Chapter 5

"Your billiard table is always the same," I continued. "It consists of the 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 if you played through all eternity. Sometimes the grass in a certain place is long, and sometimes it is short; sometimes it is thick, and again it is thin; sometimes the ground is hard from lack of rain, and again it is soft and spongy from an excess of rain. There are millions of variations in these conditions, and every one of them must be considered in making a perfect shot."

"Yes, I suppose that is so," he admitted, and I could see I had started him thinking.

"There are days when the air is light," I went on, "and when a certain stroke will send the ball where you wish it to go. There are other days when 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. There are conditions of atmosphere when objects seem near, and others when they 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 on a level floor and play on a level table. In golf your ball never lands in the same place twice. It may be above you, or below you. It may lie in any one of ten million separate conformations of ground, and for each you must exercise judgment. Your clubs change in weight as you clean them; no two golf balls have the same degree of elasticity when new, and as you use them it decreases. But more than all else, you are not the same man physically or mentally on any two days. A slight increase in weight, the wearing of an extra garment, the congestion of a muscle or the stiffening of a chord may be sufficient to throw you off your stroke and seriously impair your game."

"Nonsense; I don't believe it," he declared. "When I once find out how to make a certain shot I will keep right on improving until I have it perfect."

"If that were possible golf would lose its charm," I said. "A man will go on making a certain shot with almost perfect accuracy for months, and all at once lose the knack of it, and not be able to recover it for months, and perhaps never. In order to hit a golf ball accurately there are scores of muscles which must act in perfect accord, and the several parts of the body must maintain certain positions during the various parts of the stroke. If the shoulder drops the quarter of an inch, if the heel rises too soon by the minutest fraction of a second, if either hand grasping the club turns in any degree the stroke is ruined. You will hit the ball, but it will not go the distance or the direction required."

"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 was nothing the matter with the position of my muscles, cords, hands and the rest 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 was concerned.

We had arrived at the eighteenth tee, and he looked over the field with much satisfaction. The railroad embankment is about one hundred and fifty yards from the tee, and few try to carry it. The old post road runs parallel to the line of this hole, and forms the western boundary of the Woodvale links. There is no bunker save the railroad bank for the entire distance, and it is an ideal hole for the golf "slugger."

"Where is the green?" asked Harding, standing on the elevated tee. I pointed in the line of the old church belfry, and after a long look he declared that he could see the white flag floating from the standard.

"Nobody ever drove it, you say?" he observed, throwing his shoulders back.

"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's nothing more than a 'putt,' as you call it, to bat a ball over that railroad."

"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 you do 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 it in about ten seconds. Just keep your eye on this ball!"

Disdaining to take a practice stroke, he swung viciously at it. He must have caught it on the toe of his club, for it sliced to the right in a low and sweeping curve.

As I followed its flight I saw a farm wagon in the road. The driver had stopped his team, and was standing up watching Harding. I recognised Farmer Bishop, and noted that his sallow face was distorted in a disdainful grin, which froze on his lips when he saw the ball curving toward him.

It is difficult for an experienced golfer to dodge a sliced drive, even when he has a chance to run to one side or the other, but all that Bishop could do was to duck, which he did, with the result that the ball 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 maddest agriculturist 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. Harding was 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 railroad magnate. There was a lump over his eye bigger than a hen's egg, and on it I could see the bramble marks of the ball. It was a moment before his rage permitted utterance. He spit out a mouthful of tobacco so as not to be handicapped.

"Did you hit me; you dod-gasted old poppinjay of a fat dude!" he exclaimed, 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 dance up and down this road for exercise; you old boiled lobster?"

"I am very sorry, sir," said Harding, amusement and growing anger struggling for mastery. "I wasn't shooting in this direction. Something happened to my ball; what do you call it, Smith?"

"You sliced it," I said.

"That's it; I sliced it," declared Harding, as if that were more or less of a valid excuse.

"You come over that fence an' I'll slice you!" roared Bishop, taking a step forward. "Things have come to a fine pass in this country if an honest farmer can't take his milk to town without riskin' bein' murdered by plutocrats with 'sliced balls' and all that blankety-blank tommyrot. Climb over on this side of the fence an' I'll lick seven kinds of stuffin' 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 he happened 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 him more closely, I thought.

"Did you know a young fellow named Harding when you were a boy?" asked Harding.

"Bob Harding?"

"Yes, Bob Harding!"

"Do you mean to tell me that you're the Bob Harding who uster live on a farm near Buckfield, Maine?" asked Bishop, the anger dying from his voice.

