by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. VII
TWO BOYS FROM BUCKFIELD
When Harding was in the city he purchased a huge golf bag, the mostwonderful assortment of clubs imaginable, also two golf suits and abewildering array of shirts, caps, scarfs, shoes and other articles thatsome dealers assured him were necessary for the proper playing of thegame.
"If I have got to play this fool game, and I suppose there is no way Ican get out of it," he said to me, looking down disdainfully at hisknickerbockered legs and taking an extra hitch on his new leather belt,"I may as well have the regulation uniform. How do I look?"
I told him the suit was very becoming. He was a sight! On his huge,bushy head was a Scotch cap, and it is certain that no clan standssponsor for that bewildering plaid. The silk shirt was a beauty, but itdid not harmonise with the burning red of his coat, with its cuffs andcollar of vivid green.
His trousers were of another plaid, but I should say that his stockingswere the dominating feature of his make-up. They were of green and gray,the stripes running around instead of up and down, the effect being, ofcourse, to emphasise the appearance of stoutness. When you pull a thickstocking or legging over an eighteen-inch calf you have done somethingwhich compels even those who are near-sighted and blase to sit up andgive attention.
Harding's feet are of generous proportions, and his tan shoes with theirthick, broad soles armed with big spikes to keep him from slippinglooked most impressive.
He was the personification of newness. The leather of his bag wasflawless, and the grips of his clubs were new and glossy. The steel andnickel of his iron clubs shone without one flaw to dim their lustre. Inthe pocket of his bag were a dozen new balls, so white and gleaming thatit seemed a shame to use them. I could see that the art collection ofballs being made by Miss Dangerfield would take on a boom from theadvent of Harding.
"Tell you what I want to do, Smith," said Harding, as we stood on theveranda of the club house, early this forenoon. "I want to find someplace where I can soak a ball as far as I can and not have it stopped bya hill or a brook, or something like that. I haven't been over thisplace yet, but isn't there some smooth, level place where a ball wouldnaturally roll a quarter of a mile or so if you hit it good and hard?"
"The eighteenth hole is six hundred and thirty-two yards--one of thelongest in the country," I said, "and it is smooth as a barn floor afteryou carry the railroad tracks. That is a long carry, and most players goshort and take the tracks on their second shot."
"Six hundred odd yards," he mused. "Let's see; over a third of a mile,eh?"
I said that it was, and a par hole in six.
"Anybody ever drive it yet?" he asked.
"Drive it?" I repeated, laughing. "Well, I should say not! I havereached the green in three only twice in all the times I have played it,and am well satisfied to be there in four."
"That proves nothing to me," he said, looking me over, "but you're apretty husky-appearing chap at that. You're nearly six feet, aren't you,Smith?"
"A quarter of an inch more than six feet in my stockings," I said.
"And how much do you weigh?"
"One hundred and eighty-five."
"You'd ought to be able to drive a ball farther than you do," he said,with the air of one who had mastered the game in all its details. Thereis not a man in the club who can consistently out-drive me, and I'llwager that Kirkaldy himself cannot average ten yards more than I do, butwhat was the use of arguing with Harding?
It was easy to see that this magnate actually believed that his firststroke at a golf ball was no accident, and was confident that with alittle practice he could far surpass that terrific drive of two hundredand seventy yards. But though I well knew what was coming to him I heldmy peace.
I asked Kirkaldy if he had ever known of a happening similar toHarding's now famous drive. He said he could not recall when a dufferhad reached so great a distance, but it was not unusual for a huskynovice to drive a few good balls before he began to attempt animprovement of a natural, but of course crude, stroke.
"But," I asked Kirkaldy, "how did Harding manage to drive it so far?"
"Strength and luck, mon," said our Scotch professional, "the more luck.It war th' same as when ye won a match with me by makin' th' last threeholes in less than bogy. Luck, mon, is yer truest friend."
I think Kirkaldy is right.
"I never like to take up a thing unless it is difficult," said Harding,as we started for the eighteenth tee. "I like to do the things other mensay cannot be done, and without blowing my own horn I have done a few ofthem. I am fond of work, but when I play I play with all my might. Theboy who is not a good player will never make a good worker. You take aboy who is playing baseball, for instance. I can watch a game amongyoungsters and pick out those who are likely to win out later on inlife."
"How?" I interrupted.
"By the way they go at it. The one who covers the most ground on a ballfield will cover the most ground later on in whatever he undertakes. Theone who plays to win, who takes chances even at the risk of makingerrors is the coming man. The boy who sits down in the out-field, on thetheory that a ball is not likely to come in his direction, will be poorall his life. The boy who plays an unimportant position as if his veryexistence depended upon it will get along all right, and don't youforget it. But this golf game is so simple that it does not call on aman to let himself out. Billiards is my game. Billiards is a game ofendless possibilities, and no matter how well a man plays there isalways room for improvement."
