by W. W. Jacobs
ENTRY NO. XVI
MISS HARDING OWNS UP
"I Demand part of my payment this afternoon," I said to Miss Harding aswe neared the Oak Cliff club house.
"You are impatient, Jacques Henri," she laughed. "Is it possible mycredit is not good?"
"Not in this instance," I returned. "I am demanding that you refuse allinvitations to play in foursomes, and that after luncheon you and I makethe round of Oak Cliff."
"That is so modest a request that I grant it," she said, and ten minuteslater I had the satisfaction of hearing her decline Carter's invitationto join in a foursome in which I was to take no part. This proves notonly that all is fair in love, but that victory favours the one whostrikes the first blow.
It was about ten o'clock when we reached Oak Cliff, and found Mr. Wilsonwaiting for us. Harding was impatient to test his skill against Wilson,and the two were ready to play when the rest of us were still chattingwith Mrs. Wilson and others of their party.
"We are entitled to a gallery," declared Harding. "Come on, everybody,and watch me show Wilson how this game should be played."
Most of us accepted this invitation. Mr. Wilson fits the descriptionHarding had given of him. He is wonderfully tall and slim, and I doubtedif he had much skill as a golfer. His smooth-shaven features and dreamyeyes were those of the poet, but he is one of the best bankers andbusiness men in the country.
Harding drove a fairly straight ball but Wilson promptly sliced into thetall grass. Miss Harding and I helped him search for his ball, andChilvers joined in the hunt.
"Ah, this is very lucky!" exclaimed Mr. Wilson, bending his long frameover some object.
"Found your ball?" asked Chilvers.
"The ball? No, no," he said, coming to his feet with something in hishand which looked to me like a weed. "But I've found a rare specimen ofthe _Articum Lappa_. It is a beauty!"
"Looks sort of familiar," said the puzzled Chilvers. "What did you sayit was?"
"The _Articum Lappa_, more commonly called the burdock," explainedMr. Wilson.
"If you can't find your ball drop another one and play!" shouted Hardingfrom the other side of course. Just then I discovered the ball, andafter two strokes Wilson got it out of trouble, and then by a luckyapproach and putt won the hole. Harding looked at him suspiciously.
"What are you looking for?"]
On the next hole their drives landed the balls not far apart and neitherwas in trouble.
"I'm afraid this man Wilson can beat me," Harding said to us in anundertone as we neared the balls.
"Don't lose your nerve, papa," cautioned his daughter.
Wilson was away, but when he was within a few yards of his ball helooked intently at the turf and then dropped to his knees and crawledslowly around.
"What are you looking for?" exclaimed Harding "There's your ball rightin front of you."
"I know it," calmly said Wilson, running his hand over the turf, "butI'm curious to know what kind of _Trifolium_ this is."
"Wilson," said the magnate, as the former rose to his full height andtook a club from his bag, "Wilson, I might as well quit and give up thisgame."
"Why?" asked the surprised banker.
"Let me tell you something," declared Harding. "I only took up this golfbusiness a few weeks ago, and by hard work have found out about mashies,hooks, foozles, cops, one off two and all those difficult things, butI'm blamed if I ever heard of trifoliums, or whatever you call 'em, andyou can't ring 'em in on me. I won't stand for it! We don't playtrifoliums in Woodvale, do we, Smith?"
"But my dear Harding," interposed Wilson, his mobile face wrinkled in asmile, "_Trifolium_ is not a golf term and has nothing whatever to dowith the game."
"What in thunder is it?"
"_Trifolium_ is the genus name for the clover plant, and these arebeautiful specimens," explained this amateur botanist.
"It is, is it?" laughed Harding. "Well, let's see how far you 'can knockthat ball out of that bed of _Trifoliums_."
We left them soon after and returned to the club house. The ladies didnot care to play before luncheon, preferring to take a rest after theexciting experiences of the trip from Woodvale. I ran across an oldfriend of mine, Sam Robinson, and he and I played against Carter andChilvers. Robinson is one of the best amateurs in the country and wedefeated our opponents handily.
It was a merry party which gathered about the table which had beenspread under the trees near the club house. Oak Cliff is the only clubwhich Woodvale recognises as a rival, and the Wilson's entertained uscharmingly. Mr. Harding was in great spirits.
