,-W" I ^

Mi The Nineteenth Hole -:

Being Tales of the Fair Green

•f by .; i Van Tassel Sutphen Illustrated

•

• fteconft

i New York and London .:j Harper & Brothers Publishers .:j 1901 - 4\ Copyright, 1901, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

All rights reserved. July, 1901, Publisher's Note Acknowledgments are due to the Editors of Harper's Magazine, Leslie's Monthly, the Saturday Evening Post, and Golf iov permission to reprint stories originally appearing in their columns. Contents

THE TELEAUTOMATON *

THE CAR OP JUGGERNAUT 37

THE TANTALUS LOVING-CUP 57

THE LOVE CHASE 75

THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD ... 105

THE ROUND ROBIN CHAMPIONSHIP . . .131

THE MIXED-UP FOURSOME 149

FIRST AID TO THE INJURED 167 Illustrations

VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN Frontispiece " HE WAS SIMPLY INCRUSTED WITH GOLD AND GLITTER" . Facing f. 68 " ' PERHAPS I OUGHT TO SAY '".,.. " ' I26 "SMASHED HIS FAVORITE PLAY-CLUB" . " " 128 MISS BELLE CHEVIOT " " 170 " ' GOOD-MORNING, DR. CHEVIOT'" . . . " " I76 " TRIED IT ON MRS. STYMIE'S PUG-DOG " " " 180 JACK HAZARD " " 184 " ' NEVER ! IT CAN'T BE ' " " " l86 The Teleautomaton

When it's two for the hole, I can do It in. one, for I putt very true. But when I could win By the " like " in the " tin," Why is it I always take two? —The Golfiad, Canto XXVI. The Teleautomaton

