passionate yelp.
Mr Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder and waved it
reassuringly at him.
'It's all right,' he said.
'All right! All _right_!'
'Affinities,' explained Mr Vince over his shoulder. 'Two hearts that
beat as one. We're going to be married. What's the matter, dear? Don't
you worry; you're all right.'
'I refuse!' shouted Mr Warden. 'I absolutely refuse.'
Mr Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand,
inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.
'You refuse?' he said. 'Why, I thought you liked me.'
Mr Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to his
nature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint.
'My personal likes and dislikes,' he said, 'have nothing to do with the
matter, Mr Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter to
consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny.'
'Quite right,' said Mr Vince, approvingly. 'Don't have anything to do
with the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police.'
Mr Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth's
occupation. But necessity compelled.
'Mr Vince, my daughter is employed at the _mont-de-piete,_ and was
a witness to all that took place this afternoon.'
Mr Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of
concern.
'You don't mean to say you have been slaving away in that stuffy - Great
Scott! I'll have you out of that quick. You mustn't go there again.'
He stooped and kissed her.
'Perhaps you had better let me explain,' he said. 'Explanations, I
always think, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They're
always somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard of
Vince's Stores, Mr Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, my
father is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children's toys,
but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when I
last saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if I
couldn't whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of the
Billiken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used to
brain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came here
to recuperate, and the very first morning I got an inspiration. You may
have noticed that the manager of the _mont-de-piete_ here isn't
strong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and the
thing flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandinot, but it isn't. It's
Uncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man who Makes You Smile.'
He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately.
'I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that I
discovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't go
up to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, the
Hump-Curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in the
way of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in.
That's the whole story. Do I pass?'
Mr Warden's frosty demeanour had gradually thawed during this recital,
and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr Vince's
hand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did what was
certainly the best thing, by passing gently from the room. On his face,
as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit of
Pisgah.
It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark.
'I want you to promise me something,' she said. 'Promise that you
won't go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so much
money, but it might hurt poor M. Gandinot's feelings, and he has been
very kind to me.'
'That settles it,' said Mr Vince. 'It's hard on the children of Great
Britain, but say no more. No Uncle Zip for them.'
Ruth looked at him, almost with awe.
'You really won't go on with it? In spite of all the money you would
make? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what it
costs you?'
He nodded sadly.
'You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my married
life. I feel an awful fraud. And I had encouraged you to look forward
to years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage without
it? I'm afraid it's going to be shockingly dull for you,' said Mr
Vince, regretfully.
ARCHIBALD'S BENEFIT
Archibald Mealing was one of those golfers in whom desire outruns
performance. Nobody could have been more willing than Archibald. He
tried, and tried hard. Every morning before he took his bath he would
stand in front of his mirror and practise swings. Every night before he
went to bed he would read the golden words of some master on the
subject of putting, driving, or approaching. Yet on the links most of
his time was spent in retrieving lost balls or replacing America.
Whether it was that Archibald pressed too much or pressed too little,
whether it was that his club deviated from the dotted line which joined
the two points A and B in the illustrated plate of the man making the
brassy shot in the _Hints on Golf_ book, or whether it was that he
was pursued by some malignant fate, I do not know. Archibald rather
favoured the last theory.
The important point is that, in his thirty-first year, after six
seasons of untiring effort, Archibald went in for a championship, and
won it.
Archibald, mark you, whose golf was a kind of blend of hockey, Swedish
drill, and buck-and-wing dancing.
I know the ordeal I must face when I make such a statement. I see
clearly before me the solid phalanx of men from Missouri, some urging
me to tell it to the King of Denmark, others insisting that I produce
my Eskimos. Nevertheless, I do not shrink. I state once more that in
his thirty-first year Archibald Mealing went in for a golf
championship, and won it.
