The Golf Omnibus

by P. G. Wodehouse

  You are wondering, no doubt, why, in these circumstances, he did not take advantage of the new spirit of exhilarated pride which had replaced his old humility and instantly propose to Barbara Medway. I will tell you. He did not propose to Barbara because Barbara was not there. At the last moment she had been detained at home to nurse a sick parent and had been compelled to postpone her visit for a couple of weeks. He could, no doubt, have proposed in one of the daily letters which he wrote to her, but somehow, once he started writing, he found that he used up so much space describing his best shots on the links that day that it was difficult to squeeze in a declaration of undying passion. After all, you can hardly cram that sort of thing into a postscript.

  He decided, therefore, to wait till she arrived, and meanwhile pursued his conquering course. The longer he waited, the better, in one way, for every morning and afternoon that passed was adding new layers to his self-esteem. Day by day in every way he grew chestier and chestier.

  Meanwhile, however, dark clouds were gathering. Sullen mutterings were to be heard in corners of the hotel lounge, and the spirit of revolt was abroad. For Ferdinand’s chestiness had not escaped the notice of his defeated rivals. There is nobody so chesty as a normally unchesty man who suddenly becomes chesty, and I am sorry to say that the chestiness which had come to Ferdinand was the aggressive type of chestiness which breeds enemies. He had developed a habit of holding the game up in order to give his opponent advice. The Whip-Cracker had not forgiven, and never would forgive, his well-meant but galling criticism of his back-swing. The Scooper, who had always scooped since the day when, at the age of sixty-four, he subscribed to the Correspondence Course which was to teach him golf in twelve lessons by mail, resented being told by a snip of a boy that the mashie-stroke should be a smooth, unhurried swing. The Snake-Killer⎯ But I need not weary you with a detailed recital of these men’s grievances; it is enough to say that they all had it in for Ferdinand, and one night, after dinner, they met in the lounge to decide what was to be done about it.

  A nasty spirit was displayed by all.

  “A mere lad telling me how to use my mashie!” growled the Scooper. “Smooth and unhurried my left eyeball! I get it up, don’t I? Well, what more do you want?”

  “I keep telling him that mine is the old, full St. Andrew’s swing,” muttered the Whip-Cracker, between set teeth, “but he won’t listen to me.”

  “He ought to be taken down a peg or two,” hissed the Snake-Killer. It is not easy to hiss a sentence without a single “s” in it, and the fact that he succeeded in doing so shows to what a pitch of emotion the man had been goaded by Ferdinand’s maddening air of superiority.

  “Yes, but what can we do?” queried an octogenarian, when this last remark had been passed on to him down his ear-trumpet.

  “That’s the trouble,” sighed the Scooper. “What can we do?” And there was a sorrowful shaking of heads.

  “I know!” exclaimed the Cat-Stroker, who had not hitherto spoken. He was a lawyer, and a man of subtle and sinister mind. “I have it! There’s a boy in my office—young Parsloe—who could beat this man Dibble hollow. I’ll wire him to come down here and we’ll spring him on this fellow and knock some of the conceit out of him.”

  There was a chorus of approval.

  “But are you sure he can beat him?” asked the Snake-Killer, anxiously. “It would never do to make a mistake.”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said the Cat-Stroker. “George Parsloe once went round in ninety-four.”

  “Many changes there have been since ninety-four,” said the octogenarian, nodding sagely. “Ah, many, many changes. None of these motor-cars then, tearing about and killing⎯”

  Kindly hands led him off to have an egg-and-milk, and the remaining conspirators returned to the point at issue with bent brows.

  “Ninety-four?” said the Scooper, incredulously. “Do you mean counting every stroke?”

  “Counting every stroke.”

  “Not conceding himself any putts?”

  “Not one.”

  “Wire him to come at once,” said the meeting with one voice.

  That night the Cat-Stroker approached Ferdinand, smooth, subtle, lawyer-like.

  “Oh, Dibble,” he said, “just the man I wanted to see. Dibble, there’s a young friend of mine coming down here who goes in for golf a little. George Parsloe is his name. I was wondering if you could spare time to give him a game. He is just a novice, you know.”