ALEY SPENCER opened his eyes with a little start upon the gray dawn of January i, 1900. The day had come, and with it the be- ginning of a new era in his life. He shivered a little at the thought, like a bather standing- at the brink of a cold plunge. But only for the moment—already the weakness had passed and he was a man again, rejoicing in the op- portunity which Fortune (or Geraldine Bell- ingham, as you will) had put into his hands, and determined to improve it to the full. A hasty dip into a material tub, breakfast, and then to the golf club. It was a fine, still day with no snow on the ground, and Saunders, the club professional, was ready to oblige. Two hours later the match had been played, and Paley Spencer, receiving two strokes a hole, had been beaten six up, including the 3 The Nineteenth Hole bye-holes. Saunders having certified to the correctness of this result, Mr. Spencer enclosed the card in an envelope and addressed it, in a free, flowing hand, to Miss Bellingham, " Rose- banks," Lauriston. This done, he went in to luncheon, during which interval the faithful chronicler may be permitted to offer a few words of explanation. Amiable, well-mannered, fairly intelligent, and of excellent moral character, it must still be acknowledged that the world had not been the better for Mr. Paley Spencer's residence upon it during a period of some thirty-odd years. Neither had it been the worse, but it is only the positive virtues that count, and hid- ing one's talent in a napkin at least involves the sin of omission. Between the unprofitable servant and the unjust steward there is but little to choose, so far as the master's interests are concerned. Now there were two persons who looked upon Paley's well-meaning but utterly inutile life with a real concern—his father and Miss Geraldine Bellingham. And first as to Mr. Spencer, Sr. Like many another doting parent, Spencer the elder had fondly dreamed of realizing in his son's career the dreams and ideals of his own vanished youth—in Paley he would live 4 The Teleautomaton again. Mr. Spencer had been obliged to put aside much of the sweetness and light of life in order that he might be better fitted to amass its material goods—inclined by nature to be a scholar and a philosopher, he gave up a college course to become a stock-broker and eventually a millionaire. Now at the age of threescore he could only take off his hat to the revered Goddess of Philosophy, when they met by chance upon the Street. It was many a year since they had ceased to be familiar friends, and nothing is harder to mend than the links of a broken intimacy. But there was Paley. There is an immense significance in a name, according to Balzac's ingenious theory, and Mr. Spencer decided to leave no stone unturned that might influence the tender mind of his son and heir, The family name was originally Spenser (with an s), and while the famous person of that name was a fairly good poet, he was of small account as a philosopher. Consequently our Mr. Spenser changed his name to Spencer in honor of the great English think- er, and then clinched matters by having the helpless child christened Paley Voltaire. The officiating clergyman objected feebly, but Mr. Spencer insisted, and Paley Voltaire Spencer it was. But alas! the experiment had been an utter 5 The Nineteenth Hole failure. Paley Voltaire grew up the most commonplace of boys, and he developed into the most ordinary kind of young man. He went to a famous university, where his father hoped to see him graduate as the year's Fellow in Mental Philosophy. But the only actual distinction that he achieved was that of being the best-dressed man in his class. After that Mr. Spencer, Sr., gave him up, but continued his liberal allowance. Miss Geraldine Bellingham had been Paley's playmate and friend from his earliest remem- brance. They were of exactly the same age, but a woman grows faster than a man during the first three decades of life. At twenty, Geraldine was out in society and only mildly tolerant of Paley's cubbish attentions; for of course he was in love with her at that period of his existence. At twenty-five they were just good friends, and at thirty Paley had grown into the habit of referring to her as his Aunt Jerry, and of dropping in upon her at any hour of the day that might suit his humor. A per- fectly safe situation under normal conditions, but then Paley was no longer a normal creat- ure. It had come to such a pass that he was but little more than a human vegetable, with no thought beyond how he should yawn through the day the most comfortably. Generally, it 6 The Teleautomaton was with his feet on Aunt Jerry's library fender and with a box of her especial Egyptians at his elbow. It was astonishing what unpleasantly sharp things Aunt Jerry could say when she put her mind to it. But it was rather disagreeable of her, thought Paley, considering that he had just done Miss Bellingham the honor of asking her to be his wife. Yet, as he listened, he could not but acknowledge that she was justified in what she said. He was an idler, a drone, a mere cumberer of the ground—in all his life he had never accomplished a single useful thing, nor, indeed, anything whatever, be it good or bad. "And I don't believe that you can — it's just hopeless," concluded Miss Bellingham, in a weary voice. "Give me a chance," said Paley, suddenly. He had risen to his feet—the action showed far stronger than words the depths to which his nature had been stirred. "What kind of a chance, Paley?" "To prove that I am a man and worthy of your love. What shall it be—the Philippines or six months' probation as a freight brakeman?" Miss Bellingham considered. She was really fond of Paley in a grandmotherly kind of way, and if he could but pass through some kind of 7 The Nineteenth Hole awakening process., it might be the making of him. Of course the Philippines was out of the question, and it was too ridiculous to think of Paley being a brakeman. Ah, an inspirationI "How about a round of golf every day for a twelvemonth?" "Very well/' said Paley, determinedly (he loathed golf, as Aunt Jerry knew full well). "Let's go ahead and draw up the contract, so that I can begin next Monday, which will be January 1st." As finally amended the articles of agreement provided that Paley Voltaire Spencer should play every day one round of eighteen holes at golf, the same to continue for the term of one calendar year from January I, 1900. No allowance would be made for bad weather, and only a doctor's certificate of physical disability would be accepted in lieu of an actual appearance upon the links. The eighteen holes might, however, be played upon the course of any club that was an associate or allied member of the U. S. G. A. Finally, in every case, the match must be finished before noon (slothfulness being one of Paley's pet weaknesses); and again, every hole must be played out to the last putt by the party of the first part and the card duly certified to by his opponent. "I'm not going to have you sitting on the 8 The Teleautomaton club piazza with a syphon at your elbow and just giving up holes/' said Miss Bellingham, acutely. " There are so many ways of getting around the letter of the law." "Be sure you don't try and evade my one solitary condition/' retorted Paley. Miss Bellingham hesitated. If Paley stood the test triumphantly, she was to marry him. Well, they were old friends, and she did like him better than any one else she knew, and she was getting on, and anyway the chances were a hundred to one. So she finally gave him her hand upon it, and Paley insisted on writing in the clause in red ink at the bottom of the articles of agreement, of which each had a copy. And so the great trial was on. Paley's conversion was, of course, a nine days' wonder at the club. Think of it I a man who had never played golf at all suddenly developing such unaccountable enthusiasm, and in the very middle of the off season. A round every day, and before noon at that—it was simply incomprehensible! "You never can tell," remarked Traphagen, as he joined the circle before the fire in the smoke- room. "When a fellow like Paley Spencer once wakes up, he's quite due to astonish this weary old world. There's something behind all this, and I think he'll stick it out." 9 The Nineteenth Hole Talfourd Jones looked up. " For how much?" he inquired, softly. Traphagen flushed. He disliked having his obiter dicta challenged, and he was not over- anxious to support his convictions with hard cash. Why cannot two men indulge in an honest difference of opinion without having a bet upon it? Money talks, it is trae, but its language is not always agreeable to the re- fined ear. As a rule, it talks too loud, and that in itself is offensive. Jimmy would have en- joyed giving voice to these bitter reflections, but Jones and the circle were awaiting his answer. "Spencer is booked for a round every day from now to December 31st," put in Morgan Gordon. "I had it straight from his own lips. It's some kind of a fool wager, I fancy, like the chaps who go round the world on roller- skates or eat a quail a day for a month. Any- how, it is a sporting proposition and only a question of odds." "Ten to one," said Jones, with a sneer. Traphagen, driven to his last ditch, resorted to the futile expedient of a bluff. "Taken in thousands," he said, in con- fident expectation of seeing Mr. Jones curl up and die. But that gentleman only produced his betting-book and proceeded to enter the wager with scrupulous exactitude of detail. 