The Last Drive

by Rex Stout

  The best five scores of the qualifying round of 36 holes were as follows:

  Jellie . . . . . . . . . . . .70 - 71—141

  Evans . . . . . . . . . . .72 - 76—148

  Marston . . . . . . . . .75 - 73—148

  Lewis . . . . . . . . . . .78 - 71—149

  Gardner . . . . . . . . .73 - 77—150

  That evening a crowd of Grassview members remained at Baltusrol for dinner. Aloysius Jellie occupied the seat of honor at their table, and his slouching form was the focus on which all eyes were centered. He had won the gold medal for the qualifying round by playing 36 holes 7 under par—an unprecedented score. At that pace there was no man in the world who could even make it interesting for him. The draw had come out as evenly as could be expected from that haphazard proceeding. Chick Evans, Gardner and Marston were among the lower sixteen; Travers, Ouimet and Jellie in the upper.

  “Your man hasn’t a chance to reach the finals,” said a Mr. Higginbotham of Upper Montclair, stopping beside the Grassview table. He was glad to get away from there immediately after.

  Jellie came through his first two matches with flying colors. To be sure, his opponents were not in his class—young Anderson of Clinton Valley and McBride of Oakdale. They were smothered.

  For his third match he drew Ouimet, and the match drew the gallery. The great conqueror of Ray and Vardon had not been playing up to his best form in the tournament, but his prestige is great, and that, linked with the notoriety of his opponent, drew two thousand spectators. They saw some masterly golf, but the match was a farce. At the end of the first nine holes Jellie, out in 36, was 4 up, and he finally won 6 and 5. In the meantime. Jerry Travers had beaten John Anderson, and it was Jellie against Travers in the semifinals, with Bob Gardner and Chick Evans in the other half.

  “Only two more to beat, old man,” said Tom Innes that night to the hope of Grassview.

  Mr. Jellie nodded, but did not reply. It did indeed appear, as the sport writers had predicted, that the strain of the great tournament was telling on him. His face was drawn a little and his eyes had the reddish hollow look of a man who is not getting enough sleep. He was getting morose, too, and touchy. That same evening at Grassview, when Huntington had asked him why he didn’t try the jerk stroke on full mashies, he had responded in ironic terms more heated than elegant.

  “It’s getting old Jellie’s goat,” declared Monty Fraser, anxiously. “We must make him go to bed early tonight.”

  The following day was one that Jerry Travers and four thousand spectators will never forget.

  Travers and Jellie teed off at nine o’clock, and the gallery followed. Jellie, who appeared haggard and nervous, was expected by everyone to crack. As he took the driver from the caddie and addressed the ball the trembling of his hands could be perceived by those fifty feet away.

  “It’s a shame to take the money,” whispered Grantland Rice to a friend. “Why, the man’s a nervous wreck.”

  And yet the nervous wreck won the first hole, a par 5, with a 3. Travers, who had been on his game all week, merely smiled. The second was halved in 4. The third, a short hole at Baltusrol.

  Jellie won by sinking a 30-footer for a two. Again Travers smiled. But when Jellie reached the green on the fourth in 2, a long tricky hole with an immense sand pit just in front of the green, an amazed murmur went up from the great gallery, and Travers was observed to bestow a thoughtful and serious look on his opponent.

  From there on it was a heart-breaking, merciless struggle between perfection and transcendence. Never before had Travers, the king of match play, gotten balls so straight and far with the wood, never had he laid his irons to the pin with such deadly accuracy, and he putted as only Travers can putt. How he was beaten on that day he cannot yet understand. Jellie was unsteady as a sapling in a storm. He sliced continually and forced himself to play many shots from hazards and the rough. It was these incredible recoveries that caused the great throng of spectators to gasp amazedly and stare at one another in speechless wonder, then to burst out into a roar of applause that shook the Jersey hills.

  The match ended on the 29th green. Travers played the first 18 holes in 69. Jellie in 67. Their scores for the 29 holes were 109 and 114.

