Part 5
"I shan't dream of losing a stroke!" said Aunt Susannah, with decision. "I'll get it out of this ditch by fair means, if I have to spend all day over it!"
"Then do you mind waiting one moment?" I said, with the calmness of despair. "There is a player behind us----"
"Let him stay behind us! I was here first," said Aunt Susannah; and she returned to her bunker.
The Links rose up in a hillock immediately behind us, so that our successor could not see us until he had reached the first hole. I stood with my eye glued to the spot where he might be expected to appear. I saw, as in a nightmare, the scathing remarks that would find their way into the Suggestion Book. I longed for a sudden and easy death.
At the moment when Colonel Bartlemy's rubicund face appeared over the horizon, Aunt Susannah, flushed but unconquered, drew herself up for a moment's rest from toil. He had seen her. Amanda shut her eyes. For myself, I would have run away shamelessly, if there had been any place to run to. The Colonel and Aunt Susannah looked hard at each other. Then he began to hurry down the slope, while she started briskly up it.
"Miss Cadwalader!" said the Colonel.
"Colonel Bartlemy!" cried Aunt Susannah; and they met with effusion.
I saw Amanda's eyes open, and grow round with amazed interest. I knew perfectly well that she had scented a bygone love affair, and was already planning the most suitable wedding-garb for Aunt Susannah. A frantic hope came to me that in that case the Colonel's affection might prove stronger than his zeal for golf. They were strolling down to us in a leisurely manner, and the subject of their conversation broke upon my astonished ears.
"I'm afraid you don't think much of these Links, after yours," Colonel Bartlemy was saying anxiously. "They are rather new----"
"Oh, I've played on many worse," said Aunt Susannah, looking round her with a critical eye. "Let me see--I haven't seen you since your victory at Craigmory. Congratulations!"
"Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley!" purred the Colonel, evidently much gratified. "You will be here for the twenty-seventh, I hope?"
"Exactly what I came for," said Aunt Susannah calmly.
"Though I don't know what our ladies will say to playing against the Cranford Champion!" chuckled the Colonel; and then they condescended to become aware of our existence. We had never known before how exceedingly small it is possible to feel.
"Aunt Susannah, what am I to say? What fools you must think us!" I murmured miserably to her, when the Colonel was out of earshot looking for his ball. "We are such raw players ourselves--and of course we never dreamt----"
Aunt Susannah twinkled at me in a friendly manner. "There's an ancient proverb about eggs and grandmothers," she remarked cheerfully.
"There should be a modern form for golf-balls and aunts--hey, Laurence?"
Amanda did not win the prize brooch; but Aunt Susannah did, in spite of an overwhelming handicap, and gave it to her. She does not often wear it--possibly because rubies are not becoming to her: possibly because its associations are too painful.
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THE LOST GOLFER
[The sharp decline of ping-pong, whose attractions at its zenith seduced many golfers from the nobler sport, has left a marked void in the breasts of these renegades. Some of them from a natural sense of shame hesitate to return to their first love. The conclusion of the following lines should be an encouragement to this class of prodigal.]
Just for a celluloid pillule he left us, Just for an imbecile batlet and ball, These were the toys by which Fortune bereft us Of Jennings, our captain, the pride of us all. Shopmen with clubs to sell handed him rackets, Rackets of sand-paper, rubber and felt, Said to secure an unplayable service, Pestilent screws and the death-dealing welt. Oft had we played with him, partnered him, sworn by him, Copied his pitches in height and in cut, Hung on his words as he delved in a bunker, Made him our pattern to drive and to putt. Benedick's with us, the major is of us, Swiper the county bat's still going strong; He alone broke from the links and the clubhouse, He alone sank in the slough of ping-pong.
We have "come on"--but not his the example; Sloe-gin has quickened us--not his the cash; Holes done in 6 where a 4 would be ample Vexed him not, busy perfecting a smash. Rased was his name as a decadent angel, One more mind unhinged by a piffulent game, One more parlour-hero, the worshipped of school-girls Who once had a princely "plus 5" to his name. Jennings is gone; yet perhaps he'll come back to us, Healed of his hideous lesion of brain, Back to the links in the daytime; at twilight Back to his cosy club corner again. Back for the medal day, back for our foursomes, Back from the tables' diminishing throng, Back from the infantile, ceaseless half-volley, Back from the lunatic lure of ping-pong.