10 The Teleautomaton The conditions of the bet had been finally determined after an interview between the two principals and Paley Spencer. The latter freely acknowledged that there was an ulterior motive in his seeming madness, and that he fully intended to win out. "You shall have a good run for your money/' concluded Spencer, clapping Traphagen affectionately upon the back. " I hope so/' returned Jimmy, dubiously. YOVL see, a thousand dollars was a good deal for him to lose, and Talfourd Jones was a tricky sort of adversary. January passed, and thirty-one complete cards stood to Paley Spencer's credit, both in Miss Bellingham's private journal and upon the bulletin-board of the club. The news of the contest had become public property, so far as the wager between Jones and Traphagen was concerned, and everybody was mightily interested in the outcome. The minor betting still stood at odds of ten to one against. During February and March, Spencer lost three days through sickness that actually confined him to his bed. According to the terms of the contest a doctor's certificate had to be filed, and this was done in each of the three cases. Moreover, on the days following his enforced absence, Spencer played an extra round of eighteen holes, although this was not II The Nineteenth Hole obligatory. As a matter of fact he had begun to like golf, and his game was steadily improv- ing. Saunders could barely allow him a half nowadays, and he was unquestionably coming on very fast. April, May, and June were uneventful months. Paley did his daily round, not only with faith- fulness, but apparently because he enjoyed it. And towards the latter end of June he quite frequently played in a foursome after luncheon. Talfourd Jones designedly encouraged him in this. "He's going remarkably strong," reflected that astute gentleman, "and some- thing may have to be done. If only he would over-golf himselfI" But Spencer showed no sign of weakening under the increasing strain. In July, Miss Bellingham left for Easterly Harbor. "Why don't you come up, too?" she said to Paley. He had walked over to say good-bye, and they had strolled into the rose- garden. The night was warm and scented, and the moonlight fell in checkered patches upon their path. "The club doesn't belong to the association," said Paley, a little confused by the suddenness of her remark. " Oh yes, it does; it is an allied member." "But the course is an awfully rough one," 12 The Teleautomaton hesitated Mr. Spencer, " and I am just working into my best form. It's ruination to a man's putting to play on these beastly summer-re- sort greens. Besides—" Paley stopped short, guiltily. Was he trying to find some excuse for not going to Easterly Harbor? Had he forgotten the relations in which they stood— was he not looking forward to the spending of a lifetime in Miss Bellingham's society? "I was intending to give you a little sur- prise/' he said, with bold mendacity. " Coming up by the Saturday-night boat." "Paley Voltaire!" said Miss Bellingham, severely; "will you never acquire ordinary common-sense? You know perfectly well that it is impossible, by any train or boat, to reach Easterly Harbor until early in the afternoon. Consequently you would miss your regular round for that day." " I am stupid," assented Paley, obediently. It was a most decorous leave-taking, for Mrs. Bellingham insisted upon coming out and giving Paley a number of messages for his mother and sisters. Finally he got away and walked briskly down the long avenue. The lodge gates were closed, but that was nothing to Paley Spencer. He vaulted the low park coping and looked back for an instant at the house he had just left. He fancied that 13 The Nineteenth Hole he could see the flutter of a white frock under the shadow of the columned porch. "She's a good sort, is Aunt Jerry," said Paley to himself, as he walked on whistling softly. The maid on the piazza finished with the drawing-room shutters and went up-stairs to her nightly duties about her mistress. " He is a dear hoy/' thought Miss Bellingham, as she surrendered herself to the grateful minis- trations of the deft-fingered Marie. "A dear, sweet boy—" a yawn punctuated the sentence, or rather brought it to a full stop. July, August, September, and now it was the middle of October. The wanderers had come back from sea-shore and mountain, and Lauris- ton was itself again. Among the returning prod- igals was Miss Bellingham. Paley met her at the station. "Seems like an age, doesn't it?" he said, with an affectionate squeeze of her hand. Miss Bellingham dared not return the pressure; she could not meet those honest brown eyes. If Paley but knew—Mr. Popham Bardley—propin- quity—that last moonlight sail—for one instant she had lost her head—he had seized her hand— Miss Bellingham shook like a leaf. Paley had loved, had trusted her, and she—how could she ever tell him that in Popham Bardley, ruddy, full-bodied, and aged fifty-six, she had at last found her ideal? Pound him but to 14 The Teleautomaton lose him—it was indeed a bitter thought, and Mr. Popham Bardley would probably be much disappointed on his own account. But it was her duty—renunciation, that was the word—and she would not flinch from it. Besides, there was the contract, the written agreement. There was just one chance. Paley might yet fail in the titanic task he had set himself —a wild, delirious thought—perhaps he had already abandoned it and had come to tell her. She was freel "Keeping to the schedule like a little major," said Paley, in answer to her look. He had remarked the unwonted agitation in her man- ner, but, manlike, had ascribed it to precisely the wrong cause. His heart sank. "She does love me I" thought Paley Voltaire Spencer, " and I, God help me, adore Dorothea Greyl" It was just a week ago that Paley and Doro- thea had met upon the golf-course and had dis- covered that they were really old friends. It had been all of six years since Dorothea had gone to the Sacred Heart, and in that length of time many miracles may be accomplished. So it seemed, at any rate, to Paley, who had remembered Miss Grey when she wore her fair hair in a long, clubbed pigtail and was not ashamed to climb trees. 15 The Nineteenth Hole A week 1 and yet as Paley Spencer looked back upon those days so cruelly few and short (it was getting on in October) it seemed as though an eternity had been comprehended within their narrow bounds. And now it had come to an end—to this end. November and December were gloomy and depressing months, and the wretched weather was the appropriate outward sign of the in- ward conflict that was convulsing two honest but fatally mistaken hearts. Miss Bellingham was resolved to accomplish her renunciation at any cost, and, as a man of honor, Paley Spencer was more than ever determined to com- plete his allotted task and then set the capstone upon his misery by leading Miss Bellingham to the altar. In the mean time little Miss Grey grieved silently over Paley's altered demeanor, so strangely stiff and silent, and Mr. Popham Bardley made up his mind that he would get away from Iowa City for a week around Christ- mas and seek an explanation of the peculiar fashion in which his honorable suit had been received by the incomprehensible Miss Bell- ingham. Time passed, and Paley Spencer went on doing his round a day with monotonous regu- larity ; it was apparent that, with ordinary luck, he must accomplish the great feat. Day by 16 The Teleautomaton day Talfourd Jones grew more and more anx- ious about that ten thousand dollars. He didn't want to lose it, and especially to Jimmy Traphagen. It was time for desperate meas- ures. The opportunity came a day or so later, when he was playing a match with Traphagen and that gentleman had laid him three stymies on the incoming holes. "I give you fair warning, Traphagen/' said Jones, "that I propose to win our little bet, catch - as - catch - can. All's fair in war, you know, and that stymie by replacement at the last hole is equivalent to a declaration of hos- tilities. Remember now that I have warned you." A curiously warped moral nature, this of Mr. Talfourd Jones's I He really seemed to think that the formal announcement of his intended villany was sufficient justification for the deed itself. There was a mediasval flavor about such a code of ethics, but still it was better than no code at all; the open duel is preferable to secret assassination. Jimmy Traphagen looked worried as he walked back to the club-house; he knew that Jones was a man of resources. Two mornings later, while Paley Spencer was driving to the club for his regular round, B 17 The Nineteenth Hole the trap broke down. He was a little late any- how, and when the accident happened he was quite two miles from the club-house. Spencer started off on foot, but fortunately Traphagen overtook him and gave him a lift. Even as it was, Paley never holed out on the eighteenth green until one minute of twelve, a close squeeze. You remember that, under the conditions, the round must be played out before noon, or it could not count. It was odd about the break-down, and Trap- hagen gave the trap a close overhauling. There was an important nut missing in the running- gear, but it was impossible to say definitely that it had disappeared before the accident. And the groom was an old family servant of the Spencers and absohitely above suspicion, After that, however, Traphagen, in his own dog-cart, called every morning for Spencer and dropped him safely at the club. On the 21st of December Traphagen had another bad scare. Paley had spent the night before in town, and should have come up on the early train, arriving at half-past nine. But he did not appear, and it was not until twenty minutes of eleven that a special steamed up with Paley standing, watch in hand, on the foot-plate of the engine cab. By the greatest good luck, Hooper, the crack half-miler and 18 The Teleautomaton holder of the time record for the Marion County course, happened to be at the club, and he con- sented to act as Spencer's running mate. Play started at ten minutes of eleven, and the first nine holes were reeled off in thirty-four minutes. But it was plain to Traphagen that Paley could not stand the pace. Already he was beginning to show signs of distress, and Jones, who was acting as time-keeper, could hardly keep his satisfaction within the bounds of decency. It was only the arrival of Morgan Gordon on his new gasoline quadricycle that saved the day. The exhausted golfer was accommodated with a perch on the front end of the machine, and no such following up of the ball was ever before seen in Lauriston. On the last two holes Paley even attempted approach shots, without bothering to alight, and the match ended with eight minutes to spare. The cards, however, were on the high side. "How did it happen, Paley?" asked Trap- hagen, as they sat at luncheon. "Why, I stayed at the Delaware Club," an- swered Spencer, "and when I woke up this morning, I simply couldn't get out of the room." "What's that?" " Screwed up and the electric bell disconnected. I had the very dickens of a time getting some 19 The Nineteenth Hole one to hear me. Finally I stuck my head out of the window and just yelled. They had to send for the hook-and-ladder company to get me out. Then it was a race down-town in a cab and a hundred dollars for a special. Yoti know the rest." " Hum I" said Traphagen, thoughtfully. " Did you happen to see Jones in town yesterday?" "He stayed at the club with me last night. Had the very next room/' answered the un- suspicious Paley. After this occurrence, Traphagen never let his man out of his sight. He persuaded Paley to take temporary quarters at the club, and they occupied a big room with two beds in it. Traphagen had burglar-alarms set at all the windows, and he invariably pulled his own bedstead in front of the door at night. His vigilance extended to the most careful super- vision of Spencer's diet. All his meals were cooked under Traphagen Js own eye and brought to the table in sealed vessels. And no drink- ables, except from the original package. Paley accepted these jailer-like attentions with resignation, but he was ardently desirous for the ending of the long ordeal. Since the sacrifice to honor had to be made, the sooner the better. But then, Jimmy Traphagen had bet on him, and he must not forget that; the 20 The Teleautomaton old chap deserved at least a run for his money. Finally there was Dorothea Grey—oh, Dolly—