* * * * *
Archibald belonged to a select little golf club, the members of which
lived and worked in New York, but played in Jersey. Men of substance,
financially as well as physically, they had combined their superfluous
cash and with it purchased a strip of land close to the sea. This land
had been drained - to the huge discomfort of a colony of mosquitoes
which had come to look on the place as their private property - and
converted into links, which had become a sort of refuge for incompetent
golfers. The members of the Cape Pleasant Club were easygoing refugees
from other and more exacting clubs, men who pottered rather than raced
round the links; men, in short, who had grown tired of having to stop
their game and stand aside in order to allow perspiring experts to whiz
past them. The Cape Pleasant golfers did not make themselves slaves to
the game. Their language, when they foozled, was gently regretful
rather than sulphurous. The moment in the day's play which they enjoyed
most was when they were saying: 'Well, here's luck!' in the club-house.
It will, therefore, be readily understood that Archibald's inability to
do a hole in single figures did not handicap him at Cape Pleasant as it
might have done at St. Andrews. His kindly clubmates took him to their
bosoms to a man, and looked on him as a brother. Archibald's was one of
those admirable natures which prompt their possessor frequently to
remark: 'These are on me!' and his fellow golfers were not slow to
appreciate the fact. They all loved Archibald.
Archibald was on the floor of his bedroom one afternoon, picking up the
fragments of his mirror - a friend had advised him to practise the
Walter J. Travis lofting shot - when the telephone bell rang. He took up
the receiver, and was hailed by the comfortable voice of McCay, the
club secretary.
'Is that Mealing?' asked McCay. 'Say, Archie, I'm putting your name
down for our championship competition. That's right, isn't it?'
'Sure,' said Archibald. 'When does it start?'
'Next Saturday.'
'That's me.'
'Good for you. Oh, Archie.'
'Hello?'
'A man I met today told me you were engaged. Is that a fact?'
'Sure,' murmured Archibald, blushfully.
The wire hummed with McCay's congratulations.
'Thanks,' said Archibald. 'Thanks, old man. What? Oh, yes. Milsom's her
name. By the way, her family have taken a cottage at Cape Pleasant for
the summer. Some distance from the links. Yes, very convenient, isn't
it? Good-bye.'
He hung up the receiver and resumed his task of gathering up the
fragments. Now McCay happened to be of a romantic and sentimental
nature. He was by profession a chartered accountant, and inclined to be
stout; and all rather stout chartered accountants are sentimental.
McCay was the sort of man who keeps old ball programmes and bundles of
letters tied round with lilac ribbon. At country houses, where they
lingered in the porch after dinner to watch the moonlight flooding the
quiet garden, it was McCay and his colleague who lingered longest.
McCay knew Ella Wheeler Wilcox by heart, and could take Browning
without anaesthetics. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that
Archibald's remark about his fiancee coming to live at Cape Pleasant
should give him food for thought. It appealed to him.
He reflected on it a good deal during the day, and, running across
Sigsbee, a fellow Cape Pleasanter, after dinner that night at the
Sybarites' Club, he spoke of the matter to him. It so happened that
both had dined excellently, and were looking on the world with a sort
of cosy benevolence. They were in the mood when men pat small boys on
the head and ask them if they mean to be President when they grow up.
'I called up Archie Mealing today,' said McCay. 'Did you know he was
engaged?'
'I did hear something about it. Girl of the name of Wilson, or - '
'Milsom. She's going to spend the summer at Cape Pleasant, Archie tells
me.'
'Then she'll have a chance of seeing him play in the championship
competition.'
McCay sucked his cigar in silence for a while, watching with dreamy
eyes the blue smoke as it curled ceiling-ward. When he spoke his voice
was singularly soft.
'Do you know, Sigsbee,' he said, sipping his Maraschino with a gentle
melancholy - 'do you know, there is something wonderfully pathetic to me
in this business. I see the whole thing so clearly. There was a kind of
quiver in the poor old chap's voice when he said: "She is coming to
Cape Pleasant," which told me more than any words could have done. It
is a tragedy in its way, Sigsbee. We may smile at it, think it trivial;
but it is none the less a tragedy. That warm-hearted, enthusiastic
girl, all eagerness to see the man she loves do well - Archie, poor old
Archie, all on fire to prove to her that her trust in him is not
misplaced, and the end - Disillusionment - Disappointment - Unhappiness.'
'He ought to keep his eye on the ball,' said the more practical
Sigsbee.
