s.s, cut under the ball and sent it spinning high in the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green.

We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our reward was a black scowl, which we shared with Mary.

"Lay it up!" said he curtly. "A seven may tie 'em. Lay it up!"

By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of the match. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studied the shot. It was an absurdly simple one--a 30-foot approach over a level green, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then if Beth missed her ten-footer----

"It's fast," warned Russell. "It's fast, so don't hit it too hard!"

Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly a gasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watching Russell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicate shade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skate merrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterward expressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before it stopped.

Mary ignored the polite murmur of sympathy from the gallery.

"Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'm afraid you're away."

Waddles pinched my arm.

"Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? She threw him down--threw him down cold!"

Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a n.o.ble effort to hole the putt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ball within three inches of the cup.

"Put it down!" grunted Russell. "Sink it--and let's get it done with!"

Bill tapped the ball into the hole, and the match was over.

"Why--why," stuttered Beth, "then--we've _won_!"

At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one more exchange of remarks between the losers as they started for the clubhouse.

"We had it won--if you'd only listened to me----" Russell began.

"Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you all the afternoon--listening and learning!"

That very same evening I was sitting on my front porch studying the stars and meditating upon the mutability of human relationships.

A familiar runabout drew up at the Brooke house, and a young man pa.s.sed up the walk, moving with a stiff and stately stride. In exactly twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds by my watch the young man came out again, bounced down the steps, jumped into his car, slammed the door with a bang like a pistol shot, and departed from the neighbourhood with a grinding and a clashing of gears which might have been heard for half a mile.

The red tail light had scarcely disappeared down the street when big Bill Hawley lumbered across the Brooke lawn, took the front steps at a bound and rang the doorbell.

Not being of an inquisitive and a prying nature, I cannot be certain how long he remained, but at 11:37 I thought I heard a door close, and immediately afterward some one pa.s.sed under my window whistling loudly and unmelodiously. The selection of the unknown serenader was that pretty little thing which describes the end of a perfect day.