That made me mad, and I resented this assertion the more for the reasonthat I once held the same views as he then expressed. I went right athim.
"When you have played as many games of golf as you have of billiards," Isaid, and I play a fair billiard game myself, "you will not mention themin the same breath. Let me assure you, Mr. Harding, that golf is themost difficult game in the world, and you have only the slightestconception of what you must master before you can play more than anindifferent sort of a game."
He smiled indulgently.
"What is there hard about it?" he demanded. "In billiards, for instance,you--"
"You play billiards on a table which is not more than five feet by ten,"I broke in, "and you play golf on a table which may cover two hundredacres of hills, woods, marshes, ponds, brooks, and meadows. You playbilliards in a room which is always at about the same temperature, andwhere there is not a breath of air stirring. You play golf out-of-doors,where it may be one hundred in the shade or far below freezing; underconditions of perfect calm, or with winds ranging all the way from azephyr to gales from every point of the compass."
"There is something in that," he admitted, "but you need not get madabout it, Smith."
"Your billiard table is always the same," I continued. "It consists ofthe cloth and four cushions, and they are smooth as art can make them.Your golf course is never the same on any two days, and would not be ifyou played through all eternity. Sometimes the grass in a certain placeis long, and sometimes it is short; sometimes it is thick, and again itis thin; sometimes the ground is hard from lack of rain, and again it issoft and spongy from an excess of rain. There are millions of variationsin these conditions, and every one of them must be considered in makinga perfect shot."
"Yes, I suppose that is so," he admitted, and I could see I had startedhim thinking.
"There are days when the air is light," I went on, "and when a certainstroke will send the ball where you wish it to go. There are other dayswhen the air is heavy, and when a hit ball seems to have no life in it.You must allow for the force and direction of every slant of wind. Thereare conditions of atmosphere when objects seem near, and others whenthey seem far away, and you must take this into account."
He was silent, and I went on.
"On a billiard table your ball is always within easy reach. You stand ona level floor and play on a level table. In golf your ball never landsin the same place twice. It may be above you, or below you. It may liein any one of ten million separate c
onformations of ground, and for eachyou must exercise judgment. Your clubs change in weight as you cleanthem; no two golf balls have the same degree of elasticity when new, andas you use them it decreases. But more than all else, you are not thesame man physically or mentally on any two days. A slight increase inweight, the wearing of an extra garment, the congestion of a muscle orthe stiffening of a chord may be sufficient to throw you off your strokeand seriously impair your game."
"Nonsense; I don't believe it," he declared. "When I once find out howto make a certain shot I will keep right on improving until I have itperfect."
"If that were possible golf would lose its charm," I said. "A man willgo on making a certain shot with almost perfect accuracy for months, andall at once lose the knack of it, and not be able to recover it formonths, and perhaps never. In order to hit a golf ball accurately thereare scores of muscles which must act in perfect accord, and the severalparts of the body must maintain certain positions during the variousparts of the stroke. If the shoulder drops the quarter of an inch, ifthe heel rises too soon by the minutest fraction of a second, if eitherhand grasping the club turns in any degree the stroke is ruined. Youwill hit the ball, but it will not go the distance or the directionrequired."
"Must be a mighty hard game, from all that you say," he laughed, grimly."Guess I'd better go back and not try it, but I notice that there wasnothing the matter with the position of my muscles, cords, hands and therest of my anatomy the other day when I whacked that ball out of sight.And I can do it again, Smith, and don't you forget it."
I preferred to await the arbitrament of events so far as that boast wasconcerned.
We had arrived at the eighteenth tee, and he looked over the field withmuch satisfaction. The railroad embankment is about one hundred andfifty yards from the tee, and few try to carry it. The old post roadruns parallel to the line of this hole, and forms the western boundaryof the Woodvale links. There is no bunker save the railroad bank for theentire distance, and it is an ideal hole for the golf "slugger."
"Where is the green?" asked Harding, standing on the elevated tee. Ipointed in the line of the old church belfry, and after a long look hedeclared that he could see the white flag floating from the standard.
"Nobody ever drove it, you say?" he observed, throwing his shouldersback.
"Of course not," I laughed, and added, "and never will."
"Don't be too sure about that," he said, piling a mound of sand. "It'snothing more than a 'putt,' as you call it, to bat a ball over thatrailroad."
"You talk about driving six hundred yards to that green," I said,annoyed at his ignorant nerve, "I will bet you a box of cigars that youdo not carry that railroad track in a month."
"Don't be foolish, Smith."