II IT was the morning of the 31st of December, and Traphagen stood in the big bedroom at the club-houvse, looking helplessly at Paley Spencer, who lay apparently unconscious upon his cot. With him was Marshall, who had sttidied medicine, and was also a Doctor of Philosophy. " Drugged 1 Not a bit of it," said Marshall. He pulled down the lower lid of Paley's eye and shook his head again. "Nothing there," he concluded, shortly. " I can't make it out," said the bewildered Traphagen. "Paley never drank a drop last night, and I was with him all evening." "What were you doing?" asked Marshall. "Why, we were both up in Jones's room. He had one of those Indian fakirs there, and he gave us an exhibition of crystal-ball reading. Extremely interesting, you know—theosophy and all that sort of thing. Afterwards the old fellow explained this hypnotism-at-home busi- ness—every man his own mesmerizer, you know. He tried it on a lot of us; made Robin- son Brown think he was a rooster—he crowed 21 The Nineteenth Hole so that the steward had to come up with a mes- sage from the Board of Governors, who were holding a meeting down-stairs. It was great, I tell you. Afterwards he hypnotized Gordon and Alderson, and, let me see—yes, and Paley Spencer—" "That's it, you consummate idiot!" broke in Marshall. " You are an easy mark, and no mistake." "I don't understand," faltered the now thor- oughly alarmed Jimmy. "I mean that your man is still in that mes- meric trance, and Jones and his fakir will take precious good care that he sha'n't come out of it until after twelve o'clock to - day. They've got a psychical time-lock on him, so to speak, and your money is safe in Jones's pocket." " Oh, dash the money, Marshall! Don't you know that upon Spencer's accomplishment of his task hangs the only possible chance of his marriage to Geraldine Bellingham? For the Lord's sake! old man, you can hit upon some- thing, if you really try—you must—" " Hold on. There's just a chance, and the experiment would be an interesting one. Yes; I'll risk it. Stand by the door and don't let any one in."