  “I shall be delighted to play a round with him,” said Ferdinand kindly.

  “He might pick up a pointer or two from watching you.” said the Cat-Stroker.

  “True, true,” said Ferdinand.

  “Then I’ll introduce you when he shows up.”

  “Delighted,” said Ferdinand.

  He was in excellent humour that night, for he had had a letter from Barbara saying that she was arriving on the next day but one.

  It was Ferdinand’s healthy custom of a morning to get up in good time and take a dip in the sea before breakfast. On the morning of the day of Barbara’s arrival, he arose, as usual, donned his flannels, took a good look at the cup, and started out. It was a fine, fresh morning, and he glowed both externally and internally. As he crossed the links, for the nearest route to the water was through the fairway of the seventh, he was whistling happily and rehearsing in his mind the opening sentences of his proposal. For it was his firm resolve that night after dinner to ask Barbara to marry him. He was proceeding over the smooth turf without a care in the world, when there was a sudden cry of “Fore!” and the next moment a golf-ball, missing him by inches, sailed up the fairway and came to a rest fifty yards from where he stood. He looked up and observed a figure coming towards him from the tee.

  The distance from the tee was fully a hundred and thirty yards. Add fifty to that, and you have a hundred and eighty yards. No such drive had been made on the Marvis Bay links since their foundation, and such is the generous spirit of the true golfer that Ferdinand’s first emotion, after the not inexcusable spasm of panic caused by the hum of the ball past his ear, was one of cordial admiration. By some kindly miracle, he supposed, one of his hotel acquaintances had been permitted for once in his life to time a drive right. It was only when the other man came up that there began to steal over him a sickening apprehension. The faces of all those who hewed divots on the hotel course were familiar to him, and the fact that this fellow was a stranger seemed to point with dreadful certainty to his being the man he had agreed to play.

  “Sorry,” said the man. He was a tall, strikingly handsome youth, with brown eyes and a dark moustache.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Ferdinand. “Er—do you always drive like that?”

  “Well, I generally get a bit longer ball, but I’m off my drive this morning. It’s lucky I came out and got this practice. I’m playing a match tomorrow with a fellow named Dibble, who’s a local champion, or something.”

  “Me,” said Ferdinand, humbly.

  “Eh? Oh, you?” Mr. Parsloe eyed him appraisingly. “Well, may the best man win.”

  As this was precisely what Ferdinand was afraid was going to happen, he nodded in a sickly manner and tottered off to his bathe. The magic had gone out of the morning. The sun still shone, but in a silly, feeble way; and a cold and depressing wind had sprung up. For Ferdinand’s inferiority complex, which had seemed cured for ever, was back again, doing business at the old stand.

  How sad it is in this life that the moment to which we have looked forward with the most glowing anticipation so often turns out on arrival, flat, cold, and disappointing. For ten days Barbara Medway had been living for that meeting with Ferdinand, when, getting out of the train, she would see him popping about on the horizon with the lovelight sparkling in his eyes and words of devotion trembling on his lips. The poor girl never doubted for an instant that he would unleash his pent-up emotions inside the first five minutes, and her only worry was lest he should give an embarrassing publicity to t
he sacred scene by falling on his knees on the station platform.

  “Well, here I am at last,” she cried gaily.

  “Hullo!” said Ferdinand, with a twisted smile.

  The girl looked at him, chilled. How could she know that his peculiar manner was due entirely to the severe attack of cold feet resultant upon his meeting with George Parsloe that morning? The interpretation which she placed upon it was that he was not glad to see her. If he had behaved like this before, she would, of course, have put it down to ingrowing goofery, but now she had his written statements to prove that for the last ten days his golf had been one long series of triumphs.

  “I got your letters,” she said, persevering bravely.

  “I thought you would,” said Ferdinand, absently.

  “You seem to have been doing wonders.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a silence.

  “Have a nice journey?” said Ferdinand.

  “Very,” said Barbara.

