John Henry Smith Part 3

They are due to-morrow. I wonder if old Harding knows anything about N.O. & G. stock? He probably does--and will keep it to himself.

There being nothing else to write about I shall write of myself.

As Chilvers said yesterday, I was born on the farm which now const.i.tutes the Woodvale golf links. When my father died he willed this land and other property to me. I take it that a man has a right to do as he pleases with his own.

The old farm makes a sporty golf course, and I cannot say that I have ever regretted my action in signing the lease which transfers its use to the Woodvale Golf and Country Club for a long term of years.

I doubt if the two hundred odd acres ever yielded so large an income as I now receive semi-annually from the treasurer of the club, but this does not appeal to my Uncle Henry.

"It is an outrage," he once said to me, with unnecessary adjectives, "to use the fine old farmhouse, sacred to long generations of Smiths, as an ell to a club house."

He said other things which I will not repeat. He is a banker, and I sincerely hope Chilvers does not hit him with a golf ball. That infernal slice of Chilvers' has already cost me one legacy.

I have traced my ancestry as far back as I dare, and have a certain amount of reverence for hallowed traditions and all that sort of thing.

I must admit there have been times when I have almost imagined that the shades of three generations of more or less distinguished Smiths were holding an indignation meeting to protest against this golf invasion of their mundane haunts.

Where my great-grandmother once sang over her spinning wheel there has been installed a modern shower bath. The huge old-fashioned dining-room, with its cavernous fireplace, is now lined on three sides with lockers.

The place above it which was once filled with the blackened oil portrait of our original Smith is now adorned with an engraving of Harry Varden at the finish of his drive.

This picture of Varden's is said to be the best likeness yet produced of this truly remarkable man. I have studied it for hours, but cannot understand how he can grip a club as he does without hooking his ball.

All the bed-chambers on the second floor have been thrown into one large room, which is used as a gymnasium. As near as I can make out, the place where I once knelt to say my prayers is now occupied by a punching bag.

The ceiling has been removed, which, of course, does away with the attic, and trapeze ropes now hang from rafters where successive grandmothers suspended peppermint, pennyroyal and other weeds and herbs possessing medicinal or culinary virtues.

I confess it does look a bit odd, but it makes a ripping good gym.

Certain it is that the old farm never looked as beautiful as it does now. The cow pasture once flanked with boggy marshes has been drained and rolled until the turf is smooth as velvet. The cornfields have disappeared. The straggling stone walls have been converted into bunkers, and the whole area has been converted into a park.

Old Bishop owns the adjoining farm, and whenever he sees our employees at work with rollers or gra.s.s-mowers he is overcome with rage.

"The best tract of land for corn, oats or hay in the county!" he exclaims, "and you have made it the playground of a lot of rich dudes!

Jack, I should think your father would turn over in his grave. I'd like to run a plow an' harrer over them puttin' greens of yours, as ye call them. You've wasted enough manure on that gra.s.s to make me rich."

Bishop does not understand or appreciate the beauties and niceties of golf.

The first tee is under an elm which was planted by the Smith who was born in 1754, and who served under Washington. Facing it is the quaint old country church where the Father of our Country has attended many services, and in which my parents were married.

A straight drive of one hundred and thirty yards will carry the lane and insure a good lie, but a sliced ball is likely to go through a window of the church. However, the church is no longer used, and besides there is no excuse for slicing a ball. Some of the members a.s.sert that the old belfry is a "mental hazard."

On the second hole it is necessary to carry the old graveyard. A topped ball or even a low one is likely to strike one of the blackened slate slabs. The gra.s.s is so thick and rank that it is almost impossible to find a ball driven into this last resting place of my ancestors.

It makes an ideal hazard.

The second time I ever played this hole I lined out a low ball which struck the tombstone of Deacon Lemuel Smith. It bounded back at least seventy-five yards, but I had a good lie and my second shot was a screaming bra.s.sie. It carried the graveyard and landed on the edge of the green.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "It makes an ideal hazard"]

After carefully studying my putt I holed out from twenty yards, making the hole in three after practically throwing my first shot away.

This ability to recover from an indifferent or unfortunate shot is one of the strong points of my game.

The third hole requires a hundred-and-thirty-yard drive over the brook where I used to fish when a boy, and on the fourth hole you must carry the pond. I came very near being drowned in that pond when a youngster, and I firmly believe that this is the reason I so often flub my drive on this hole.

But it is unnecessary to describe all of the eighteen holes. The links are 3,327 yards out and 3,002 yards in, a long and sporty course, the delight of the true golfer and the terror of the duffer.

Woodvale is very exclusive. The membership is limited, and hundreds of the best people in the city are on the waiting list. Our club house is one of the finest in the country. In addition to the links we have tennis courts, croquet grounds, bowling alleys and other games, but why one should care to indulge in any game other than golf is a mystery to me.

We also have bicycle and riding paths, flower gardens and all the luxuries and artificial scenic charms possible from the judicious expenditure of nearly four hundred thousand dollars. Nothing can surpa.s.s it.

I live here during the golfing season, and one is unfortunate if he cannot play nine months in the year in Woodvale. In the winter it is safer to go to Florida or California, and I propose to do so in the future rather than risk a repet.i.tion of last season's heavy snows which made golf impossible for days at a time.

My suite of rooms in the club house is as finely furnished as any in the city, and the service and cuisine are excellent.

One saves a vast amount of time by living in such a club house as that of Woodvale. The hours expended by golfers in travelling between their places of business and the links will foot up to an enormous total each year. I remain here and thus save all that time.

Not that I neglect my business; far from it. Once a week my private secretary comes to the club house from my office in the city. He brings with him letters and other matters which imperatively demand my personal attention, and I sternly abandon all else for the time being.

On the days when he is here I play twenty-four holes instead of the usual thirty-six or more, but I find the change diverting rather than otherwise. Without claiming special merit for an original discovery, I believe I have struck what may be termed the happy medium between work and relaxation.

I do not cla.s.s the keeping of this diary as work for the reason that I shall not permit it to interfere with my golf. When I feel disposed to make a note of an event, an idea or a score I shall do so, but I do not propose to be a slave to this diary.

I have just returned from a walk on the veranda. Miss Ross came to me, greatly excited.

"They are here!" she exclaimed.

"Who; the Hardings?" I asked.

"No, their trunks are here. And what do you think?"

"I would not make a guess," I declared.

"Miss Harding has only six trunks, and I had seven myself."

The sweet creature was happy and immensely relieved. I forgot to ask her if any golf clubs were included in the Harding luggage.

ENTRY NO. III

MR. HARDING WINS A BET

I have met Harding, the western railroad magnate, and he is a character.

His wife is in the city, but will be out here in a few days.

Harding--I call him Mister when addressing him, since he is worth thirty millions or more, and he is old enough to be my father--Harding strolled out to the first tee early this morning and stood with his hands in his pockets watching some of the fellows drive off.