Now it happened that there was an especial 22 The Teleautomaton interest attaching to the match that Paley Spencer was to play on this the morning of the 31st of December, an interest quite outside that which naturally attended upon the com- pletion of his great task. For Paley, thrcmgh all these weeks and months of unremitting toil, had really become a golfer of no little skill. His handicap had steadily decreased until he was now playing at plus six, and he was a hot favorite for the next national amateur event. There were many who did not hesitate to say that Paley Spencer was the finest golfer that America had as yet turned out. Conse- quently, when it was proposed by Alderson that the club should arrange a match between Mr. Spencer and Vaylor, the noted English professional champion, there was an instan- taneous murmur of approval from the smoking- room gang, and in due course of time the mat- ter was definitely arranged. Vaylor would be matched against Paley for the morning round of eighteen holes, and a best-ball event could be gotten up for the afternoon. Although well outside the regular club season, Saturday, the 31st of December, bid fair to be a gala-day in the annals of the Marion County Golf Club. Of course there was some informal betting on the result. Gordon and Alderson and Traphagen and Brown—it was impossible for 23 The Nineteenth Hole such men to be concerned in any sporting event without having a trifle on. But the straight odds against Spencer were naturally prohibitive from the first. Had not Vaylor swept everything before him, both in the Old World and in the New? A veritable golfing- machine—it did not seem credible that any mortal man (and, least of all, any amateur) could hold his own against him. Consequently the sporting element in the club had to resort to various forms of freak betting in order to get their money up at all. Wagers were made that Spencer would be beaten by ten or more up, on the full eighteen holes; that he would not win a hole; that his opponent would take every odd or every even hole; and finally that Vaylor would make, somewhere in the match, a run of four or more holes. This last proposition was advanced by Talfourd Jones, and he offered to bet $1000 to $500 that Vaylor would perform the feat. Traphagen finally took the short end of the wager. As matters stood, therefore, Traphagen, through winning both his bets, would have his bank account increased by the comfortable sum of $11,000. And he stood to lose, in the same event, $1500. All depended upon Paley Spencer's ability to put up a decent game on this the last day of play and to finish out the 24 The Teleautomaton match before the fatal stroke of noon. And here it was nearly nine o'clock, and Paley Voltaire Spencer lay upon his bed in room 45, sunk six fathoms deep in a mesmeric slumber.