"I won!" he announced as he returned with our elongated and smilinghost. "Licked Wilson, trifoliums and all, right here on his own ground!But he found a _Rumex_ and a lot of other weeds, so he don't care."
Miss Harding and I had discovered an oil painting in the club librarywhich interested us, and when coffee and cigars had been served I askedMr. Wilson about its history.
"Robinson gave it to the club," he said, "he can tell its story betterthan I can."
"It's an odd sort of a yarn," began Robinson. "Last fall an artistfriend of mine of the name of Powers wrote a letter inviting me to comeand spend a few weeks with him in a camp he had established on the upperwaters of the Outrades River in northeastern Quebec. He was theresketching and loafing, and I took my golf clubs and went. While hepainted I batted balls around a cleared space in the forest, fished,hunted and had so much fun that we stayed there until cold weather setin. Then we loaded up a boat and started down the river with a guide."
"One evening we came to an island with rapids below it. We had toportage around these rapids, so we decided to camp for the night. It wascold, and rapidly growing colder, but Powers insisted in making a tripto that island, the beauty of its rocks fascinating his artistic soul.We emptied the boat and he pulled across the swift current. Ten minuteslater we heard him yell. His boat had drifted from where he thought hehad moored it, and had been dashed to pieces in the rapids below. Theguide declared that there was no way to reach him without a boat, andthat he would have to go back twenty miles to a lumber camp for one. Weexplained this to Powers, and told him to light a fire and make the bestof it until morning. The current was so swift that no swimmer couldbreast it. It was already down to zero."
"Had ignited the matches"]
"Powers searched his pockets," continued Robinson, "and made thestartling announcement that he did not have a match. Without a fire hesurely would freeze before the guide could return. He was dancing up anddown on a rock and swinging his arms to keep warm."
"He certainly was in a bad fix," interrupted Harding. "Was there no wayto get at him?"
"Absolutely none," continued Robinson. "The sun was sinking--when I hadan idea. In the bottom of my golf bag were four badly hacked and splitballs. I called to Powers to keep his nerve. The balls wererubber-cored, and I widened the crack in one of them and gouged out aspace in the rubber. In this I put the heads of three matches, teed theball on the beach, called to Powers what I had done and told him to keephis eye on the ball. I hit it clean and fair, but a trail of smoke toldthat the concussion had ignited the matches. The ball fell in theunderbrush a few yards from Powers, and he almost cried when he took outthe charred match heads."
"How far was it?" asked Harding.
"I paced it later and found it to be about one hundred and forty yards,"said Robinson.
"You paced it?" exclaimed Harding. "You're a bit mixed on this story,Robinson, aren't you?"
"Not at all," laughed that gentleman. "You wait and I'll explain. Then Ifixed another ball and wrapped the match heads in surgeon's cotton. Ipopped that ball in the air. The next one was pulled, struck a rock andbounded into the water. One remained, and it was a critical moment. Iwas numbed with the cold, it was almost dark, and I had to make a shotfor a man's life, but I made it. It went far and true and struck in thebranches of a fir tree over Power's head. He did not see it, but heheard it. Then began a search for a lost ball. It was pitch dark half
anhour later when Powers shouted that he had found it, and soon after weyelled like madmen when a tiny yellow flame curled up from the island.Powers asked me to drive a ham sandwich across, but I did not attemptit. The guide started back after another boat, and Powers and I spentthe long hours over our respective bonfires in an effort to keep fromfreezing."
"It dropped to twenty-five below zero before morning, and when daybreakcame I went down to the beach. The water still flowed swift and blackdirectly across, but when I looked to the north I found that the iceextended from the shore to the upper end of the island. I put severalsandwiches in my pocket and carefully walked across. Powers was tryingto cook some freshwater clams when I came upon his bonfire."
"That is as much of the story as you will be interested in," concludedRobinson. "Powers kept the ball which saved his life, and in return gaveme that oil painting depicting the scene at nightfall as I was drivingthat last ball."
"It's a good thing for your friend Powers that it was not up to me todrive that last ball," declared Harding. "That story is all right,Robinson, and the picture proves it."
As we were leaving the table Mrs. Chilvers called me aside.
"Have you made up a game for this afternoon?" she asked, and I thought Idiscerned a mischievous glance in her eyes.
"Why--why, yes," I hesitated, wondering if I were to be dragged intosome wretched foursome. "I have arranged to play with Miss Harding."
