The Golf Omnibus (10 page)

I could bear no more. I am a tender-hearted man, and I made some excuse and got away. From the expression on the girl's face I could see that it was only a question of days before she gave her heart to this romantic newcomer.

As a matter of fact, it was on the following afternoon that she called on me and told me that the worst had happened. I had known her from a child, you understand, and she always confided her troubles to me.

“I want your advice,” she began. “I'm so wretched!”

She burst into tears. I could see the poor girl was in a highly nervous condition, so I did my best to calm her by describing how I had once done the long hole in four. My friends tell me that there is no finer soporific, and it seemed as though they may be right, for presently, just as I had reached the point where I laid my approach-putt dead from a distance of fifteen feet, she became quieter. She dried her eyes, yawned once or twice, and looked at me bravely.

“I love Eddie Denton!” she said.

“I feared as much. When did you feel this coming on?”

“It crashed on me like a thunderbolt last night after dinner. We were walking in the garden, and he was just telling me how he had been bitten by a poisonous
zongo
,
when I seemed to go all giddy. When I came to myself I was in Eddie's arms. His face was pressed against mine, and he was gargling.”

“Gargling?”

“I thought so at first. But he reassured me. He was merely speaking in one of the lesser-known dialects of the Walla-Walla natives of Eastern Uganda, into which he always drops in moments of great emotion. He soon recovered sufficiently to give me a rough translation, and then I knew that he loved me. He kissed me. I kissed him. We kissed each other.”

“And where was Mortimer all this while?”

“Indoors, cataloguing his collection of vases.”

For a moment, I confess, I was inclined to abandon Mortimer's cause. A man, I felt, who could stay indoors cataloguing vases while his
fiancée
wandered in the moonlight with explorers deserved all that was coming to him. I overcame the feeling.

“Have you told him?”

“Of course not.”

“You don't think it might be of interest to him?”

“How can I tell him? It would break his heart. I am awfully fond of Mortimer. So is Eddie. We would both die rather than do anything to hurt him. Eddie is the soul of honour. He agrees with me that Mortimer must never know.”

“Then you aren't going to break off your engagement?”

“I couldn't. Eddie feels the same. He says that, unless something can be done, he will say good-bye to me and creep far, far away to some distant desert, and there, in the great stillness, broken only by the cry of the prowling
yongo,
try to forget.”

“When you say ‘unless something can be done,' what do you mean? What can be done?”

“I thought you might have something to suggest. Don't you think it possible that somehow Mortimer might take it into his head to break the engagement himself?”

“Absurd! He loves you devotedly.”

“I'm afraid so. Only the other day I dropped one of his best vases, and he just smiled and said it didn't matter.”

“I can give you even better proof than that. This morning Mortimer came to me and asked me to give him secret lessons in golf.”

“Golf! But he despises golf.”

“Exactly. But he is going to learn it for your sake.”

“But why secret lessons?”

“Because he wants to keep it a surprise for your birthday. Now can you doubt his love?”

“I am not worthy of him!” she whispered.

The words gave me an idea.

“Suppose,” I said, “we could convince Mortimer of that!”

“I don't understand.”

“Suppose, for instance, he could be made to believe that you were, let us say, a dipsomaniac.”

She shook her head. “He knows that already.”

“What!”

“Yes; I told him I sometimes walked in my sleep.”

“I mean a secret drinker.”

“Nothing will induce me to pretend to be a secret drinker.”

“Then a drug-fiend?” I suggested, hopefully.

“I hate medicine.”

“I have it!” I said. “A kleptomaniac.”

“What is that?”

“A person who steals things.”

“Oh, that's horrid.”

“Not at all. It's a perfectly ladylike thing to do. You don't know you do it.”

“But, if I don't know I do it, how do I know I do it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, how can I tell Mortimer I do it if I don't know?”

“You don't tell him. I will tell him. I will inform him tomorrow that you called on me this afternoon and stole my watch and”—I glanced about the room—“my silver matchbox.”