'Quite possibly,' continued McCay, 'he has told her that he will win
this championship.'
'If Archie's mutt enough to have told her that,' said Sigsbee
decidedly, 'he deserves all he gets. Waiter, two Scotch highballs.'
McCay was in no mood to subscribe to this stony-hearted view.
'I tell you,' he said, 'I'm _sorry_ for Archie! I'm _sorry_
for the poor old chap. And I'm more than sorry for the girl.'
'Well, I don't see what we can do,' said Sigsbee. 'We can hardly be
expected to foozle on purpose, just to let Archie show off before his
girl.'
McCay paused in the act of lighting his cigar, as one smitten with a
great thought.
'Why not?' he said. 'Why not, Sigsbee? Sigsbee, you've hit it.'
'Eh?'
'You have! I tell you, Sigsbee, you've solved the whole thing. Archie's
such a bully good fellow, why not give him a benefit? Why not let him
win this championship? You aren't going to tell me that you care
whether you win a tin medal or not?'
Sigsbee's benevolence was expanding under the influence of the Scotch
highball and his cigar. Little acts of kindness on Archie's part, here
a cigar, there a lunch, at another time seats for the theatre, began to
rise to the surface of his memory like rainbow-coloured bubbles. He
wavered.
'Yes, but what about the rest of the men?' he said. 'There will be a
dozen or more in for the medal.'
'We can square them,' said McCay confidently. 'We will broach the
matter to them at a series of dinners at which we will be joint hosts.
They are white men who will be charmed to do a little thing like that
for a sport like Archie.'
'How about Gossett?' said Sigsbee.
McCay's face clouded. Gossett was an unpopular subject with members of
the Cape Pleasant Golf Club. He was the serpent in their Eden. Nobody
seemed quite to know how he had got in, but there, unfortunately, he
was. Gossett had introduced into Cape Pleasant golf a cheerless
atmosphere of the rigour of the game. It was to enable them to avoid
just such golfers as Gossett that the Cape Pleasanters had founded
their club. Genial courtesy rather than strict attention to the rules
had been the leading characteristics of their play till his arrival. Up
to that time it had been looked on as rather bad form to exact a
penalty. A cheery give-and-take system had prevailed. Then Gossett had
come, full of strange rules, and created about the same stir in the
community which a hawk would create in a gathering of middle-aged
doves.
'You can't square Gossett,' said Sigsbee.
McCay looked unhappy.
'I forgot him,' he said. 'Of course, nothing will stop him trying to
win. I wish we could think of something. I would almost as soon see him
lose as Archie win. But, after all, he does have off days sometimes.'
'You need to have a very off day to be as bad as Archie.'
They sat and smoked in silence.
'I've got it,' said Sigsbee suddenly. 'Gossett is a fine golfer, but
nervous. If we upset his nerves enough, he will go right off his
stroke. Couldn't we think of some way?'
McCay reached out for his glass.
'Yours is a noble nature, Sigsbee,' he said.
'Oh, no,' said the paragon modestly. 'Have another cigar?'
* * * * *
In order that the render may get the mental half-Nelson on the plot of
this narrative which is so essential if a short story is to charm,
elevate, and instruct, it is necessary now, for the nonce (but only for
the nonce), to inspect Archibald's past life.
Archibald, as he had stated to McCay, was engaged to a Miss
Milsom - Miss Margaret Milsom. How few men, dear reader, are engaged to
girls with _svelte_ figures, brown hair, and large blue eyes, now
sparkling and vivacious, now dreamy and soulful, but always large and
blue! How few, I say. You are, dear reader, and so am I, but who else?
Archibald was one of the few who happened to be.
He was happy. It is true that Margaret's mother was not, as it were,
wrapped up in him. She exhibited none of that effervescent joy at his
appearance which we like to see in our mothers-in-law elect. On the
contrary, she generally cried bitterly whenever she saw him, and at the
end of ten minutes was apt to retire sobbing to her room, where she
remained in a state of semi-coma till an advanced hour. She was by way
of being a confirmed invalid, and something about Archibald seemed to
get right in among her nerve centres, reducing them for the time being
to a complicated hash. She did not like Archibald. She said she liked
big, manly men. Behind his back she not infrequently referred to him as
a 'gaby'; sometimes even as that 'guffin'.