The match was scheduled to begin at exactly half-past nine, and the gallery began to as- semble early. Vaylor was the first of the principals to appear. He looked in prime condition, fit to play for a man's life, and his cool confidence was extremely disconcerting to the men who had bet against him, be the proposition what it may. The man was a veritable wizard, and the age of miracles was not yet over. The post betting was conse- quently very light; and, by-the-way, where was Paley Spencer? Marshall's trap, in which Traphagen had driven hastily away a quarter of an hour before, dashed through the gate, the horse in a lather and the groom holding on for dear life. Traphagen picked up a polished mahogany box from the seat beside him, and disappeared into the club-house on the dead run.

Half after nine, and Vaylor, who had the honor, drove off a cracking ball straight for the flag. But what on earth was the matter with Paley Spencer? His eyes were wide open, but 25 The Nineteenth Hole there was no ray of intelligence in those glassy orbs; he looked and acted as tlumgh he were fast asleep, a somnambulist out for his nocturnal constitutional. And most extraordinary! but what were those bright copper wires that de- pended, the one from his right wrist, the other from a peculiar looking form of head-gear that resembled a football-player's helmet? It could be seen that they were connected with the polished mahogany box so carefully carried by Marshall—regular electrodes they were, to all appearance. Was Mr. Spencer on the way to the electric chair? The gallery was intensely interested, but no one dared to speak, for already Paley Voltaire stood upon the sacred enclosure of the teeing-ground. Traphagen, who had the bag of clubs, an- nounced that he was only the fore-caddie. Dr. Marshall was to act as Mr. Spencer's regular caddie, and as stich would be entitled to all the privileges of the office, as accorded by imme- morial usage. Talfourd Jones, who was caddy- ing for Vaylor, looked puzzled, but there was no reasonable ground for making any objec- tion, and Rivers, the referee, called upon Mr. Spencer to play. Dr. Marshall touched a button in the side of the box, and Paley Spencer mechanically took his position before the ball which Traphagen 26 The Teleautomaton had carefully teed up. Marshall consulted a graduated scale, turned a crank, and touched another button. A shock of astonishment swept through the gallery; Spencer had driven clear up on the terraced green, two hundred and thirty-seven yards away, and lay dead within six inches of the cup. Spencer won four straight holes, and then Talfourd Jones lifted up his voice in indignant protest to the referee. "Look at SpencerI" he said, excitedly. "The man's fast asleep or unconscious, and this quack, Marshall, is running him with one of those infernal electric batteries that Tesla in- vented for controlling the movements of marine torpedoes—the Teleautomaton, I think he calls it. It's evident to the meanest intelligence that it is Marshall who is playing this match, and not Spencer at all. I protest I It's just an outrage! And, what's more"—he paused solemnly, that the full effect of his words might obtain—"what's more, it isn't golf 1" " Objection not sustained," said Rivers, smart- ly. (He loathed Talfourd Jones.) "What!" "Not sustained, I tell you. A man's caddie is a part of himself, and can give him any kind of mental or psychical aid and comfort. It is ap- parent that Mr. Spencer is executing with his 27 The Nineteenth Hole own hands the actual stroke, and that is all that can be required of him." "But those wires 1" shrieked Jones, getting purple. " You can see for yourself—" "You're delaying the match,Mr. Jones," said Rivers, severely. "Get back to your place, or I'll have you put outside the ropes. Your honor, Dr. Marshall—I beg pardon, Mr. Spencer." Talfourd Jones turned on his heel, his face convulsed by evil passions. Already he could see his $ir,ooo taking to itself wings and fly- ing into Jimmy Traphagen's pockets. Peste! and he had thought victory securely within his grasp, The Indian adept had done his work well, the mesmeric slumber in which Paley Spencer lay enshrouded was the genuine arti- cle, and yet this master-card had failed or was about to fail. Spencer would finish the round in the allotted time, and with that, bang! would go $10,000, to say nothing of the smaller bet. Well, the only chance was to use his wits; could he, by hook or crook, so delay the match that Spencer would be unable to finish before the first stroke of twelve? He could but try. The Teleautomaton—a convenient and com- prehensive term for the extraordinary triad made up of Spencer, electric battery, and Dr. Marshall—was still four up and playing par golf. But Jones showed genius worthy of a better 28 The Teleautomaton cause. Both balls were lost twice on the fifth hole, entailing a total delay of twenty minutes. Nobody could have guessed that the enormous walking-stick that Jones carried had attached to its ferrule a rubber vacuum cup. But such was the case. Jones had only to carelessly bring the point of his stick above the ball to be stolen and wait until the attention of the gallery was fastened upon the other player. The ball could then be covered and " lifted" without the slightest fear of detection. Why, he even stole the Teleautomaton's ball, while it was lying on the eighth green in plain sight of everybody and only a foot away from the cup. And then insisted—actually insisted—upon search being made for the full legal period of five minutes. He posed for a sportsman, did this morally warped Talfourd Jones. Lost balls, interminable arguments about the rules, slow playing on Vaylor's part, and other dilatory tactics used up a good deal of time, and finally Rivers, the referee, commenced to get on to Mr. Jones's little game. Trapha- gen also had protested in no uncertain terms, and Jones was ordered peremptorily to cease soldiering and have his man play golf. It was now ten minutes to twelve and there were still two holes to play. Just a word here as to how the match proper stood. 29 The Nineteenth Hole The Teleautomaton, as already narrated, had started off with a lead of four holes. It had played superb golf all the way round, and it was only through Jones's contemptible trickery that his man was not way down. It must be confessed that the jockeying had been mag- nificently done. It would have taken an abnor- mally acute eye to detect those wire pins, painted an invisible green, which it was so easy for Jones to stick into the turf in the line of the Teleautomaton's putt. Time and time again the latter's ball had been deflected in the most unaccountable manner, while apparently going straight for the hole. The dodge had enabled the English champion to win and halve enough holes to pull up on the Teleautomaton, and it was all that had saved the day so far. As a pure machine, the Teleautomaton, with James Henry Marshall, Ph.D. (Leipsic and Johns Hopkins), at the levers, could give Vaylor cards, spades, and a patent putter—the combination was simply invincible. But officially the Tele- automaton was only one up with two to play. Incidentally, Vaylor had not been able to make a run of four holes anywhere in the match. He had still a chance, however, for he had now won two holes in succession, the fifteenth and six- teenth, and there were two left to play. Both balls were on the seventeenth green 30 The Teleautomaton in one under Bogey, and it should have been a sure half for the Teleautomaton, the latter having for it a putt of less than a foot. But just as the Teleautomaton was about to putt, Jones, who was standing immediately behind Dr. Marshall, leaned forward and whispered the one word, "Booh!" into that gentleman's ear. The consequence was that the Teleau- tomaton missed the putt. Jones, of course, con- tended that there was nothing in the rules for- bidding him to speak to an opponent's caddie, so long as the disturbing remark was inaudible to the latter's principal. There was no time to split hairs over the point, and Traphagen and Dr. Marshall had to give in. The match was now all square, and there were five minutes left in which to play the last hole, a par four. Vaylor topped, but succeeded in bringing off one of his marvellous hooked brassey shots, and his ball lay on the green. The Teleautomaton had accidentally stepped upon his ball when following up the tee shot, and this, of course, penalized him a stroke. Consequently the Teleautomaton had to play the odd to reach the green. "Two minutes left," sung out Alderson, who was acting as time-keeper, and everybody came up on the dead run. "Your play the like, Vaylor—no, wait a The Nineteenth Hole moment, it's yours, Mr. Spencer—why—why— what in—what in—" and the voice of the referee died away in an inarticulate gasp. He rubbed his eyes—everybody rubbed their eyes. There was no hole on the putting-green. There must have been full one hundred and twenty seconds of complete stupefaction, for the first sound that broke the tremendous silence was the click of a hunting-case as Alderson restored the watch to his pocket. "Time's up," he said, sadly, and just then the first stroke of twelve boomed out from the village clock. The balls still lay unputted on the green, the match had not been finished, and consequently Paley Spencer had failed in his herculean task—it was, indeed, the irony of Fate. "I say, you people! What's up? You all look mighty solemn—is anybody hurt?" This in a tone of mild surprise from Paley Spencer. He stood there looking a bit dazed, but assuredly clothed and in his right mind. "And what kind of a harness have you got on me?" he went on, aggrievedly. " I haven't been paying some fool election bet, have I?" Who could tell him the bitter, bitter truth? Jimmy Traphagen stepped up, his honest, brown eyes dewy with hushed tears. He took Paley apart and whispered to him earnestly. 32 The Teleautomaton Paley Voltaire Spencer walked back into the circle, his mouth set and his eyes blazing. He looked over at Miss Bellingham. She had fainted upon the portly breast of Mr. Popham Bardley. And Dorothea Grey? She stood there trembling; then she looked up and smiled.