“I'd rather have that little vinaigrette.”

“You don't get either. I merely say you stole it. What will happen?”

“Mortimer will hit you with a cleek.”

“Not at all. I am an old man. My white hairs protect me. What he will do is to insist on confronting me with you and asking you to deny the foul charge.”

“And then?”

“Then you admit it and release him from his engagement.”

She sat for a while in silence. I could see that my words had made an impression.

“I think it's a splendid idea. Thank you very much.” She rose and moved to the door. “I knew you would suggest something wonderful.” She hesitated. “You don't think it would make it sound more plausible if I really took the vinaigrette?” she added, a little wistfully.

“It would spoil everything,” I replied, firmly, as I reached for the vinaigrette and locked it carefully in my desk.

She was silent for a moment, and her glance fell on the carpet. That, however, did not worry me. It was nailed down.

“Well, good-bye,” she said.

“
Au revoir
,” I replied. “I am meeting Mortimer at six-thirty tomorrow. You may expect us round at your house at about eight.”

Mortimer was punctual at the tryst next morning. When I reached the tenth tee he was already there. We exchanged a brief greeting and I handed him a driver,
outlined the essentials of grip and swing, and bade him go to it.

“It seems a simple game,” he said, as he took his stance. “You're sure it's fair to have the ball sitting up on top of a young sand-hill like this?”

“Perfectly fair.”

“I mean, I don't want to be coddled because I'm a beginner.”

“The ball is always teed up for the drive,” I assured him.

“Oh, well, if you say so. But it seems to me to take all the element of sport out of the game. Where do I hit it?”

“Oh, straight ahead.”

“But isn't it dangerous? I mean, suppose I smash a window in that house over there?”

He indicated a charming bijou residence some five hundred yards down the fairway.

“In that case,” I replied, “the owner comes out in his pyjamas and offers you the choice between some nuts and a cigar.”

He seemed reassured, and began to address the ball. Then he paused again.

“Isn't there something you say before you start?” he asked. “‘Five', or something?”

“You may say ‘Fore!' if it makes you feel any easier. But it isn't necessary.”

“If I am going to learn this silly game,” said Mortimer, firmly, “I am going to learn it
right
. Fore!”

I watched him curiously. I never put a club into the hand of a beginner without something of the feeling of the sculptor who surveys a mass of shapeless clay. I experience the emotions of a creator. Here, I say to myself, is a semi-sentient being into whose soulless carcass I am breathing life. A moment before, he was, though technically living, a mere clod. A moment hence he will be a golfer.

While I was still occupied with these meditations Mortimer swung at the ball. The club, whizzing down, brushed the surface of the rubber sphere, toppling it off the tee and propelling it six inches with a slight slice on it.

“Damnation!” said Mortimer, unravelling himself.

I nodded approvingly. His drive had not been anything to write to the golfing journals about, but he was picking up the technique of the game.

“What happened then?”

I told him in a word.

“Your stance was wrong, and your grip was wrong, and you moved your head, and swayed your body, and took your eye off the ball, and pressed, and forgot to use your wrists, and swung back too fast, and let the hands get ahead of the club, and lost your balance, and omitted to pivot on the ball of the left foot, and bent your right knee.”

He was silent for a moment.

“There is more in this pastime,” he said, “than the casual observer would suspect.”

I have noticed, and I suppose other people have noticed, that in the golf education
of every man there is a definite point at which he may be said to have crossed the dividing line—the Rubicon, as it were—that separates the golfer from the non-golfer. This moment comes immediately after his first good drive. In the ninety minutes in which I instructed Mortimer Sturgis that morning in the rudiments of the game, he made every variety of drive known to science; but it was not till we were about to leave that he made a good one.

A moment before he had surveyed his blistered hands with sombre disgust.

“It's no good,” he said. “I shall never learn this beast of a game. And I don't want to either. It's only fit for lunatics. Where's the sense in it? Hitting a rotten little ball with a stick! If I want exercise, I'll take a stick and go and rattle it along the railings. There's something in that! Well, let's be getting along. No good wasting the whole morning out here.”