She did not do this to Margaret, for Margaret, besides being blue-eyed,
was also a shade quick-tempered. Whenever she discussed Archibald, it
was with her son Stuyvesant. Stuyvesant Milsom, who thought Archibald a
bit of an ass, was always ready to sit and listen to his mother on the
subject, it being, however, an understood thing that at the conclusion
of the seance she yielded one or two saffron-coloured bills towards his
racing debts. For Stuyvesant, having developed a habit of backing
horses which either did not start at all or else sat down and thought
in the middle of the race, could always do with ten dollars or so. His
prices for these interviews worked out, as a rule, at about three cents
a word.
In these circumstances it was perhaps natural that Archibald and
Margaret should prefer to meet, when they did meet, at some other spot
than the Milsom home. It suited them both better that they should
arrange a secret tryst on these occasions. Archibald preferred it
because being in the same room as Mrs Milsom always made him feel like
a murderer with particularly large feet; and Margaret preferred it
because, as she told Archibald, these secret meetings lent a touch of
poetry to what might otherwise have been a commonplace engagement.
Archibald thought this charming; but at the same time he could not
conceal from himself the fact that Margaret's passion for the poetic
cut, so to speak, both ways. He admired and loved the loftiness of her
soul, but, on the other hand, it was a tough job having to live up to
it. For Archibald was a very ordinary young man. They had tried to
inoculate him with a love of poetry at school, but it had not taken.
Until he was thirty he had been satisfied to class all poetry (except
that of Mr George Cohan) under the general heading of punk. Then he met
Margaret, and the trouble began. On the day he first met her, at a
picnic, she had looked so soulful, so aloof from this world, that he
had felt instinctively that here was a girl who expected more from a
man than a mere statement that the weather was great. It so chanced
that he knew just one quotation from the classics, to wit, Tennyson's
critique of the Island-Valley of Avilion. He knew this because he had
had the passage to write out one hundred and fifty times at school, on
the occasion of his being caught smoking by one of the faculty who
happened to be a passionate admirer of the 'Idylls of the King'.
A remark of Margaret's that it was a splendid day for a picnic and that
the country looked nice gave him his opportunity.
'It reminds me,' he said, 'it reminds me strongly of the Island-Valley
of Avilion, where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever wind
blows loudly; but it lies deep-meadow'd, happy, fair, with orchard
lawns....'
He broke off here to squash a hornet; but Margaret had heard enough.
'Are you fond of the poets, Mr Mealing?' she said, with a far-off look.
'Me?' said Archibald fervently. 'Me? Why, I eat 'em alive!'
* * * * *
And that was how all the trouble had started. It had meant unremitting
toil for Archibald. He felt that he had set himself a standard from
which he must not fall. He bought every new volume of poetry which was
praised in the press, and learned the reviews by heart. Every evening
he read painfully a portion of the classics. He plodded through the
poetry sections of Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_. Margaret's
devotion to the various bards was so enthusiastic, and her reading so
wide, that there were times when Archibald wondered if he could endure
the strain. But he persevered heroically, and so far had not been found
wanting. But the strain was fearful.
* * * * *
The early stages of the Cape Pleasant golf tournament need no detailed
description. The rules of match play governed the contests, and
Archibald disposed of his first three opponents before the twelfth
hole. He had been diffident when he teed off with McCay in the first
round, but, finding that he defeated the secretary with ease, he met
one Butler in the second round with more confidence. Butler, too, he
routed; with the result that, by the time he faced Sigsbee in round
three, he was practically the conquering hero. Fortune seemed to be
beaming upon him with almost insipid sweetness. When he was trapped in
the bunker at the seventh hole, Sigsbee became trapped as well. When he
sliced at the sixth tee, Sigsbee pulled. And Archibald, striking a
brilliant vein, did the next three holes in eleven, nine, and twelve;
and, romping home, qualified for the final.
Gossett, that serpent, meanwhile, had beaten each of his three
opponents without much difficulty.