"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 across the fence. For a moment neither spoke.

"It's thirty years or more since I've seen you," said Harding. "When did you move to this country?"

"Over twenty-five years ago," said Bishop. "And what have you been doing with yourself all these years? I surely hope you've found something better to do than play this here fool game an' knock people's heads off."

He tenderly rubbed the lump on his forehead.

"I just took this game up," said Harding rather sheepishly. "I've been building railroads."

"Are you Robert L. Harding, the railroad king that the papers talks so much erbout?" demanded Bishop.

"I guess I'm the fellow," admitted Harding.

"Well; I never would er believed it!" gasped Bishop, and then they shook hands again.

They sat on a rock and talked about Buckfield and their boyhood days for an hour. It seems that they were born and raised on adjoining farms, and were chums until Harding's father died, at which time Harding went West and found his fortune.

Not until the horses became restless and started to go home did Bishop note the passing of time. He cordially invited Harding and his daughter to come and call on him, and Harding did not hesitate in accepting the invitation.

Now that I think of it, none of us gave a thought to that ball, and I suppose it is out in the road yet. Harding said that was all the golf he wished that day, and so we went back to the club house.

"Talk about driving a ball six hundred yards, Smith," he said, as we came to the eighteenth tee. "I knocked that ball so far that I hit a boy in Maine, and that's hundreds of miles from here."

ENTRY NO. VIII

DOWNFALL OF MR. HARDING

I do not know whether to be annoyed or amused over the result of my second golf game with Miss Harding. It was not in the least like my anticipations.

Our first game was so romantic. It was as if the kindly skies had raised a dome over earth's most favoured spot and reserved it for our use. It was different to-day.

I presume it is necessary that beautiful maidens shall have fathers. I raise no doubt that Mr. Harding is a wonderful financier and railroad genius, and it is likely he is entitled to a vacation and to that relaxation which comes from taking exercise, but this does not justify him in--well, in "butting in" on our game. I don't use slang as a rule, but no other term so accurately describes the conduct of that gentleman this afternoon.

As for Carter--I have no words to express what I think of Carter.

If I had a daughter nineteen years old it would occur to me that she might prefer to play golf with a young gentleman somewhere near her own age rather than with me, especially if that young gentleman were a good golfer, and possessed of wealth, prospects, and honourable ambitions. But Mr. Harding treats her as if she were a school miss in short dresses. He persists in calling her "Kid," and only rarely does he address her by the beautiful name of Grace.

When Miss Harding started from the club house her father was on the lawn not many yards away engaged in the interesting but expensive experiment of trying to drive balls across the lake. He was buying new balls by the box--they cost $5.50 a box--with the joyous abandon of a pampered boy purchasing fire-crackers on the Fourth of July.

All he asks of a ball is "one crack at it," and the caddies were reaping a harvest. He had not made one decent drive, and was surprised and angry.

As luck would have it he turned and saw us as we were starting for the first tee. He had laid aside that flaming red-and-green coat, and was in his shirt sleeves. His face was crimson from exertion, and his hair wet with perspiration.

"Where are you going?" he called.

"We're going to play a round," I answered, with a sinking heart.

"Good; I'll go with you," he returned. "Chuck the rest of those balls into that sack," he said to one of his caddies, "and follow me."

What could I do but say we would be delighted to have him join us? We were waiting for him, when who should come from the club house but Carter.

"Hello there, Carter!" shouted Harding. "Come on and play with us! This is my first real game, and we'll make it a foursome, or whatever you call it. What d'ye say?"

"That's fine!" declared Carter.

I happen to know that he had already made up a game with Marshall, Boyd, and Chilvers, but he did not hesitate to abandon them for his long-coveted chance to play with Miss Harding.

"We'll have a great game," asserted Mr. Harding mopping his brow. "How shall we divide up? I suppose you're the best player, Carter, and Smith comes next, but I can beat the Kid, here," patting Miss Harding on the shoulder.

"I'll bet you cannot," I declared, angry that he should class Carter above me.

"Bet I cannot beat my Grace?" he exclaimed. I told him that such was my opinion.

"Of course I can beat you, papa," laughed Miss Harding. "You have never played, and know nothing of the game. I can beat you easily."

"Talk of the insolence and ingratitude of children!" he gasped. "Kid, I'm astonished at you! I'll teach both of you a lesson. What do you want to bet, Smith?"

I suggested that a box of balls would suit me as a bet.