“Try one more drive, and then we'll go.”

“All right. If you like. No sense in it, though.”

He teed up the ball, took a careless stance, and flicked moodily. There was a sharp crack, the ball shot off the tee, flew a hundred yards in a dead straight line never ten feet above the ground, soared another seventy yards in a graceful arc, struck the turf, rolled, and came to rest within easy mashie distance of the green.

“Splendid!” I cried.

The man seemed stunned.

“How did that happen?”

I told him very simply.

“Your stance was right, and your grip was right, and you kept your head still, and didn't sway your body, and never took your eye off the ball, and slowed back, and let the arms come well through, and rolled the wrists, and let the club-head lead, and kept your balance, and pivoted on the ball of the left foot, and didn't duck the right knee.”

“I see,” he said. “Yes, I thought that must be it.”

“Now let's go home.”

“Wait a minute. I just want to remember what I did while it's fresh in my mind. Let me see, this was the way I stood. Or was it more like this? No, like this.” He turned to me, beaming. “What a great idea it was, my taking up golf! It's all nonsense what you read in the comic papers about people foozling all over the place and breaking clubs and all that. You've only to exercise a little reasonable care. And what a corking game it is! Nothing like it in the world! I wonder if Betty is up yet. I must go round and show her how I did that drive. A perfect swing, with every ounce of weight, wrist, and muscle behind it. I meant to keep it a secret from the dear girl till I had really learned, but of course I have learned now. Let's go round and rout her out.”

He had given me my cue. I put my hand on his shoulder and spoke sorrowfully.

“Mortimer, my boy, I fear I have bad news for you.”

“Slow back—keep the head⎯ What's that? Bad news?”

“About Betty.”

“About Betty? What about her? Don't sway the body—keep the eye on the—”

“Prepare yourself for a shock, my boy. Yesterday afternoon Betty called to see me. When she had gone I found that she had stolen my silver matchbox.”

“Stolen your matchbox?”

“Stolen my matchbox.”

“Oh, well, I dare say there were faults on both sides,” said Mortimer. “Tell me if I sway my body this time.”

“You don't grasp what I have said! Do you realize that Betty, the girl you are going to marry, is a kleptomaniac?”

“A kleptomaniac!”

“That is the only possible explanation. Think what this means, my boy. Think how you will feel every time your wife says she is going out to do a little shopping! Think of yourself, left alone at home, watching the clock, saying to yourself, ‘Now she is lifting a pair of silk stockings!' ‘Now she is hiding gloves in her umbrella!' ‘Just about this moment she is getting away with a pearl necklace!'”

“Would she do that?”

“She would! She could not help herself. Or, rather, she could not refrain from helping herself. How about it, my boy?”

“It only draws us closer together,” he said.

I was touched, I own. My scheme had failed, but it had proved Mortimer Sturgis to be of pure gold. He stood gazing down the fairway, wrapped in thought.

“By the way,” he said, meditatively, “I wonder if the dear girl ever goes to any of those sales—those auction-sales, you know, where you're allowed to inspect the things the day before? They often have some pretty decent vases.”

He broke off and fell into a reverie.

From this point onward Mortimer Sturgis proved the truth of what I said to you about the perils of taking up golf at an advanced age. A lifetime of observing my fellow-creatures has convinced me that Nature intended us all to be golfers. In every human being the germ of golf is implanted at birth, and suppression causes it to grow and grow till—it may be at forty, fifty, sixty—it suddenly bursts its bonds and sweeps over the victim like a tidal wave. The wise man, who begins to play in childhood, is enabled to let the poison exude gradually from his system, with no harmful results. But a man like Mortimer Sturgis, with thirty-eight golfless years behind him, is swept off his feet. He is carried away. He loses all sense of proportion. He is like the fly that happens to be sitting on the wall of the dam just when the crack comes.