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THE LINKS
'Tis a brilliant autumn day, And the breeze has blown away All the clouds that lowered gray; So methinks, As I've half an hour to spare, I will go and take the air, While the weather still is fair, On the Links.
I admire the splendid view, The delicious azure hue Of the ocean and--when, _whew_! With a crack, Lo! there drops a little ball Which elects to break its fall By alighting on the small Of my back.
In the distance someone cries Some remark about my eyes, None too pleasant, I surmise, From the tone; So away my steps I turn Till a figure I discern, Who is mouching by the burn All alone.
He has lost a new "Eclipse," And a little word that slips From his sulky-looking lips Tells me true That, besides the missing ball, Which is gone beyond recall, He has lost--what's worst of all-- Temper, too.
I conclude it will be best If I leave him unaddressed, Such a melancholy quest To pursue; And I pass to where I spy Clouds of sand uprising high Till they all but hide the sky From the view.
They proceed, I understand, From a bunker full of sand, Where a golfer, club in hand, Freely swears As he hacks with all his might, Till his countenance is quite As vermilion as the bright Coat he wears.
I observe him for a while With a highly-tickled smile, For it is the queerest style Ever seen: He is very short and stout, And he knocks the ball about, But he never gets it out On the green.
Still I watch him chop and hack, Till I hear a sudden crack, And the club-head makes a track In the light-- There's a startled cry of "FORE!" As it flies, and all is o'er!-- I remember nothing more Till to-night,
When I find myself in bed With a lump upon my head Like a penny loaf of bread; And methinks, For the future I'll take care When I want a little air, That I won't go anywhere Near the Links.
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NEVER HAVE A CADDIE WITH A SQUINT!
(_A Lay of the Links_)
They told me he was skilful, and assiduous, and true, They told me he had "carried" for the bravest and the best. His hair was soldier-scarlet, and his eyes were saucer blue, And one seemed looking eastward, whilst the other fronted west. His strabismus was a startler, and it shook my nerve at once; It affected me with dizziness, like gazing from a height. I straddled like a duffer, and I wavered like a dunce, And my right hand felt a left one, and my left felt far from right. As I watched him place my ball with his visual axes crossed, The very sunshine glimmered, with a queer confusing glint, I felt like a sick lubber on Atlantic surges tossed-- Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
I'm an "irritable duffer"--so my enemies declare,-- That is I'm very sensitive, and play a modest game. A very little puts me off my stroke, and, standing there, With his boot-heels at right angles, and his optics much the same, He maddened me--no less, and I felt that all success Against bumptious young McBungo--was impossible that day. I'd have parted with a fiver to have beaten him. His dress Was so very very swagger, and his scarlet cap so gay. He eyed my cross-eyed caddie with a supercilious smirk, I tried to set my features, and my nerves, like any flint; But my "knicker'd" knees were knocking as I wildly set to work. Oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint!
I tried to look away from the spoiler of my play, But for fiendish fascination he was like a squinting snake; All the muffings man can muff I contrived to muff that day; My eyes were all askew and my nerves were all ashake. I seemed to squint myself, and not only with my eyes, My knees, my hands, my elbows, with obliquity were rife. McBungo's sleek sham sympathy and sinister surprise Made almost insupportable the burden of my life. He _was_ so beastly friendly, and he _was_ so blazing fair, So fulsomely effusive with suggestion, tip, and hint! And all the while that caddie stood serenely cock-eyed there. Oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint!