"Box of monkeys!" exclaimed Harding. "I thought you were a sport, Smith! A box of balls don't last me as long as a box of cigarettes does Carter. Tell you what I'll do. We'll all keep track of our shots, and for every one I beat her you pay me a box of balls, and for every one she beats me I pay you a box of balls. How does that strike you?"

"Take him up, Mr. Smith," said Miss Harding, a smile on her lips and a meaning glance in her eyes. I would not have hesitated had I known it would have cost me every dollar in the world.

"You are on, Mr. Harding," I said.

"We'll teach you a good lesson, Papa Harding," she declared, with a confidence which surprised me. "You have never seen me play."

He roared with laughter.

"Talk about David and Goliath!" he exclaimed. "Tell you what I'll do, Kid. I'll make you a small bet on the side. You remember that sixty horse-power buzz wagon we were looking at in the city the other day?"

"The one in red that I admired so much?" asked Miss Harding.

"Yes, the one you tried to soft soap me into buying. Tell you what I'll do. If you beat me I'll buy that machine for you, and if I beat you I get a new hat which you pay for out of your pin money."

"It's a shame to take advantage of you, papa, dear," she hesitated, "but I want that machine awfully, and I'll make the wager."

"If you never get it until you beat me at this shinny game you will wait a long time," he declared. "Who shoots first?"

"Miss Harding and I will be partners," suggested Carter, before I could get the words out of my mouth.

"Since I am interested in Miss Harding's play to the extent of a box of balls a stroke, I claim the right to act as her partner and adviser," I said, looking hard at Carter.

"Mr. Smith and I will be partners," said Miss Harding, and it was the happiest moment of my life.

"I don't care who are partners," said Harding, stepping up to the tee. "I'll shoot first, and you keep your eye on your Uncle Dudley!"

He piled up a hill of sand, gripped his club like grim death, drew back, swung with all his might--and missed the ball by three inches.

"One stroke!" laughed Miss Harding.

"That don't count!" he declared. "I didn't hit the blamed thing at all! Look at it! It's just where I fixed it a minute ago. Don't cheat, Kid!"

"A missed ball counts a stroke," laughed Carter.

"Are you sure that's the rule?"

We all assured him there was not the slightest doubt of it.

"All that I can say is that it's a fool rule," he protested, "but at that, one missed swipe cuts little figure with me. Here goes for number two!"

"Don't press!" cautioned Carter.

"I'll press all I darned please. Keep your eyes on this one!"

He grazed the ball enough to make it roll not more than twenty feet into a clump of tall grass. He looked blankly at it, but did not say a word. Then he took a jack-knife from his pocket and cut two notches in the shaft of his club.

Carter drove out a good one, and I teed a ball for Miss Harding. The lane is about a hundred yards away, and I thought of advising her to play short, but on reflection determined not to embarrass her by suggestions so early in the game.

The moment she took her stance and grasped her club I noted a difference in her style of play as compared with that of the preceding day. Her club head came back with a free, even curve, and on the return she caught the ball with a good though not perfect follow through. The ball carried straight and true over the lane, and did not stop rolling until it had passed the 130-yard mark. It was a nice clean drive, and I smiled my approval.

"Good work, Kid," grinned Harding, but he did not seem the least dismayed. I should not care to play poker with him. I lined out a beauty, and then Harding returned to the attack.

It took two strokes to get his ball out of the grass. On his fifth shot the ball had a good lie about ten yards from the lane fence. He smashed at it with a brassie, but drove too low. The ball hit a fence post and bounded back fully seventy-five yards. In five strokes he had not gained a foot. After a combination of weird and wonderful shots he reached the green in twelve.

Harding's putting was a revelation in how not to drop a ball in a cup. He went back and forth over the hole like a shuttle. This performance added six to his score, and he holed out in nineteen. He was fighting mad, but did not say a word. While the rest of us were holing out he sullenly added seventeen notches to his club.

I was astonished and pleased at the reversal in form shown by Miss Harding. Two iron shots laid her ball on the green, her approach was a little weak, and she missed an easy two-foot putt, but she made the hole in seven, which is not at all bad for a woman. Carter and I both got fours.

When Harding finally got his ball out of the old graveyard in playing the second hole there was a dispute as to how many strokes he had taken. I counted twelve, but he claimed only nine, and we let him have his own way about it. I did not dare to dispute with him, fearing that he might have a stroke of apoplexy. He marked eleven new notches on his club shaft for this hole.

He made a fair drive over the marsh on his third hole, flubbed his second and third shots, but his fourth was a screaming brassie which landed him on the green within two inches of the cup. It was one of those freak shots which a man makes once a season, but Harding took vast credit for it and was the happiest person on the links over his bogy five for this long hole.

