Fore! Part 29

"Come out to the shop," said the professional. He showed me a list of the players rated by the Western Golf a.s.sociation. A man by the name of Small was very close to the top--very close indeed.

We don't know whether the Colonel is going to lay the case before the committee or not. If he does, we shall have to explain why he has not had an attack of lumbago since.

THE MAN WHO QUIT

I

Mr. Ingram Tec.u.mseh Parkes squinted along the line of his short putt, breathed hard through his prominent and highly decorative nose, concentrated his mighty intellect upon the task before him, and tapped the small white ball ever so lightly. It rolled toward the cup, wavered from the line, returned to it again, seemed about to stop short of its destination, hovered for one breathless instant on the very lip, and at last fell into the hole.

Mr. Parkes, who had been hopping up and down on one leg, urging the ball forward with inarticulate commands and violent contortions of his body, and behaving generally in the manner of a baseball fan or a financially interested spectator at a horse race, suddenly relaxed with a deep grunt of relief. He glanced at his opponent--a tall, solemn-looking gentleman--who was regarding Mr. Parkes with an unblinking stare in which disgust, chagrin and fathomless melancholy were mingled.

"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announced Parkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time.

"Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and I licked you"--here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "I licked you on an even game! An even game--d'you get that, Bob? Didn't have to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on an even game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I had it in me, did you?"

The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr.

Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victor became aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream of self-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. There was a short, painful silence.

"I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically; "but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn't think I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicap man before----"

"Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of one who brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off--I don't care. Give yourself a _loud_ cheer while you're at it. I'm not paying any attention to you."

Mr. Parkes was not exactly pleased with the permission thus handsomely granted.

"No need for you to get sore about it," was the sulky comment.

The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitter undertone in his mirth.

"Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like you handed me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?"

"Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'd better haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and you look as if you'd lost your last friend."

"I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost my game. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any game to lose. It's awful--awful!"

"Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while."

"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong--my shots left me.

I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the course--couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! n.o.body knows any more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my life--and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a battle!"

"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worry too much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's a sport--a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but I never worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten; to-day----"

"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I suppose you call that good--eh?"

"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind!

Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on, take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. The match is over, so you won't have that to worry about."

"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golfer yourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not being beaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and then falling down on the execution--that's what breaks my heart! If ever you get so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and your game leaves you overnight--steps right out from under you and leaves you flat--then you'll know how I feel."

"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a bad player--oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. And just to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in--no handicap--not even a bisque. What say?"

"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time tee shots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!"

Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward the clubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tec.u.mseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. He grinned from ear to ear and ill.u.s.trated an animated discourse with sweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him, kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders sagged listlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on the ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of his drooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himself heavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out of the window but seeing nothing.

"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated before the stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-l.u.s.tre eyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand.

"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with this double-dash-blanked game."

Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a full heart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne's friends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement was received with calmness--not to say a certain amount of levity.

"We've all been there!" chuckled one of the listeners.

"Many's the time!" supplemented another.

"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'd been slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the d.a.m.ned shaft. Did me a lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual, and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that has been annoying you. Try it some time."

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Coyne. "I'd have to break 'em all!"

"Maybe you don't drink enough," hazarded another.

"Cheer up!" said the first speaker. "You'll be all right this afternoon."

The afflicted one lifted his head again and gazed mournfully at his friends.

"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong.

I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks--not one. I--I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you."

"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like an April zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-bad golfer--ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to my ball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-foot putt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine tr.i.m.m.i.n.g this morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three and two without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn't make him like it. What do you think of that, eh?"

"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?"

Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window.

"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight.

Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just to put some life into him and stir up his--er--cupidity. I guess that's the word. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do?

Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up his ball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of h.e.l.l's Half Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!"

"He has cause--if you beat him," said one of the older members.

"I wish I could win from a _well_ man once in a while," complained Parkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on an invalid."

"Oh, shut up and let Bob alone!"

"Yes; quit riding him."