The final was fixed for the following Thursday morning. Gossett, who
was a broker, had made some frivolous objection about the difficulty of
absenting himself from Wall Street, but had been overruled. When
Sigsbee pointed out that he could easily defeat Archibald and get to
the city by lunch-time if he wished, and that in any case his partner
would be looking after things, he allowed himself to be persuaded,
though reluctantly. It was a well-known fact that Gossett was in the
midst of some rather sizeable deals at that time.
Thursday morning suited Archibald admirably. It had occurred to him
that he could bring off a double event. Margaret had arrived at Cape
Pleasant on the previous evening, and he had arranged by telephone to
meet her at the end of the board-walk, which was about a mile from the
links, at one o'clock, supply her with lunch, and spend the afternoon
with her on the water. If he started his match with Gossett at
eleven-thirty, he would have plenty of time to have his game and be at
the end of the board-walk at the appointed hour. He had no delusions
about the respective merits of Gossett and himself as golfers. He knew
that Gossett would win the necessary ten holes off the reel. It was
saddening, but it was a scientific fact. There was no avoiding it. One
simply had to face it.
Having laid these plans, he caught the train on the Thursday morning
with the consoling feeling that, however sadly the morning might begin,
it was bound to end well.
The day was fine, the sun warm, but tempered with a light breeze. One
or two of the club had come to watch the match, among them Sigsbee.
Sigsbee drew Gossett aside.
'You must let me caddie for you, old man,' he said. 'I know your
temperament so exactly. I know how little it takes to put you off your
stroke. In an ordinary game you might take one of these boys, I know,
but on an important occasion like this you must not risk it. A grubby
boy, probably with a squint, would almost certainly get on your
nerves. He might even make comments on the game, or whistle. But I
understand you. You must let me carry your clubs.'
'It's very good of you,' said Gossett.
'Not at all,' said Sigsbee.
* * * * *
Archibald was now preparing to drive off from the first tee. He did
this with great care. Everyone who has seen Archibald Mealing play golf
knows that his teeing off is one of the most impressive sights ever
witnessed on the links. He tilted his cap over his eyes, waggled his
club a little, shifted his feet, waggled his club some more, gazed
keenly towards the horizon for a moment, waggled his club again, and
finally, with the air of a Strong Man lifting a bar of iron, raised it
slowly above his head. Then, bringing it down with a sweep, he drove
the ball with a lofty slice some fifty yards. It was rarely that he
failed either to slice or pull his ball. His progress from hole to hole
was generally a majestic zigzag.
Gossett's drive took him well on the way to the green. He holed out in
five. Archibald, mournful but not surprised, made his way to the second
tee.
The second hole was shorter. Gossett won it in three. The third he took
in six, the fourth in four. Archibald began to feel that he might just
as well not be there. He was practically a spectator.
At this point he reached in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch, to
console himself with smoke. To his dismay he found it was not there. He
had had it in the train, but now it had vanished. This added to his
gloom, for the pouch had been given to him by Margaret, and he had
always thought it one more proof of the way her nature towered over the
natures of other girls that she had not woven a monogram on it in
forget-me-nots. This record pouch was missing, and Archibald mourned
for the loss.
His sorrows were not alleviated by the fact that Gossett won the fifth
and sixth holes.
It was now a quarter past twelve, and Archibald reflected with moody
satisfaction that the massacre must soon be over, and that he would
then be able to forget it in the society of Margaret.
As Gossett was about to drive off from the seventh tee, a telegraph boy
approached the little group.
'Mr Gossett,' he said.
Gossett lowered his driver, and wheeled round, but Sigsbee had snatched
the envelope from the boy's hand.
'It's all right, old man,' he said. 'Go right ahead. I'll keep it safe
for you.'
'Give it to me,' said Gossett anxiously. 'It may be from the office.
Something may have happened to the market. I may be needed.'
'No, no,' said Sigsbee, soothingly. 'Don't you worry about it. Better
not open it. It might have something in it that would put you off your
stroke. Wait till the end of the game.'
'Give it to me. I want to see it.'
Sigsbee was firm.