Miss Harding was playing like a veteran. This hole is 355 yards from the tee, but she was well on the green on her third, and holed out in six. Carter did the same, but I got a five and saved the hole for our side.

I do not know how to account for Miss Harding's improved playing. It was not in the least like that of the day when we were alone. For the entire eighteen holes she played steady, consistent golf. It was not brilliant, but it was a creditable exhibition for a woman. She kept on the course, missed only two drives, and rarely failed to get distance and direction.

Not until we had played half-way around and Harding was hopelessly behind did he give voice to his amazement.

"This is the time you have got the old man down and out, Kid," he said, after she had made the ninth hole in four to his fourteen. "I'll admit that there is a trick about this game that I'm not on to, but you just wait; you just wait. I seem to hit 'em all right, but confound 'em, they don't go right. I don't understand it. I'd have bet a million dollars against a perfecto cigar that I could drive a ball farther than a 125-pound girl, even if she is my daughter."

"We will call our bet off, Mr. Harding," I suggested, satisfied that we had tumbled him from the pedestal reared by his conceit.

"We'll call nothing off," he promptly declared. "Soak it to me as hard as you can; I'll get even with all of you before the season's over."

No language can describe the game played by the railway magnate. His miserable playing was supplemented by worse luck. A predatory cow swallowed his ball. He drove another one into the crotch of a tree, hit Carter in the shin, broke a window in the club house, tore his trousers, sprained his thumb, and poisoned his hands with ivy while searching for a lost ball. He conversed much with himself when Miss Harding was not near.

The nicks in his club by which he kept score became so numerous, and they so weakened the shaft, that he finally broke it; also one of the commandments.

The story of his calamities and of his undoing is feebly indicated by his score, which was as follows:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Out-- 19 11 5 7 12 9 8 16 14--101 In--- 8 6 10 5 7 7 11 5 12-- 71 --- Total --172

Miss Harding made it in 116, and with a reasonable amount of luck I am sure she would have done much better. I played a rattling good game, completing the round in 80, which is the best score I have made this season.

I put it all over Carter, who had made me a side bet of the dinners for the four of us that his individual score would be better than mine.

Miss Harding won an automobile which will cost not less than $15,000; I won fifty-six dozen golf balls, enough to last me two years; Carter lost a dinner which I thoroughly enjoyed, and Mr. Harding lost his temper, but I will give him credit for finding it the moment the game was over.

He laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world.

"You threw me down, Kid," he said to Miss Harding, "but I'll forgive you. You get the buzz wagon and Smith gets a cartload of balls, but I'll tell you one thing, and that is this: I'm going to learn how to hit one of those blamed balls in the nose every time I swipe at it, even if I have to resign the presidency of the R.G. & K. railroad."

I can see that the golf microbe has marked him for a shining victim.

ENTRY NO. IX

MR. SMITH GETS BUSY

I have had to neglect my golf and attend to business. For nearly a week I have not seen Miss Harding. And all on account of that miserable N.O. & G. stock.

Early in the week it dropped to more than ten points below the figure at which I purchased it. This meant a loss of $20,000.

Tuesday morning I called on my broker and he informed me that if N.O. & G. dropped two more points he would have to call on me for margins. There were rumours, he said, that it would pass its next dividend, or at least reduce it. Then I got busy.

I called on Jones, the kind friend who steered me against this investment. Jones informed me that certain powerful banking interests were raiding the stock. He could not identify them, and I saw that he knew nothing about it.

"We are the lambs, Smith," he sadly said. "I'm in for a thousand shares myself."

"They have not an ounce of my fleece yet," I declared, and turned and left him.

I served two years on Wall Street under my father, and there was no streak of mutton in him. It made me furious to think that I should be made to "hold the bag" for a lot of unscrupulous tricksters.

I set about ascertaining the exact status of the business of the N.O. & G. In my search for information I was thwarted again and again, but I do not think it was entirely luck which led me to solve the mystery to my personal satisfaction. I employed detectives to assist me, and in four days had the information on which to act.

It is as neat a conspiracy as ever was hatched by financial brigands, but I think I know every tree behind which they are hid. It is probable that they are within the pale of the written law, but one would have the same right to operate in gold bricks or green goods.

It may be that the action I have taken will spell my financial ruin, but I propose to ascertain if a gentleman cannot take a modest flyer in Wall Street without being marked as "a come-on," which is the term used by those who rig the market.