"What, again?" she asked.
"This is only my third game with her," I declared.
"Ah, Mr. Smith, do you remember how I warned you several weeks ago?"
I remembered but did not admit it.
"I told you then that some time you would meet a golfing Venus," shesaid triumphantly, and without waiting for me to make a defense left andjoined Miss Dangerfield.
Miss Harding and I waited until we had a clear field ahead of us beforewe began our game. It was one of the perfect early summer afternoonswhen it is a delight to live. Oak Cliff is famous for its scenery andfor its velvet-like greens.
"I'm going to play my best game this afternoon," announced Miss Hardingwhen I had teed her ball.
"I always play my best game; don't you?" I asked.
"You shall judge of that when we finish this round," she declared.
It was my first game with her since the day she won the touring carfrom her father, on which occasion she made Woodvale in 116. This was somarked an improvement over her former exhibition that I was at a loss toaccount for it. Since then Miss Harding had confined her golf to thepractising of approach shots and putting, following the instructionsgiven by Wallace. I have been so busy with Wall Street and other affairsthat I have paid little attention to golf, and smiled at her enthusiasm.
"How shall we play?" I asked. "You have improved so much and are soconfident that I dare not offer you more than a stroke a hole."
"I shall beat you at those odds," she said. "This is a short course, youknow."
"You will have to make it in a hundred to beat me," I replied.
"Fore!" she called, and drove a beautiful ball with a true swing whichwas the perfection of grace. I made one which did not beat it enough togive me any advantage, and we started down the field together.
"Mr. Wallace must be a wonderfully clever teacher," I said, "or else hehas a most remarkably apt pupil. I wish I could improve that rapidly."
Miss Harding smiled but declined to commit herself. Her second shot wasa three-quarter midiron to the green and she made it like a veteran. Sheplayed the stroke--and it is one of the most difficult--in perfect form,and I was so astounded that I cut under a short approach shot and had toplay the odd. She came within inches of going down in three, and I thenmissed a long putt and lost the hole outright, she not needing thestroke handicap.
"One up, Jacques Henri!" she laughed.
She drove another perfect ball on the next hole, but the green was threehundred and fifty yards away and I reached it in two against her three.My work on the green was abominable and we both were down in fives.
"Two up, Jacques Henri!" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing withexcitement. "Really, now, don't you think I've improved?"
"Improved!" I gasped. "That's not the word for it! You have beentranslated into a golf magician! I cannot understand it!"
I don't suppose I played my best game, but even if I had I could nothave won at the odds stipulated. I never lose interest in a golf game,but I must confess that I paid far more attention to her play than to myown.
It was not the first time that I had witnessed a fine exhibition of golfby a woman, but it was the first time I had been privileged to see astrikingly pretty girl execute shots as they should be made. All formerexperiences had led me to the belief that feminine beauty andproficiency in golf run in adverse ratio. But here was a superb creaturewho combined beauty with a skill which was surpassing.
It was difficult to believe the testimony of my own eyes. Here was agirl who had taken fifteen to make the first hole of Woodvale only a fewweeks preceding; who had driven eight of my new balls into a pond whichdemanded only an eighty-yard carry; who had told me that the oneambition of her golfing life was to drive a ball far enough so that shemight have difficulty in finding it; who had repeatedly missed strokesentirely, had mutilated the turf, sliced, pulled and committed all thefaults and crimes possible to a novice--here was this same young ladyplaying a game which was well-nigh perfect to the extent of herstrength!
When a woman is beautiful and plays a beautiful game of golf, thenphysical grace reaches its highest exemplification. Even an ugly womanbecomes attractive when she swings a driving club with an evenlysustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when asupremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to expressin mere language the exquisite grace of it--and I am not going toattempt it.
Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, andwith the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play.She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on hisgame.
The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watchthe players on many greens.
"Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her facethrough the blue haze of a cigar.
"Confess what?" she innocently asked.
"Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding yourgame," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying toplay that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?"
"You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessonssince then."
"Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learningthis game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confessthe truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trapby which you won that touring car."
"Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he willthink it a huge joke."
"And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris inninety-one," I accused her.
"I did," she laughed. "It was in a competition with one club--a putter."
"Was that when you won the gold cup?"
She shook her head.
"What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked.