'No,' he said. 'I'm here to see you win this championship and I won't
have you taking any risks. Besides, even if it was important, a few
minutes won't make any difference.'
'Well, at any rate, open it and read it.'
'It is probably in cipher,' said Sigsbee. 'I wouldn't understand it.
Play on, old man. You've only a few more holes to win.'
Gossett turned and addressed his ball again. Then he swung. The club
tipped the ball, and it rolled sluggishly for a couple of feet.
Archibald approached the tee. Now there were moments when Archibald
could drive quite decently. He always applied a considerable amount of
muscular force to his efforts. It was in that direction, as a rule, he
erred. On this occasion, whether inspired by his rival's failure or
merely favoured by chance, he connected with his ball at precisely the
right moment. It flew from the tee, straight, hard, and low, struck the
ground near the green, bounded on and finally rocked to within a foot
of the hole. No such long ball had been driven on the Cape Pleasant
links since their foundation.
That it should have taken him three strokes to hole out from this
promising position was unfortunate, but not fatal, for Gossett, who
seemed suddenly to have fallen off his game, only reached the green in
seven. A moment later a murmur of approval signified the fact that
Archibald had won his first hole.
'Mr Gossett,' said a voice.
Those murmuring approval observed that the telegraph boy was once more
in their midst. This time he bore two missives. Sigsbee dexterously
impounded both.
'No,' he said with decision. 'I absolutely refuse to let you look at
them till the game is over. I know your temperament.'
Gossett gesticulated.
'But they must be important. They must come from my office. Where else
would I get a stream of telegrams? Something has gone wrong. I am
urgently needed.'
Sigsbee nodded gravely.
'That is what I fear,' he said. 'That is why I cannot risk having you
upset. Time enough, Gossett, for bad news after the game. Play on, man,
and dismiss it from your mind. Besides, you couldn't get back to New
York just yet, in any case. There are no trains. Dismiss the whole
thing from your mind and just play your usual, and you're sure to win.'
Archibald had driven off during this conversation, but without his
previous success. This time he had pulled his ball into some long
grass. Gossett's drive was, however, worse; and the subsequent movement
of the pair to the hole resembled more than anything else the
manoeuvres of two men rolling peanuts with toothpicks as the result of
an election bet. Archibald finally took the hole in twelve after
Gossett had played his fourteenth.
When Archibald won the next in eleven and the tenth in nine, hope began
to flicker feebly in his bosom. But when he won two more holes,
bringing the score to like-as-we-lie, it flamed up within him like a
beacon.
The ordinary golfer, whose scores per hole seldom exceed those of
Colonel Bogey, does not understand the whirl of mixed sensations which
the really incompetent performer experiences on the rare occasions when
he does strike a winning vein. As stroke follows stroke, and he
continues to hold his opponent, a wild exhilaration surges through him,
followed by a sort of awe, as if he were doing something wrong, even
irreligious. Then all these yeasty emotions subside and are blended
into one glorious sensation of grandeur and majesty, as of a giant
among pygmies.
By the time that Archibald, putting with the care of one brushing flies
off a sleeping Venus, had holed out and won the thirteenth, he was in
the full grip of this feeling. And as he walked to the fifteenth tee,
after winning the fourteenth, he felt that this was Life, that till now
he had been a mere mollusc.
Just at that moment he happened to look at his watch, and the sight was
like a douche of cold water. The hands stood at five minutes to one.
* * * * *
Let us pause and ponder on this point for a while. Let us not dismiss
it as if it were some mere trivial, everyday difficulty. You, dear
reader, play an accurate, scientific game and beat your opponent with
ease every time you go the links, and so do I; but Archibald was not
like us. This was the first occasion on which he had ever felt that he
was playing well enough to give him a chance of defeating a really good
man. True, he had beaten McCay, Sigsbee, and Butler in the earlier
rounds; but they were ignoble rivals compared with Gossett. To defeat
Gossett, however, meant the championship. On the other hand, he was
passionately devoted to Margaret Milsom, whom he was due to meet at the
end of the board-walk at one sharp. It was now five minutes to one, and
the end of the board-walk still a mile away.