"Do you wish to bet?"
"Of course I do," he replied, teeing a ball, "and we'll get action on itin about ten seconds. Just keep your eye on this ball!"
Disdaining to take a practice stroke, he swung viciously at it. He musthave caught it on the toe of his club, for it sliced to the right in alow and sweeping curve.
As I followed its flight I saw a farm wagon in the road. The driver hadstopped his team, and was standing up watching Harding. I recognisedFarmer Bishop, and noted that his sallow face was distorted in adisdainful grin, which froze on his lips when he saw the ball curvingtoward him.
It is difficult for an experienced golfer to dodge a sliced drive, evenwhen he has a chance to run to one side or the other, but all thatBishop could do was to duck, which he did, with the result that theball hit his left temple. He half fell and half jumped to the ground,and was not so badly hurt as to prevent his being the maddestagriculturist I have seen in many years.
He danced up and down at the edge of the road, his hand to his head,warm, loud words flowing in a torrent from his mouth.
Harding dropped his club and we both ran toward the injured man. Hardingwas the first to reach the fence, but he did not climb over.
"Did it hit you?" he asked Bishop.
The farmer took one more hop and then turned and faced the railroadmagnate. There was a lump over his eye bigger than a hen's egg, and onit I could see the bramble marks of the ball. It was a moment before hisrage permitted utterance. He spit out a mouthful of tobacco so as not tobe handicapped.
"Did you hit me; you dod-gasted old poppinjay of a fat dude!" heexclaimed, shaking a brawny, freckled fist at Harding. "Did you hit me;you flabby old chromo! Do you suppose I fall out of my wagon and danceup and down this road for exercise; you old boiled lobster?"
"I am very sorry, sir," said Harding, amusement and growing angerstruggling for mastery. "I wasn't shooting in this direction. Somethinghappened to my ball; what do you call it, Smith?"
"Did it hit you?"]
"You sliced it," I said.
"That's it; I sliced it," declared Harding, as if that were more or lessof a valid excuse.
"You come over that fence an' I'll slice you!" roared Bishop, taking astep forward. "Things have come to a fine pass in this country if anhonest farmer can't take his milk to town without riskin' bein' murderedby plutocrats with 'sliced balls' and all that blankety-blank tommyrot.Climb over on this side of the fence an' I'll lick seven kinds ofstuffin' out of you in erbout a minute."
"Keep your shirt on!" retorted Harding, "you won't lick nobody."
He looked curiously at the maddened farmer.
"Your name is Bishop, isn't it?" he asked, and I wondered how hehappened to know.
"Yes, my name's Bishop," was the sullen and defiant answer.
"Jim Bishop?"
"Yes; Jim Bishop."
Harding grinned good-naturedly.
"Don't you know who I am?" he asked.
"No, I don't, and I don't give a damn!" replied Bishop, looking at himmore closely, I thought.
"Did you know a young fellow named Harding when you were a boy?" askedHarding.
"Bob Harding?"
"Yes, Bob Harding!"
"Do you mean to tell me that you're the Bob Harding who uster live on afarm near Buckfield, Maine?" asked Bishop, the anger dying from hisvoice.
"That's what I am!" declared the millionaire, as Bishop came toward him,a curious smile on his tanned face. "How are you, Jim?"
"Well; I'll be jiggered! How are you, Bob?" and they shook hands acrossthe fence. For a moment neither spoke.
"It's thirty years or more since I've seen you," said Harding. "When didyou move to this country?"
"Over twenty-five years ago," said Bishop. "And what have you been doingwith yourself all these years? I surely hope you've found somethingbetter to do than play this here fool game an' knock people's headsoff."
He tenderly rubbed the lump on his forehead.
"I just took this game up," said Harding rather sheepishly. "I've beenbuilding railroads."
"Are you Robert L. Harding, the railroad king that the papers talks somuch erbout?" demanded Bishop.
"I guess I'm the fellow," admitted Harding.
"Well; I never would er believed it!" gasped Bishop, and then they shookhands again.
They sat on a rock and talked about Buckfield and their boyhood days foran hour. It seems that they were born and raised on adjoining farms, andwere chums until Harding's father died, at which time Harding went Westand found his fortune.
Not until the horses became restless and started to go home did Bishopnote the passing of time. He cordially invited Harding and his daughterto come and call on him, and Harding did not hesitate in accepting theinvitation.
Now that I think of it, none of us gave a thought to that ball, and Isuppose it is out in the road yet. Harding said that was all the golf hewished that day, and so we went back to the club house.
"Talk about driving a ball six hundred yards, Smith," he said, as wecame to the eighteenth tee. "I knocked that ball so far that I hit a boyin Maine, and that's hundreds of miles from here."