  She spoke coldly, for she was madder than a wet hen. She saw it all now. In the ten days since they had parted, his love, she realized, had waned. Some other girl, met in the romantic surroundings of this picturesque resort, had supplanted her in his affections. She knew how quickly Cupid gets off the mark at a summer hotel, and for an instant she blamed herself for ever having been so ivory-skulled as to let him come to this place alone. Then regret was swallowed up in wrath, and she became so glacial that Ferdinand, who had been on the point of telling her the secret of his gloom, retired into his shell and conversation during the drive to the hotel never soared above a certain level. Ferdinand said the sunshine was nice and Barbara said yes, it was nice, and Ferdinand said it looked pretty on the water, and Barbara said yes, it did look pretty on the water, and Ferdinand said he hoped it was not going to rain, and Barbara said yes, it would be a pity if it rained. And then there was another lengthy silence.

  “How is my uncle?” asked Barbara at last.

  I omitted to mention that the individual to whom I have referred as the Cat-Stroker was Barbara’s mother’s brother, and her host at Marvis Bay.

  “Your uncle?”

  “His name is Tuttle. Have you met him?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve seen a good deal of him. He has got a friend staying with him,” said Ferdinand, his mind returning to the matter nearest his heart. “A fellow named Parsloe.”

  “Oh, is George Parsloe here? How jolly!”

  “Do you know him?” barked Ferdinand, hollowly. He would not have supposed that anything could have added to his existing depression, but he was conscious now of having slipped a few rungs farther down the ladder of gloom. There had been a horribly joyful ring in her voice. Ah, well, he reflected morosely, how like life it all was! We never know what the morrow may bring forth. We strike a good patch and are beginning to think pretty well of ourselves, and along comes a George Parsloe.

  “Of course I do,” said Barbara. “Why, there he is.”

  The cab had drawn up at the door of the hotel, and on the porch George Parsloe was airing his graceful person. To Ferdinand’s fevered eye he looked like a Greek god, and his inferiority complex began to exhibit symptoms of elephantiasis. How could he compete at love or golf with a fellow who looked as if he had stepped out of the movies and considered himself off his drive when he did a hundred and eighty yards?

  “Geor-gee!” cried Barbara blithely. “Hullo, George!”

  “Why, hullo, Barbara!”

  They fell into pleasant conversation, while Ferdinand hung miserably about in the offing. And presently, feeling that his society was not essential to their happiness, he slunk away.

  George Parsloe dined at the Cat-Stroker’s table that night, and it was with George Parsloe that Barbara roamed in the moonlight after dinner. Ferdinand, after a profitless hour at the billiard-table, went early to his room. But not even the rays of the moon, glinting on his cup, could soothe the fever in his soul. He practised putting sombrely into his tooth-glass for a while; then, going to bed, fell at last into a troubled sleep.

  Barbara slept late the next morning and breakfasted in her room. Coming down towards noon, she found a strange emptiness in the hotel. It was her experience of summer hotels that a really fine day like this one was the cue for half the inhabitants to collect in the lounge, shut all the windows, and talk about conditions in the jute industry. To her surprise, though the sun was streaming down from a cloudless sky, the only occupant of the lounge was the octogenarian with the ear-trumpet. She observed that he was chuckling to himself in a senile manner.

  “Good morning,” she said, politely, for she had made his acquaintance on the previous evening.

  “Hey?” said the octogenarian, suspending his chuckling and getting his trumpet into position.

  “I said ‘Good morning!’” roared Barbara into the receiver.

  “Hey?”

  “Good morning!”

  “Ah! Yes, it’s a very fine morning, a very fine morning. If it wasn’t for missing my bun and glass of milk at twelve sharp,” said the octogenarian, “I’d be down on the links. That’s where I’d be, down on the links. If it wasn’t for missing my bun and glass of milk.”

  This refreshment arriving at this moment, he dismantled the radio outfit and began to restore his tissues.

  “Watching the match,” he explained, pausing for a moment in his bun-mangling.

  “What match?”

  The octogenarian sipped his milk.

  “What match?” repeated Barbara.

  “Hey?”

  “What match?”

  The octogenarian began to chuckle again and nearly swallowed a crumb the wrong way.

  “Take some of the conceit out of him,” he gurgled.

  “Out of who?” asked Barbara, knowing perfectly well that she should have said “whom”.