The mental struggle was brief but keen. A sharp pang, and his mind was
made up. Cost what it might, he must stay on the links. If Margaret
broke off the engagement - well, it might be that Time would heal the
wound, and that after many years he would find some other girl for whom
he might come to care in a wrecked, broken sort of way. But a chance
like this could never come again. What is Love compared with holing out
before your opponent?
The excitement now had become so intense that a small boy, following
with the crowd, swallowed his chewing-gum; for a slight improvement had
become noticeable in Gossett's play, and a slight improvement in the
play of almost anyone meant that it became vastly superior to
Archibald's. At the next hole the improvement was not marked enough to
have its full effect, and Archibald contrived to halve. This made him
two up and three to play. What the average golfer would consider a
commanding lead. But Archibald was no average golfer. A commanding
lead for him would have been two up and one to play.
To give the public of his best, your golfer should have his mind cool
and intent upon the game. Inasmuch as Gossett was worrying about the
telegrams, while Archibald, strive as he might to dismiss it, was
haunted by a vision of Margaret standing alone and deserted on the
board-walk, play became, as it were, ragged. Fine putting enabled
Gossett to do the sixteenth hole in twelve, and when, winning the
seventeenth in nine, he brought his score level with Archibald's the
match seemed over. But just then -
'Mr Gossett!' said a familiar voice.
Once more was the much-enduring telegraph boy among those present.
'T'ree dis time!' he observed.
Gossett sprang, but again the watchful Sigsbee was too swift.
'Be brave, Gossett - be brave,' he said. 'This is a crisis in the game.
Keep your nerve. Play just as if nothing existed outside the links. To
look at these telegrams now would be fatal.'
Eye-witnesses of that great encounter will tell the story of the last
hole to their dying day. It was one of those Titanic struggles which
Time cannot efface from the memory. Archibald was fortunate in getting
a good start. He only missed twice before he struck his ball on the
tee. Gossett had four strokes ere he achieved the feat. Nor did
Archibald's luck desert him in the journey to the green. He was out of
the bunker in eleven.
Gossett emerged only after sixteen. Finally, when Archibald's
twenty-first stroke sent the ball trickling into the hole, Gossett
had played his thirtieth.
The ball had hardly rested on the bottom of the hole before Gossett had
begun to tear the telegrams from their envelopes. As he read, his eyes
bulged in their sockets.
'Not bad news, I hope,' said a sympathetic bystander.
Sigsbee took the sheaf of telegrams.
The first ran: 'Good luck. Hope you win. McCay.' The second also ran:
'Good luck. Hope you win. McCay.' So, singularly enough, did the third,
fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh.
'Great Scott!' said Sigsbee. 'He seems to have been pretty anxious not
to run any risk of missing you, Gossett.'
As he spoke, Archibald, close beside him, was looking at his watch. The
hands stood at a quarter to two.
Margaret and her mother were seated in the parlour when Archibald
arrived. Mrs Milsom, who had elicited the fact that Archibald had not
kept his appointment, had been saying 'I told you so' for some time,
and this had not improved Margaret's temper. When, therefore,
Archibald, damp and dishevelled, was shown in, the chill in the air
nearly gave him frost-bite. Mrs Milsom did her celebrated imitation of
the Gorgon, while Margaret, lightly humming an air, picked up a weekly
paper and became absorbed in it.
'Margaret, let me explain,' panted Archibald. Mrs Milsom was understood
to remark that she dared say. Margaret's attention was riveted by a
fashion plate.
'Driving in a taximeter to the ferry this morning,' resumed Archibald,
'I had an accident.'
This was the result of some rather feverish brainwork on the way from
the links to the cottage.
The periodical flopped to the floor.
'Oh, Archie, are you hurt?'
'A few scratches, nothing more; but it made me miss my train.'
'What train did you catch?' asked Mrs Milsom sepulchrally.
'The one o'clock. I came straight on here from the station.'
'Why,' said Margaret, 'Stuyvesant was coming home on the one o'clock
train. Did you see him?'
Archibald's jaw dropped slightly.
'Er - no,' he said.
'How curious,' said Margaret.
'Very curious,' said Archibald.
