Fore! Part 24

"But I do!" Henry hastened to a.s.sure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!"

"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels.

By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he could do better than that.

"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you, Peac.o.c.k, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny."

"Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now."

"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen compet.i.tion--and advice."

Indeed that was the truth. The compet.i.tion was keen enough, and the advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself, nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots.

If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum.

"He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?"

I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing out of that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the first time since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of the scores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head--and when you find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's score would have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and double figures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottom of the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots he ama.s.sed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleated plaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised him to put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on his shots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone, but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrate on anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the last hole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades.

"You'll be all right, Peac.o.c.k, if you just remember what I've told you.

The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendency to underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of getting too much distance."

"I--I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all you gentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you again soon--er--quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything you can tell me----"

Henry continued to babble and the Bish drew me aside.

"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talk to him about his game--anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep him there!"

Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard him demanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail.

The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usual ceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms, escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selecting an obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but when the jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke of needing a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my good fairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup.

Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famous victory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice of clubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh hole when Totten made his last speech.

"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashie and not quite far enough for the----"

There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over the sea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a large green felt bag under his arm.

"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen--if you are gentlemen!--I crave your indulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an added trophy--a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!"

He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by cries of "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprised expression on his face told me that this part of the programme was not of his making.

"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awarded for a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me that this is manifestly one-sided and unfair."

"Hear! Hear!" cried a voice.

"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cup which I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever made by a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America."

Henry Peac.o.c.k jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laid my hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door.

"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar had subsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a double distinction. He is the holder of two records--one for the lowest net score on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peac.o.c.k shot the course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes....

Bring the gentleman forward, please!"

There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of the confusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surrounded him, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to the table, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him and surged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over and placed the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lip was trembling with rage.

"Open it up! Come on, let's see it!"

Mr. Peac.o.c.k cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged his hand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but it was a cup, sure enough--a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feeble imitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents.

And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was the record of Mr. Peac.o.c.k's activities for the afternoon, in gross and detail, as follows:

HOLES PAR PEAc.o.c.k

1 4 11 2 4 9 3 4 8 4 5 8 5 3 7 6 6 15 7 5 9 8 4 8 9 4 12 10 5 12 11 3 7 12 4 8 13 4 9 14 3 7 15 4 8 16 4 9 17 5 11 18 5 9 -- --- Total 76 167

As Henry gazed at this work of art a shout came from the back of the room. Waddles had come to life.

"Winner buys, Henry! Winner always buys! It's a rule of the club!"

"The club be d.a.m.ned!" cried Henry Peac.o.c.k as he fought his way to the door.

"Bish," said Frank Woodson, "that was a rotten trick to play on anybody.

You shouldn't have done it."

"A rotten case," replied the Bish, "requires a rotten remedy. It's kill or cure; even money and take your pick."

As it turned out it was a cure.

Henry Peac.o.c.k is once more a member of the Old Guard, in good standing and ent.i.tled to all privileges. Totten, Woodson and Miller received him with open arms, and they actually treat the old reprobate as if nothing had happened. I believe it will be a long time before he reminds them that he once shot an eighty-two, and a longer time before he breaks a ninety.

A CURE FOR LUMBAGO

I

Colonel Jimmy threatens to resign from the club. He says it was sharp practice. Archie MacBride says it wasn't half as sharp as the lumbago trick which the Colonel worked on him as well as several of the other young members. Colonel Jimmy Norman is one of the charter members of our golf club. He is about as old as Methuselah and he looks it. That is what fools people. It doesn't fool the handicap committee, though.

They've got the Colonel down to 8 now and he hasn't entered a club compet.i.tion since for fear they'll cut him to 6. Respect for age is a fine thing, I admit, but anybody who can step out and tear off 79's and 80's on the Meadowmead course--72 par and a tough 72 at that--isn't ent.i.tled to much the best of it because he can remember the Civil War and cast his first vote for Tilden.

Mind you, I don't say that Colonel Jimmy shoots 79's every day, but he shoots 'em when he needs 79's to win, and that's the mark of a real golfer. And bet? The old pirate will bet anything from a repainted golf ball to a government bond. He has never been known to take his clubs out of the locker without a gamble of some sort. The new members pay all the expenses of Colonel Jimmy's golfing, as well as the upkeep of his limousine--the old members are shy of him--and the way he can nurse a victim along for months without letting him win a single bet is nothing short of miraculous. I ought to know, for I am one of Colonel Jimmy's graduates, and, while I never beat him in my life, he always left me with the impression that I would surely rook him the next time--if I had any luck. Somehow I never had the luck.

Colonel Jimmy has the gentle art of coin separation down to an exact science. Perhaps this is because he made his money in Wall Street and applies Wall Street methods to his golf. After every match he waits around until he collects. He always apologises for taking the money and says that he hopes you'll be on your game the next time.

The Colonel is a shrewd judge of how far he can go in shearing a lamb, and when he sees signs that the victim is getting bare in spots and is about ready to stop betting with him, he cleans up all the spare fleece with the lumbago trick. I'll never forget how he worked it on me. I had been betting him five and ten dollars a match and winning nothing but sympathy and advice and I was about ready to quit the Colonel as a poor investment.

The next time I went out to the club I found Colonel Jimmy sitting on the porch in the sun and I heard him groan even before I saw him.

Naturally I asked what was the matter.