  It was the golf of supermen, unbelievable, miraculous, staggering. And the strain told. Travers was hardly able to stand as he grasped his conqueror’s hand for the congratulations of a gentleman; the lines on his face made it look old and a smile would not come though he tried for it. Then Jellie was caught up in triumph on the shoulders of Tom Innes and Monty Fraser and, followed by the cheering, happy, worn-out throng of spectators, they started for the club house. Huntington, running along to relieve Fraser or Innes should they tire, shouted in Jellie’s ear:

  “Evans beat Gardner, but he’ll be pie for you tomorrow! We knew you could do it, Jellie, old man! Wow! Old Jellie! Wow-ee!”

  They jollified for an hour at the club house, then tore their hero from the arms of the admiring throng and bustled him into an automobile. It was nearing dusk when they reached Grassview.

  “Now,” said Huntington, “we’ll have a good dinner and then take Jellie up and put him to bed. He still has Evans to beat, though if he plays as he did today that’ll be easy enough. Only one more, Jellie, old man, and for God’s sake get some sleep. You look pretty bad. Tomorrow at this time you’ll be amateur golf champion of the United States.”

  So after dinner they escorted him to his room and left him there, with a last reminder that they would leave at half past seven in the morning for Baltusrol and the final victory.

  The first thing Mr. Jellie did when they had gone was to lock the door. Then he walked to the window and raised it and stood looking out on the night. Unseeingly for a long time he gazed at the stars—perhaps Sirius was among them. Then he turned from the window and went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. In the glare of the electric light the appearance of his face was enough to warrant the solicitous advice of his friends. It was sunken and haggard, and pale as death.

  His hands fumbled nervously with the white counterpane. The grim light of mingled fear and despair was in his eyes.

  “Eighty-eight,” he said aloud involuntarily, as a thought forced itself into speech.

  He got up and went to his desk and began scribbling mechanically on a sheet of paper, like a man in a trance. He covered the sheet on both sides, doing over and over again the sum:

  14

  30

  31

  13

  88

  He reached over and tore a sheet off his desk calendar, disclosing to view the date of the morrow: “Saturday, August 13.” In the blank space left above the date for memoranda there was a large cross scratched in red ink. He sat and gazed at it for a long time, while the minutes stretched into hours, with the hopeless eye of a man doomed. The night grew cold, and all sounds about the club house ceased, and still he sat gazing at that date on his calendar.

  Long after the clock in the hall below had struck one, he pulled himself out of his chair and walked over to the mantel, where reposed a bronze urn bearing an engraved inscription. Mechanically he read its words, over and over again. A gleam of hope appeared in his eye, but swiftly died out, to give way to an expression of increased despair.

  “Nibbie,” he groaned, stretching out his hands to the urn, “O, Nibbie, why didn’t I kill you just one day later?”

  He tottered across the room and threw himself face down on the bed.

  At dawn he arose and dashed cold water over his face. There was a new air of determination about him now, the air of a man resolved to know the worst; his movements were abrupt and decisive, as though he were pressed for time, he took his bag of clubs and quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind him. All was still in the club house. He tiptoed stealthily down the stairs, through the halls and over the piazza to the lawn.
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br />   The East’s first delicate blush appeared on the horizon as he reached the tee; the magic air of the early morning, moistened by the dew, filled his lungs. He took the driver from the bag and teed up a ball. Trembling fearfully he gripped the shaft and took his stance. He tried to analyze his feelings, to discover if that wonderful sensation of confidence and mastery which had suddenly come upon him three months before had as suddenly left, but all within him was chaos.

  He swung at the ball.

  It dribbled off the tee and rolled thirty yards away. He picked up his bag and started after it. This time he used his brassie and missed it altogether. He tried a driving mashie, and pulled into a hazard. Doggedly, grimly, he took up his bag and followed it. He made the first hole in eleven.

