John Henry Smith Part 5

"The blamed club is too light, but I suppose it's the best you've got,"

he said. "It feels like a willow switch. Well, stand back and give me lots of room. Here goes!"

As he grasped the club I saw the muscles of his right forearm stand out like whipcords. His face was wrinkled in a frown, but there was, blood in his eye.

Carter and I stood well away so as to escape a flying club-head. I cannot describe how Harding made that swing; it was done so quickly that I only noted what followed.

When the club came down there was a crack that sounded like a pistol shot, and at that instant I noted that the pyramid of sand was intact.

Then I saw the ball! It was headed straight out the course, curving with that slight hook which contributes so much to distance.

When I first caught sight of it I should say it was fifty feet in the air and slowly rising. I never saw a ball travel so in my life. We had sent a caddy out ahead, and he marked the spot where it landed. It was more than twenty-five yards beyond the two-hundred-yard mark, and the ball rolled forty-five yards farther, making a total of two hundred and seventy yards.

It was within ten yards of the longest drive ever made by Kirkaldy, our club professional.

The exertion carried Harding fairly off his feet, and he landed squarely on the tee. He half raised himself, and followed the flight of the ball.

His shirt was ripped open at the shoulder and torn at the neck.

"If I hadn't slipped," he declared, rising to a sitting posture, "I could have belted it twice as far as that, but I guess that's enough to win."

I heard the rustle of a woman's garment.

"Why, Papa Harding!" exclaimed a voice, musical as a silver bell. "You said you never would play golf! You should see how you look!"

I turned and saw Grace Harding. She is the most beautiful creature I ever met in my life.

Before any of us could reach him, Harding scrambled to his feet. He was streaked with sand, but there was a merry twinkle in his eye.

"Did you see me soak it, Kid?" he asked, brushing the sand from his trousers, and fumbling at a broken suspender.

"You are nothing but a great big boy," she declared. "Are you sure you are not hurt, papa?"

"Hurt, nothing!" exclaimed Harding, "but I'll bet I hurt that ball. I've lost my collar b.u.t.ton," he said, pawing about the tee with his feet.

"Your eyes are sharper than mine, Kid, see if you can find it. It must be around here somewhere."

"My friend, Mr. Smith," said Carter, presenting me to Miss Harding. She did not bow coldly, as do most young ladies in our set, neither was there anything bold in accepting this most informal introduction. She acted like a good fellow should act, and frankly offered her hand, her eyes dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Smith owns this land," volunteered Harding, still hunting for the b.u.t.ton, "but he was too lazy to work it, so he turned it into a golf course. He and Carter are great players, so I have heard, but I have been putting it all over them driving a ball, and I didn't half try at that."

"Did you hit it, papa?" she asked.

"Did I hit it?" he repeated, "Did I hit it? Ask them if I hit it. Where in thunder is that collar-b.u.t.ton?"

And then the four of us hunted for that elusive but useful article.

Miss Harding found it in a tuft of gra.s.s, and I stood and stupidly watched her while she put it in place, adjusted the collar and tied the cravat.

"Papa is very lucky in whatever he undertakes," she said, addressing me rather than Carter, so I believe. "I could have warned you that he would have beaten you, though I cannot understand how he happened to drive a ball as far as that."

She smiled and looked proudly at the huge figure of her father, who patted her on the cheek and laughed disdainfully.

Carter made some commonplace remark, but for the life of me I did not know what to say. The proud little head, the arched eyebrows, the cheeks faintly touched with a healthy tan, the little waist, the slender but perfect figure, and the toe of a dainty shoe held me in an aphasic spell. But the laughing eyes brought me out of it, and I made one of the most brilliant conversational efforts of my career.

"Do you play golf, Miss Harding?" I asked. Having thus broken the ice I experienced a vast sense of relief.

"I won a gold cup in a compet.i.tion in Paris, didn't I, papa?"

"Sure thing," responded her father, "I ought to know; it cost me fifteen dollars to pay duty on that ornament."

"And I once made the course in ninety-one," continued Miss Harding.

"I don't know anything about that," said Harding. "Is ninety-one supposed to be any good?"

"It is a splendid record for a lady for eighteen holes!" I exclaimed, "and it is not a bad score for a man."

"But this was only a nine-hole course," explained Miss Harding, "and there were many of the ladies who did not do anywhere near as well as that. I have played considerably since then, and am confident that I can do much better."

"You'll have to excuse us, Kid," interrupted her father, patting her on the arm with his huge hand. "I have important business in the club house with these gentlemen, and it is a matter which takes precedence over everything else. You can tell Smith about your golf triumphs some other time."

He talked to her as if she were a child who was in the way. I suppose it does not occur to him that she is a woman grown. I would rather have remained where I was and attempted to talk to her, or even look at her, than to sip the finest Scotch whiskey ever bottled.

Now that I read this last line it does not convey much of a compliment, but I mean all that it implies. She certainly is very pretty. We made our excuses to her, and went to the club cafe, and I have not seen her since. She has gone to the city with her mother on a shopping tour and will not be back for several days.

I wonder how Carter became acquainted with her. He seems to know her very well, and must have met her many times. I should like to ask him, but of course that would not be the proper thing to do.

I had no idea that I would write so much as this when I started.

ENTRY NO. IV

BISHOP'S HIRED MAN

Miss Harding is still in the city, and I have added nothing to this diary for several days. She is expected back to-morrow.

I do not know how to account for it, but since the coming of the Hardings my game has fallen off several strokes. It seems impossible for me to concentrate my mind on my shots.

Ninety-one is very poor golf for nine holes, and I am sure that with practice under a capable golfer Miss Harding could do much better. She has just the figure for a long, true and swinging stroke. I shall make it a point to ask her to play before Carter gets a chance to forestall me.

Unless I am entirely in error Carter is badly smitten with Miss Harding.

It also occurs to me that I have written enough about that young lady.

Mr. Harding is also in the city. I wish I had his opinion about the future of N.O. & G. railroad stock. It has gone down another point, which means the loss of two thousand dollars to me.

An odd sort of an incident happened yesterday morning. None of the scratch players was about, so I accepted an invitation to play a round with LaHume and Miss Lawrence. She is a very pretty girl, though in my opinion she is not to be compared with Miss Harding. LaHume is devoted to her, as much as he can be devoted to any one or anything, and there have been rumours now and then that they were engaged or about to be engaged, but since it has always been possible to trace these reports back to LaHume I have had my doubts of their accuracy. Miss Olive Lawrence has inherited a large fortune, and is the master of it and of herself.

LaHume has been a persistent fortune hunter, and if patience be a virtue he deserves to win. He had a tiff yesterday with Miss Lawrence, and it came about curiously enough.

The Bishop farm adjoins the club grounds on the east, and everyone for miles about knows Bishop. He has little use for anything but work and money, and he always has difficulty in keeping farm labourers, or "hired men," as he terms them.