Miss Binks was looking on! On that maiden I was gone, Just as she was gone on golf, in perfervid Scottish style. On my merits with McBungo I should just about have won, But my shots to-day were such as made even Effie smile; Oh, the lumps of turf I lifted! Oh, the easy balls I missed! Oh, the bunkers I got bogged in! And at last a gentle scorn Curled the lips I would have given my pet "Putter" to have kissed. Such a bungler as myself her loved links had never borne; And all the while McBungo--the young crocodile!--bewailed What he called my "beastly luck," though his joy was plain as print, Whilst that squint grew worse and worse at each shot of mine which failed. Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
In "playing through the green" with my "brassie" I was seen At most dismal disadvantage on that miserable day; _He_ pointed through the rushes with cock-eyed, sardonic spleen,-- I followed his squint guidance, and I struck a yard away; But, oh! 'twas worst of all, when I tried to hole the ball. Oh, the ogre! _How_ he squinted at that crisis of the game! His hideous strabismus held me helpless, a blind thrall Shattered my nerves completely, put my skill to open shame. That squint would, I am sure, have upset the solar system-- Oho! the impish impudence, the gruesome goggle-glint! The low, malicious chuckle, as he softly muttered, "Missed 'im!" No, _never_ have a caddie with a squint!
Yet all the same McBungo did _not_ get that rich Miss Binks, Who was so sweet in every way, especially on golf. He fancied he had cut me out that day upon those links, But although he won the game--at golf, his love-game came not off. He and that demon caddie tried between them very hard To shame me in the eyes of that dear enthusiast, But--well, my clubs she carries, whilst McBungo, evil-starred, Was caught by a Scotch vixen with an obvious optic cast! _That's_ Nemesis, I say! And she will not let him play At the game he so adores. True she's wealthy as the Mint. At golf, with Effie, I have passed many a happy day, But--we never have a caddie with a squint!
A caddie who's a duffer, or a caddie who gets drunk; A caddie who regards all other caddies as his foes; A caddie who will snigger when you fumble, fail or funk; A caddie who will whistle, or seems ever on the doze; A caddie who's too tiny, or too big and broad of bulk; A caddie who gets playing with your clubs upon the sly; A caddie who will chatter, or a caddie who will sulk; All these are calculated a golf devotee to try; All these are most vexatious to a golfer of repute; And still more so to a novice. But just take a friendly hint! Take a caddie who's a duffer, or a drunkard, or a brute, _But never try a caddie with a squint!!!_
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A GROWL FROM GOLFLAND
Bores there are of various species, of the platform, of the quill, Bores obsessed by Christian Science or the Education Bill, But the most exasperating and intolerable bore Is the man who talks of nothing but the latest "rubber core."
Place him in the Great Sahara, plant him on an Arctic floe, Or a desert island, fifteen thousand miles from Westward Ho! Pick him up a twelvemonth later, and I'll wager that you find Rubber filling _versus_ gutty still and solely on his mind.
O American invaders, I accept your beef, your boots, Your historical romances, and your Californian fruits; But in tones of humble protest I am tempted to exclaim, "Can't you draw the line at commerce, can't you spare one British game?"
I am but a simple duffer; I am quite prepared to state That my lowest round on record was a paltry 88; That my partner in a foursome needs the patience of a Job, That in moments of excitement I am apt to miss the globe.
With my brassy and my putter I am very far to seek, Generally slice to cover with my iron and my cleek; But I boast a single virtue: I can honestly maintain I've escaped the fatal fever known as Haskell on the brain.
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GOLF VICTOR!
Sir Golf and Sir Tennis are fighting like mad-- Now Sir Tennis is blown, and Sir Golf's right above him, And his face has a look that is weary and sad, As he hastily turns to the ladies who love him, But the racket falls from him, he totters, and swirls, As he hears them cry, "Golf is the game for the girls!"
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The girls crave for freedom, they cannot endure To be cramped up at tennis in courts that are poky And they are all of them certainly, perfectly sure That they'll never again touch "that horrible croquet," Where it's quite on the cards that they may play with papa, And where all that goes on is surveyed by mamma,
To golf on the downs for the whole of the day Is "so awfully jolly," they keep on asserting, With a good-looking fellow to teach you the way, And to fill up the time with some innocent flirting, And it may be the maiden is woo'd and is won, Ere the whole of the round is completed and done.
Henceforward, then, golf is the game for the fair-- At home, and abroad, or in pastures colonial, And the shouts of the ladies will quite fill the air For the links that will turn into bonds matrimonial, And for husbands our daughters in future will seek With the powerful aid of the putter and cleek!
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BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.