  “Yes,” said the octogenarian.

  “Who is conceited?”

  “Ah! This young fellow, Dibble. Very conceited. I saw it in his eye from the first, but nobody would listen to me. Mark my words, I said, that boy needs taking down a peg or two. Well, he’s going to be this morning. Your uncle wired to young Parsloe to come down, and he’s arranged a match between them. Dibble⎯” Here the octogenarian choked again and had to rinse himself out with milk, “Dibble doesn’t know that Parsloe once went round in ninety-four!”

  “What?”

  Everything seemed to go black to Barbara. Through a murky mist she appeared to be looking at a negro octogenarian, sipping ink. Then her eyes cleared, and she found herself clutching for support at the back of a chair. She understood now. She realized why Ferdinand had been so distrait, and her whole heart went out to him in a spasm of maternal pity. How she had wronged him!

  “Take some of the conceit out of him,” the octogenarian was mumbling, and Barbara felt a sudden sharp loathing for the old man. For two pins she could have dropped a beetle in his milk. Then the need for action roused her. What action? She did not know. All she knew was that she must act.

  “Oh!” she cried.

  “Hey?” said the octogenarian, bringing his trumpet to the ready.

  But Barbara had gone.

  It was not far to the links, and Barbara covered the distance on flying feet. She reached the club-house, but the course was empty except for the Scooper, who was preparing to drive off the first tee. In spite of the fact that something seemed to tell her subconsciously that this was one of the sights she ought not to miss, the girl did not wait to watch. Assuming that the match had started soon after breakfast, it must by now have reached one of the holes on the second nine. She ran down the hill, looking to left and right, and was presently aware of a group of spectators clustered about a green in the distance. As she hurried towards them they moved away, and now she could see Ferdinand advancing to the next tee. With a thrill that shook her whole body she realized that he had the honour. So he must have won one hole, at any rate. Then she saw her uncle.

  “How are they?” she gasped.

>   Mr. Tuttle seemed moody. It was apparent that things were not going altogether to his liking.

  “All square at the fifteenth,” he replied, gloomily.

  “All square!”

  “Yes. Young Parsloe,” said Mr. Tuttle with a sour look in the direction of that lissom athlete, “doesn’t seem to be able to do a thing right on the greens. He has been putting like a sheep with the botts.”

  From the foregoing remark of Mr. Tuttle you will, no doubt, have gleaned at least a clue to the mystery of how Ferdinand Dibble had managed to hold his long-driving adversary up to the fifteenth green, but for all that you will probably consider that some further explanation of this amazing state of affairs is required. Mere bad putting on the part of George Parsloe is not, you feel, sufficient to cover the matter entirely. You are right. There was another very important factor in the situation—to wit, that by some extraordinary chance Ferdinand Dibble had started right off from the first tee, playing the game of a lifetime. Never had he made such drives, never chipped his chips so shrewdly.

  About Ferdinand’s driving there was as a general thing a fatal stiffness and over-caution which prevented success. And with his chip-shots he rarely achieved accuracy owing to his habit of rearing his head like the lion of the jungle just before the club struck the ball. But today he had been swinging with a careless freedom, and his chips had been true and clean. The thing had puzzled him all the way round. It had not elated him, for, owing to Barbara’s aloofness and the way in which she had gambolled about George Parsloe, like a young lamb in the springtime, he was in too deep a state of dejection to be elated by anything. And now, suddenly, in a flash of clear vision, he perceived the reason why he had been playing so well today. It was just because he was not elated. It was simply because he was so profoundly miserable.

  That was what Ferdinand told himself as he stepped off the sixteenth, after hitting a screamer down the centre of the fairway, and I am convinced that he was right. Like so many indifferent golfers, Ferdinand Dibble had always made the game hard for himself by thinking too much. He was a deep student of the works of the masters, and whenever he prepared to play a stroke he had a complete mental list of all the mistakes which it was possible to make. He would remember how Taylor had warned against dipping the right shoulder, how Vardon had inveighed against any movement of the head; he would recall how Ray had mentioned the tendency to snatch back the club, how Braid had spoken sadly of those who sin against their better selves by stiffening the muscles and heaving.