  The details are painful; let us avoid them. At a quarter to six Mr. Jellie holed out on the ninth green, and; adding up his score with trembling hand, found that he was 76 at the turn. There was an insane light in his eyes and he was muttering aloud to himself, but his actions seemed to be under perfect control. He filled his bag full of stones, strapped the clubs in tightly, walked to the lake on the eleventh hole and threw it in. He saw with satisfaction that it sank at once. He hastened back to the club house, and saw with relief that none of the members were down yet. A porter who was sweeping out the library greeted him respectfully as he passed, but Mr. Jellie made no response. He went up to his room, packed a travelling bag, and was down again in five minutes. The walk to the railroad station is a mile and a half, and it took him only a little over a quarter of an hour. The whistle of an approaching train was heard as he entered the station. He crossed over to the ticket office and demanded:

  “Give me a ticket for Mexico or South America.”

  “We don’t keep ’em,” the agent said. “You can get one in Philadelphia.”

  “Alright,” said Mr. Jellie, “give me a ticket to Philadelphia.”

  “That’s your train coming in now,” said the clerk as he shoved the pasteboard under the wicket.

  Mr. Jellie hurried to the platform. The train was nearly empty. He found a seat in the corner at a distance from the other passengers, sat down and pulled his hat over his eyes. A moment later the train started.

  Five thousand people waited at Baltusrol for three hours on the morning of August 13. But he whom they expected never came, nor was he found, though the search was frantic. And thus for the first and only time in history the amateur golf championship of the United States was won by default.

  In a little town down South, on the banks of the Mississippi—he didn’t get as far as Mexico—Aloysius Jellie is leading a lonely and monotonous existence. He is in communication with his friends in the East and may return to New York some day, though he refuses to answer certain queries which they make in every letter. Sometimes he plays checkers with the storekeeper, and he is quite an expert.

  He can’t bear the sight of a dog.

  This Is My Wife

  This romance story marks Stout’s only appearance in Snappy Stories¸ a twice-monthly “Magazine of Entertaining Fiction” that catered to the women’s market.

  The first thing you would notice about the room was the light—dazzling, glaring, bold; a perfect riot of light, whitish yellow, that came from four immense chandeliers in the ceiling and innumerable electric lamps on the marble pillars, attached to the walls, on the tables, everywhere. Then your ears would be assaulted, and you would hear the clinking of glasses, the muffled footsteps of waiters, the confusing hum of conversation from half a thousand tongues, and mingled with all this the sound of music, now suppressed, now insistent, that came from the orchestra on the rear of the raised platform at one side. And finally you would glance at the platform and observe the two figures, a man and a woman, who appeared there, in the spotlight.

  The man, fair-haired, sallow-faced, bright-eyed, of medium height, was dressed in correct evening white and black, save for a bit of red that peeped out from one edge of his waistcoat; the other, more girl than woman, was a pretty, saucy little thing with black hair and eyes that sparkled. Her costume apparently consisted of about twenty yards of diaphanous material, pink in color, draped around her form and caught somewhere with a pin.

  While the orchestra played, these two danced, slowly and rather gracefully at first, then with increasing abandon and violence, ending with a series of dizzy gyrations that caused the twenty yards of pink to float wildly in the air. Suddenly they halted; the girl placed her locked hands on the back of the man’s neck, and he began to whirl. Her feet left the floor; still he went around, faster and faster, while the orchestra played at a frenzied speed, with cymbals crashing and drum rattling. The thing ended with a sudden tremendous burst of violence, an orgy of sound and movement; and the audience of diners interrupted their meal long enough to applaud enthusiastically.

  The dancers, who had left the platform, paused at the rear.

  “Shall we take it?” asked the girl.

  “No, what’s the use?” replied the other, mopping the perspiration from his face and hands. “Come and have a drink.”

  They moved off to one of the tables against the wall, one of the few unoccupied in the immense room, and beckoned a waiter.

  “You were up too close again,” said the man abruptly, after he had given the order.

