John Henry Smith Page 7

  ENTRY NO. V

  THE EAGLE'S NEST

  Miss Grace Harding is here again, and I am to play a game of golf withher to-morrow. Carter does not know it yet, but that is because I havenot had a chance to tell him.

  Carter is a rattling good fellow and a fine golfer--he has made Woodvalein seventy-seven; two strokes better than my low score--but he is a bitconceited; he imagines he is a lady's man, and I propose to take himdown a peg.

  I am certain he schemed to play with Miss Harding before I did, and hewent about it in what he doubtless thought was a diplomatic way. Heopened his campaign this morning by playing a round with her father.Carter furnished clubs and balls for Mr. Harding, who broke two of theclubs and lost six new balls, to say nothing of those he mutilated.

  Diplomacy is not my long suit. I prefer to carry things by assault. WhenI saw what Carter was up to I formed a plan and put it into operationwithout delay. It was very simple. I walked right up to Miss Harding andasked her if she would like to play a round with me. That was thismorning.

  "When?" she asked, with a charming smile which told me victory was insight.

  "Right now!" I said, bold as could be.

  "You are brave to ask me to play with you, after what I have told you ofmy game," she said, pressing down a worm cast with the toe of her daintyshoe. We were standing on the edge of the practise putting green. I amno hand to describe a woman's gowns, and in fact know nothing of them,but I recall distinctly that she was dressed in blue, with some whitestuff here and there, and it was very becoming.

  "Why?" I inquired.

  "If I could play in eighty-five, as you and Mr. Carter do, I would notrecognise one who requires from one hundred and thirty to one hundredand sixty," laughed Miss Harding.

  For the life of me I cannot recall what I said in answer to thisassertion, but it was something stupid, no doubt. She finally promisedto play with me to-morrow, explaining that she and her father were aboutto go automobiling.

  We strolled over to one of the practise tees, and I was delighted whenshe asked me to observe her swing, and advise her how to correct it. Ispent half an hour doing this, and she made wonderful improvement. Ihoped Carter would come along and see us, but I saw nothing of him.

  While we were there, Marshall, Chilvers and Lawson passed and asked meto make up a foursome. For the first time in my life I refused, and theway those idiots looked back at me and grinned tempted me to break aclub over their heads. There is no law to compel a man to play golf ifhe does not wish to. I figured that a rest for half a day would improvemy game. The fact is, and the best golfers are coming to realise it,that a man can play so much that he goes stale.

  I have just been looking back over the notes of my second entry in thisdiary of a golfer, and I wish to modify the statement to the effect thata woman under no circumstances appears graceful or attractive in golfattitudes.

  In fact I absolutely repudiate that ungallant and prejudiced assertion.In one place I said: "If Miss Harding is beautiful enough to overcomethe handicap which always attaches to the golf duffer, she can giveVenus all sorts of odds and beat her handily. I have yet to see thewoman who shows to advantage with a golf regalia."

  I take that back, also.

  To see a woman raise a golf club with a jerky, uneven stroke, and comedown on the helpless turf with the head of it, as if beating a carpet,has always given me a chill and a sensation of wild rage, but there issomething about the way Miss Harding does this which is actuallyartistic. There are combinations of discords which make for perfectharmony, and it is the same with the little eccentricities of MissHarding's swing.

  "There is no law to compel a man to play golf"]

  The poise of the head and shoulders, the sweep of the arms, and theundulations of the figure seem to take on an added charm from what mightbe called the "graceful crudity" of her stroke. I do not know why thisis so, but it is a fact.

  I shall never forget the attempt I once made to instruct my sister inthe rudimentary principles of the swing of a golf club. She was a prettygirl; bright, lively and graceful, but after I had given her two lessonswe were so mad at one another that we did not speak for weeks. Itseemingly was impossible to make her distinguish between the back sweepand the follow through. She would persist in coming down on the tee withthe face of her club, but at that she made a splendid marriage, and is ahappy wife and mother.

  Miss Harding will make a first-class golf player, and I told her so.

  "Do you really think so?" she asked, after several swings, most of whichwould have hit the ball.

  "I certainly do," I declared. "All that you need is the constant adviceof someone who is thoroughly familiar with the technique of the game."

  She utterly ignored this hint.

  "My one ambition," she said, with a bewitching little laugh, ratherplaintive, I thought, "is to drive a ball far enough so that there willbe some difficulty in finding it. It must be jolly to hit a ballstraight out so far that you cannot tell within yards just where it is.Do you know," and she looked really sad, "I have never lost a ball in mylife?"

  "How remarkable!" I exclaimed. "I have known Carter to lose a dozen atone game."

  "Indeed! I think Mr. Carter is a perfectly splendid player," shedeclared. "I was watching him one day last week. He is so strong,confident and easy in his execution of shots. If I could drive like hedoes I would be willing to lose a dozen balls every time I played."

  I changed the subject, and was showing her a new way to grip the clubwhen I heard a step behind us.

  "Hello, Smith! If you are going out in that buzz-wagon with me, Kid, youhad better drop that stick and get a move on."

  Of course it was her father. No one else would dare talk to Miss Hardinglike that. To hear him one would think that she was twelve years old,but I suppose fathers can do as they like.

  "Fix up a ball, Kid, and let's see how far you can soak it," he said.

  "I am just practising the follow through," explained Miss Harding. "Mr.Smith has told me many things about the correct way to follow through."