But, after all, what had happened? A babel of voices arose. And yet the explanation was a simple one: McPherson, the green-keeper, had taken this particular time of all times to change the position of the hole on the green. He had filled up the old one and had then gone to his shop to fetch the hole-cutter. But the tool had been mislaid, and while he was looking for it, the match had come up. All very well, but what was to be done about it? It had been a good match and a decision was wanted. Rules could not resolve such a problem; only equity could render judgment. And Rivers was equal to the occasion. "Both balls must be lifted," he said, "and their places marked by me. Then McPherson will be blindfolded, conducted to the middle of the green and ordered to cut the hole, entirely at his discretion. The balls will then be re- placed and played out." The decision commended itself to all and was C 33 The Nineteenth Hole immediately carried into effect. There was not a sound to be heard as the old gray-haired green-keeper, his eyes tightly bandaged, was brought into the circle. Rivers led him to the middle of the green and stepped back. No one moved or breathed. McPherson stood undecided for perhaps half a minute. Then he took a step forward, whirled on his heel, and walked four paces towards the club-house. " Here," he said, firmly, and pressed the hole- cutter deep into the sere and yellowed turf. The hole was quickly cut out, and Rivers, having identified his private marks, proceeded to replace the balls. A groan went up from the partisans of Vaylor—the Englishman's ball was hopelessly stymied by Spencer's, which lay barely eight inches from the lip of the cup. The match, as you remember, was all square, but Paley had played the odd. Vaylor had needed this putt to win both the match itself and the run of four holes. He tried for it gallantly, but the ball, lofted by the stroke of the niblick, just rattled upon the edge of the tin and overran the hole by six feet. Playing the odd, Vaylor rimmed. It was Spencer's chance of a lifetime. An eight- inch putt to beat the champion of two continents. He missed it—missed the globe, I mean, and 34 The Teleautomaton missed it clean! You don't believe it? Why, Vaylor himself once did the same thing, playing in an open championship. Nothing is impos- sible—in golf. It was all over—a halved match—and the crowd flocked back to the club-house. And really everybody seemed fairly well satisfied with the outcome. Jimmy Traphagen had lost a thousand dollars to Jones on the main wager, but then Jones owed him a similar amount through Vaylor's not capturing that re- markable eighteenth hole, which would have com- pleted his winning run of four holes. An even break, then, for Messrs. Jones and Traphagen. Miss Bellingham? She is to-day Mrs. Pop- ham Bardley and the social arbiter of Iowa City. A proud and happy woman. Mr. Spencer, Sr. ? He learned of his son's engagement to Miss Dorothea Grey with as- tonishing equanimity. "You shall have my blessing," he said, genially. Paley's heart smote him. "I'm afraid, sir, I've been something of a disappointment to you," he began, hesitatingly. His father cut him short. "You are a golfer, Paley," said Mr. Spencer, solemnly, " and as such you must have acquired the ultimate philosophy of life. I have just begun to play a little myself." 35 The Nineteenth Hole Dorothea Grey? She made her confession to Paley, while they were on their wedding journey. "Well, dear?" Her mouth was close to his ear. " It was I, then, I—" "Yes?" "Who hid that old hole-cutter." The Car of Juggernaut