'Most curious,' said Mrs Milsom.
They were still reflecting on the singularity of this fact when the
door opened, and the son of the house entered in person.
'Thought I should find you here, Mealing,' he said. 'They gave me this
at the station to give to you; you dropped it this morning when you got
out of the train.'
He handed Archibald the missing pouch.
'Thanks,' said the latter huskily. 'When you say this morning, of course
you mean this afternoon, but thanks all the same - thanks - thanks.'
'No, Archibald Mealing, he does _not_ mean this afternoon,' said
Mrs Milsom. 'Stuyvesant, speak! From what train did that guf - did Mr
Mealing alight when he dropped the tobacco-pouch?'
* * * * *
'The ten o'clock, the fellow told me. Said he would have given it back
to him then only he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry.'
Six eyes focused themselves upon Archibald.
'Margaret,' he said, 'I will not try to deceive you - '
'You may try,' observed Mrs Milsom, 'but you will not succeed.'
'Well, Archibald?'
Archibald fingered his collar.
'There was no taximeter accident.'
'Ah!' said Mrs Milsom.
'The fact is, I have been playing in a golf tournament.'
Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise.
'Playing golf!'
Archibald bowed his head with manly resignation.
'Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you arrange for us to meet on the
links? I should have loved it.'
Archibald was amazed.
'You take an interest in golf, Margaret? You! I thought you scorned it,
considered it an unintellectual game. I thought you considered all
games unintellectual.'
'Why, I play golf myself. Not very well.'
'Margaret! Why didn't you tell me?'
'I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. I
feared you would despise me.'
Archibald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling.
'Margaret,' he said, 'this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be
open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do
you like poetry really?'
Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:
'No, Archibald,' she said, 'it is as you suspect. I am not worthy of
you. I do _not_ like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away! Your
face grows hard and scornful!'
'I don't!' yelled Archibald. 'It doesn't! It doesn't do anything of
the sort! You've made me another man!'
She stared, wild-eyed, astonished.
'What! Do you mean that you, too - '
'I should just say I do. I tell you I hate the beastly stuff. I only
pretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I've spent
learning it up! I wonder I've not got brain fever.'
'Archie! Used you to read it up, too? Oh, if I'd only known!'
'And you forgive me - this morning, I mean?'
'Of course. You couldn't leave a golf tournament. By the way, how did
you get on?'
Archibald coughed.
'Rather well,' he said modestly. 'Pretty decently. In fact, not badly.
As a matter of fact, I won the championship.'
'The championship!' whispered Margaret. 'Of America?'
'Well, not _absolutely_ of America,' said Archibald. 'But all the
same, a championship.'
'My hero.'
'You won't be wanting me for a while, I guess?' said Stuyvesant
nonchalantly. 'Think I'll smoke a cigarette on the porch.'
And sobs from the stairs told that Mrs Milsom was already on her way to
her room.
THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA
Although this story is concerned principally with the Man and the Maid,
the Miasma pervades it to such an extent that I feel justified in
putting his name on the bills. Webster's Dictionary gives the meaning
of the word 'miasma' as 'an infection floating in the air; a deadly
exhalation'; and, in the opinion of Mr Robert Ferguson, his late
employer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, on
the whole summed up Master Roland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until the
previous day he had served Mr Ferguson in the capacity of office-boy;
but there was that about Master Bean which made it practically
impossible for anyone to employ him for long. A syndicate of Galahad,
Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinary
erring man, conscious of things done which should not have been done,
and other things equally numerous left undone, he was too oppressive.
One conscience is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean had
to cringe before two. Nobody can last long against an office-boy whose
eyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmed
spectacles, whose manner is that of a middle-aged saint, and who
obviously knows all the Plod and Punctuality books by heart and orders
his life by their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of
_Stepping-Stones to Success, Millionaires who Have Never Smoked_,
and _Young Man, Get up Early_. Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus
Aurelius, as I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, but
Robert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month he had
braced himself up and sacked the Punctual Plodder.
Yet now he was sitting in his office, long after the last clerk had
left, long after the hour at which he himself was wont to leave, his
mind full of his late employee.