  "When your mother was your age she was practising the 'follow through,'as you call it, on a scrubbing board over a wash tub," declared Mr.Harding, and he said it as if he were proud of it.

  "I could do that if I had to," laughed Miss Harding, handing me theclub. "Thank you, Mr. Smith. To-morrow I expect to show decidedimprovement. Come on, papa!"

  "So long, Smith," said Harding. "I'm going to trim you youngsters atyour own game before I get through with you."

  I took a rest all the afternoon so as to be in shape for to-morrow. Ipropose to show Miss Harding that I am the peer of Carter or anyone elsewho plays here.

  It never occurred to me that it was possible to get enjoyment out of agolf course by any method other than by playing over it, but I had keenpleasure all the afternoon in studying the men who frequent the Woodvalelinks. My refusal to play created a sensation, and I enjoyed that.

  It is amusing to study the way in which different players go about thisgame. The railway station is only a few hundred yards away, and as Iwatched those men who came on the 1:42 train from the city the thoughtoccurred to me that I could have picked out the good players even had Ibeen a stranger to those who approached the club house. You can classthe various types of golfers by their mannerisms, even if you have neverseen them with a club in their hands. For instance there were twomembers who left the station platform at the same time--Duff andMonahan. Both are men of standing in the community, and both are chartermembers. They started to learn the game at the same period, and bothplay at least five afternoons during the season, yet Monahan playsconsistently in eighty-two, while Duff is fortunate to score inninety-five. Why this woeful inferiority of Duff?

  They are great friends and always play together, and they go through thesame performance every time they reach the grounds.

  The moment Monahan left the train he headed for the club house as if itwere on fire and all of his money in its lockers. Duff says Monahan isperfectl
y quiet and sane until he catches the first glimpse of thelinks, but that his blood then begins to boil, and that he burns in afever of haste to get a club in his hands.

  Monahan barely nodded to me as he passed and rushed up stairs. In lessthan two minutes he was back and ready to play. As he tore out he metDuff, who had strolled complacently up the walk, stopping now and thento speak to a friend or to watch a shot.

  Duff's clothes were the model of fashion and good taste. In his hand wastwirled a cane, and in his lapel was the inevitable boutonniere. He hadpaused to chat with Miss Ross--Duff is married and has a daughter olderthan Miss Ross--and was engaged in a discussion concerning a new playwhen Monahan approached. Monahan had on a golf suit which would causehis arrest as a tramp if he wandered from the links.

  "Did you come up here to play golf or to pose on the veranda?" demandedthe indignant Monahan, grasping Duff by the shoulder and swinging himhalf way around. "Please go away from him, Miss Ross; he will talk youto death."

  Twenty minutes later Duff wandered leisurely out to the first tee, whereMonahan had been waiting, glaring every few seconds at the club house,and swearing under his breath. Duff looked even neater than in hisstreet clothes. His shirts, scarfs, trousers, shoes and caps formcombinations which are sartorial poems.

  Duff smiled complacently during the tongue lashing administered by theirate Monahan. This happens regularly every time they play. One wouldthink that the calm, unruffled Duff would defeat the nervous andimpatient Monahan, but nothing of the kind happens. The latter exactsrevenge by beating Duff to a frazzle.

  I do not mean to infer that the slow or deliberate person will not makea good player, but with deliberation he must have that keen interestwhich dominates all of his faculties.

  Marshall, for instance, is the slowest player I ever saw, and one of thebest. It is tiresome to watch him prepare to make a shot. He averagesfour practise strokes. He has become so addicted to the practise-strokehabit that he makes a series of preliminary manoeuvres before carving asteak, and he raises his glass and sets it down several times beforetaking a drink. His game is the sublimation of caution. It is thebrilliancy of care.

  Later in the afternoon I wandered down the old lane which bisects thelinks and climbed "The Eagle's Nest," a jagged pile of rocks which riseon the southeastern part of the course. When a boy I discovered a way toreach the crest of the higher ledge, fully two hundred feet above thebrook which takes its rambling course to the west. At this altitudethere is a natural seat, so formed by the rocks that those below cannotsee the one who uses this as a sentinel box.

  It suited my mood to climb there this afternoon. Lazily smoking a cigarI drank in the pastoral panorama spread out before me. The old Sumnerroad wound as a dusty-gray ribbon amid fields of grain and corn. Belowwere the pigmy figures of golfers, grotesque in their insignificance,striding along like abbreviated compasses.

  What dwarfs they were compared with their huge playground; what insectsthey were contrasted to the splendid area within the sweep of thehorizon; what microbes they were when the eye wandered from them to thesuperb vault of the skies!

  I heard the lowing of cattle, and saw the Bishop herd coming over a hillfrom the meadows. The notes of a Scotch air, sung in a clear, mellowbaritone came to my ears, and a moment later I saw Bishop's "hiredman," Wallace, driving the kine before him. His cap was in his hand, andhis jet-black hair fell back from his forehead.

  I have no idea what impelled me to do so, but I leaned over the cliffand looked below.

  Half-way up the gentler slope of "The Eagle's Nest" I saw the figure ofa girl, or a woman. I keep my eyes on her, and as near as I candetermine she never once took hers from Bishop's hired man. Not until hevanished in the woods which surrounds the farmhouse, did she move. Thenshe turned and slowly picked her way down the rather dangerous path.

  It was Miss Olive Lawrence.