John Henry Smith Part 41

He smiled placidly and his eye twinkled merrily through that monocle.

"I'm feeling fine! Congratulate me, old fellow!"

The blow had fallen--but I stood it better than I had dreamed would be possible!

A swarm of thoughts came to me in that instant, but I maintained my outward serenity. I knew that he was a clean, honourable man and worthy in every way of the hand and heart of Grace Harding. Possibly they had been long engaged. All of my alleged rights and wrongs faded into thin air. Besides, what was the use of whimpering? It was a stunning blow, but I would stand it like a man.

"I do congratulate you, Carter!" I exclaimed, clasping his hand and looking him frankly in the eyes. "You have won the most glorious woman on earth, and I esteem it an honour that I have had the privilege of meeting her and of enjoying her society! I am--"

"Confound it, man, you never met my wife!" said Carter. "What on earth are you talking of, my dear Smith? Ah, excuse me!"

He pushed past me to meet a radiant creature with laughing blue eyes who came from out that little store. He smiled and took a tiny parcel from her hands. Then he said something to her and they turned to me.

"Stella, my dear," he said, her hand in his as they confronted the most dazed human on the face of the earth, "you have heard me talk so much of my dear friend, 'Foxy Old Smith'; well, here he is! Permit me to present Mr. John Henry Smith, champion of Woodvale, winner of the Harding Trophy, also Wizard of Finance!"

I a.s.sured Mrs. Carter that I was delighted to meet her, and if ever a man told the truth I did at that moment. I said a lot of things, laughed so boisterously that Carter looked shocked; I told of the death of my uncle and grinned all the time. I certainly must have made an impression on that lovely bride.

They compelled me to listen while they told of their marriage in London, nearly a week before. She is an English girl, and Carter kept his word that he would be married in London. Since she has never been in America, and since this was my first visit to Great Britain, it was evident I had not met her.

I do not know what Carter thought of my wild outburst. He has not mentioned the subject, and I shall not bring it up.

"Where are the Hardings?" I asked, when I no longer could restrain my impatience.

"They are stopping at the Caledonia," said Carter. "You probably will find the Governor out on the links. He has struck up a great friendship with 'Old Tom' Morris, and doubtless is playing with him right now."

"I think I will go and look him up," I said, as we came to a cross street. "I have an important business matter in which he is interested.

I'll see you at dinner."

"The club house is yonder," said Carter, pointing down the hill. With a bow and my uncontrollable grin, I parted from them and armed with a card which Carter had given me, hastened toward the headquarters of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews.

The sedate gentlemen who were lounging about, waiting for the prearranged times when they are privileged to drive from the first tee, must have identified me as the typical American from the manner in which I hastened from one room to another. I explored the locker rooms, the cafes, reception hall, library, billiard room, the verandas, and every nook and corner of the structure.

There is one sacred retreat called the "Room of Silence." Here are displayed the famous relics and historical curios of the game, including clubs used by King James, also strange irons once wielded by champions whose bones have been mouldering for generations. In this awesome place one must enter with sealed lips, and sit and silently ponder over his golf and other crimes. It is sacrilege to utter a word, and not in good form to breathe too rapidly.

An elderly gentleman who looked as if he might be a mine of information was seated in a comfortable chair. He was the sole occupant of the room.

I had not asked a question since I had entered the building, and here was my chance.

"Do you happen to know an American gentleman named Harding--Robert L.

Harding?" I asked, deferentially.

He did not move an eyelash. I pondered that it was just my luck that the first gentleman I had addressed was deaf and dumb. As I crossed the threshold, I caught an indignant mumble: "Talkative chap, that; he must be an American."

I fled the club house and started down the course. There are three links, but I was certain that Harding would be playing on the "regular"

one, and since it is rather narrow I had no difficulty in following it.

For the first time I was possessed of no ambition to play. Several indignant golfers shouted "Fore!" but I pursued my way, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left.

When about a mile from the first tee, I saw Harding. His head and shoulders showed above the dreaded trap of "Strath's Bunker," and not far from him was a white-bearded old gentleman with twinkling blue eyes who was smiling at Harding's desperate efforts to loft his ball out of the sand.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "This takes the cake!"]

"Thot weel not do-o, mon!" I heard him say as I neared the scene of this tragedy. "Take yeer niblick, mon, an' coom richt doon on it!"

Out of a cascade of flying sand I saw his ball lob over the bunker, and with various comments Mr. Harding scrambled out of this pit, brushed the sand off his clothes, and then turned and saw me.

"Of all the d.a.m.ned places to get in trouble, Smith, this takes the cake!" he exclaimed, mopping the perspiration from his face. "Do you know," he added, looking about for his ball, "that it took me five strokes to get out of that cursed sand pit!"

He looked in his bag for another club, played his shot, and made a fairly good one, and then appeared to recall for the first time that he had not recently seen me.

"h.e.l.lo, Smith; when did you strike town?" he said, a welcoming smile on his face as he offered his hand.

"About an hour ago," I said.

"Well, well! I'm glad to see you! Why didn't you wire you were coming?

We'd have come for you in our new machine. Bought a new one since we came over here and have been travelling around in it. It's more comfortable than these confounded English trains. They're the limit, aren't they? Well, how are you? Seems to me you look a bit peaked?"

"I'm all right," I insisted. "How is--how is Mrs. Harding?"

"Never better in her life!"

"And how is--how is Miss Harding?"

We were on the edge of the green, and Harding had played his ball so that we pa.s.sed near the old gentleman who was Harding's opponent.

"Smith," said that gentleman, "I want you to know Old Tom Morris! Of course, you have heard of him--every golfer has--and all that I ask is that I may be able to play as good a game and be as good a fellow when I am eighty-five years old. Mr. Morris, this is my young friend, John Henry Smith, of America."

I greeted this famous character with some commonplace remarks, and remained silent while they putted out. I made no further attempt in the conversational line until they had driven the next tee.

"How is your daughter, Mr. Harding?" I asked.

"Grace? The Kid?" he hesitated. "She's pretty well, but this climate don't seem exactly to agree with her. We must get her started on golf again. She hasn't played a game since she has been here."

My heart gave a bound when he said that little word "we." Surely he knew nothing of the trouble which had come between us. If she were married, he surely would have said something about it, and up to that minute I had a lingering fear that I might have lost her to some suitor other than Carter.

"And she has never played the course?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Not once," he declared. "As a matter of fact, Smith, women are not very popular around here. They herd them off on a third course which is set aside for them. I looked it over, and it's a scrubby sort of a place."

"That's an outrage!" I declared.

"Oh, I don't know," he returned. "They can hack around over there and do no great damage. Between you and me, Smith, I think women are more or less of a nuisance on a course frequented by good players."

I recalled that I once held the same opinion, and in looking back to the opening pages of this diary I find that I expressed it even more brutally than did Mr. Harding. But I was in no mood to argue the matter with him.

"I presume Mrs. and Miss Harding are at the hotel?" I carelessly remarked. "I should like to pay my respects to them."

"They're about the hotel, I reckon," he said, taking his stance for a bra.s.sie shot. He made a very good one.

"How's that, Smith?" he exclaimed. "My boy, I'm getting this game down fine! Old Tom has put me onto some new wrinkles. See that old c.o.c.k line out that ball! Isn't he a wonder?"