  The girl looked at him. Seen thus closely, she appeared to be more of a woman than a girl. The eyes that had sparkled for the audience looked tired and old, and there were two little puffs of flesh beneath the corners of her mouth. Nevertheless, she was pretty.

  “I was no closer than last night,” she replied.

  “I can’t help that. You were too close. You nearly pushed me over.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault if I’m not tall enough. Wait till something happens and then talk.”

  “That’s easy enough to say,” retorted the man, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration that was beginning to appear again on his sallow face. “But it’s hard enough without somebody trying to pull you over. One flop, and, bingo! goes our sixty per. You ought to be more careful.”

  “Aw, cut it,” said the girl indifferently. “Gee, I’m thirsty! Where’s the waiter? Oh, hello, Dibby!”

  This last was addressed to a fat, jolly-looking young man who was sauntering toward their table.

  “Hello!” The newcomer nodded, seating himself. “How’s things, Bronson? I say, Claire, I just met the new soprano. She’s on next. Not bad-looking. What are you drinking?”

  Then, as the waiter appeared with the order, the fat man burst into laughter and winked at the girl. “Lemon juice and fizz. Bad for the stomach,” he said gravely. “But you ought to cut the green stuff, Claire. On the level, I mean it. Waiter, bring me some Dubonnet and sherry. Are you really off, Bronson?”

  The other merely nodded, sipping his lemon and seltzer.

  “What about the new soprano? What’s the matter with Mawsey?” asked Claire.

  “Canned,” replied the fat man gaily. “Last night. Thank the Lord! Say, she was good, just like a counterfeit V. No? Rotten!”

  “What’s the new one like?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t heard her perform. She’s on next. Tall and queenly. Where’s the waiter? I’m thirsty as the devil. No wonder—been drinking too much today. By the way, you should have been with us this afternoon, Bronson. Where were you?”

  “I don’t know. Uptown,” replied the sallow-faced man.

  “He went for a walk in the park,” put in Claire, and her eyes sparkled at the fat man.

  “So I did,” Bronson asserted carefully.

  “As for me, I slept till two o’clock,” Claire continued. “Wow, but I was tired! We had a little supper last night, and I went to bed at half-past three. We kept Harry awake, and he threw his shoes at us, and one hit me on the side and made a blue spot as big as your hand. Really, you should have been there,
Dibby. We had a swell time. Old Rumford brought six bottles of champagne, and May dropped one on the fire-escape—”

  “’Sh,” interrupted the fat man. “Break off, Claire, and give me the fate of the fizz later. Here comes the new one. Let’s see if she’s got anything.”

  They turned to look at the stage as the orchestra began the introduction to a popular song. The young woman who appeared on the platform was visibly ill at ease. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers were pressed nervously against the skirt of her black, clinging gown; her shoulders and arms were bare and startlingly white, and her golden hair assumed a striking luminosity in the glare of the spotlight. It was an effective picture, and a slight ripple of applause ran over the immense room.

  She began to sing. It was easy enough to see that she was new to the cabaret. She made no flowing gestures, she did not roll her eyes, she did not even clasp her hands over her heart when she sang of love; she merely stood still and sang, in a tender and sweet voice, two verses and two choruses of a silly song. Once, toward the end of the second verse, she faltered and nearly stopped, with an appearance of sudden agitations; but she avoided catastrophe. It was probably her physical attractiveness that earned the burst of applause that followed—whereupon she repeated the chorus and retired with a little smile and a bow.

  “Not so rotten,” said the fat man graciously, turning to his companions at the table. “A little bit of the pose à la country lyceum, but all she needs is some action. Did you see her stumble when some guy winked at her or something? She’ll get over that. Lord, when I think of Mawsey! Take it from me, old Snyder knew what she was here for. That kind don’t get away with it for nothing. Was you here, Bronson, the night she—what’s the matter, man? You’re white as a ghost! What’s the matter?”

  Bronson’s sallow countenance had lost every vestige of color, and he was gazing at the empty platform with a vacant, dull state that was almost terrifying.