He likes to play at golfing on a holiday occasion, When he's sure of being noticed by the feminine per- suasion ; But when there battles cleek with cleek, he's biking with Amanda, Or pouring tea for Isabel upon the club veranda. —The Golfer's Gallery, The Car of Juggernaut

HEN Maddox Morton announced that he had finally and forever given up golf there were those among his hear- ers who smiled pityingly. When he insisted upon the strength of his resolution they laughed broadly and intimated that only money talks. "Forever is a long time/' said Traphagen, with a meaning glance in the direction of Mor- gan Gordon and J. Robinson Brown. "Make it six weeks, and I'll lay you two to one in centuries." Maddox Morton accepted Mr. Traphagen's offer, and he also accommodated several other gentlemen who anxiously claimed the privilege of establishing similar propositions. It did seem like a good thing, but, strange to say, Maddox Morton came around at the end of the six weeks and called for a settlement in his favor. "It's your money all right/' said Traphagen, 39 The Nineteenth Hole as he proceeded to square up, "but however did you do it, old chap ? Must be a pretty good thing that would keep you out of the monthly handicap. It isn't that confounded 'squash' ball l" he added, explosively. "Come with me," said Morton, mysteriously, and the twain disappeared in the direction of the Morton coach-house.

The automobile had been in Morton's pos- session for a full week before he ventured to break the news to Mrs. Morton. As he expect- ed, it was not received with enthusiasm. "A horseless carriageI" remarked Mrs. Mor- ton, " and for years I have been waiting for a car- riageless horse, the riding-mare that you prom- ised me when I consented to live in the country. It wouldn't have cost you one-tenth of what you have probably paid for your toy wagon." "But, my dear," expostulated Mr. Morton, " it is precisely on the ground of economy that I am making the change. It is true that I paid fifteen hundred for the vehicle, but at the present rates for gasoline it will cost less than half a cent a mile to run. Just think of it, and remember that we save the feed and care of three horses, to say nothing of veterinary bills and the rake-off at the harness-makers'. I shall let Henry go at the end of the month, 40 The Car of Juggernaut and have a half-grown boy in by the day to assist Michael until he gets the hang of the machine. I tell you, it's the greatest thing on earth. Half a cent a mile, ten miles for five cents, a hundred miles for half a dollar, to San Francisco for a trifle over fifteen—why, it seems simply ridiculous." "And it is," retorted Mrs. Morton, in a tone that closed the discussion. Two days later Mrs. Morton, being fairly devoured by curiosity, consented to inspect the marvel. It was really a nice-looking car- riage of the duke pattern, and beautifully upholstered and finished. Mrs. Morton's eye softened as she gazed, and she finally expressed a wish to see the vehicle in operation. "Certainly, my dear," returned Mr. Morton. "Just one moment while I put on my rig." Mrs. Morton looked with astonishment upon her spouse as he emerged from the harness- room a few minutes later. He wore long rubber wading-boots and a glistening yellow slicker of the familiar oysterman pattern. His cap was a "pork pie" with a glazed peak. Enor- mous goggles with wire side-pieces protected his eyes, and a rubber mouth-guard was held firmly clinched between his teeth. "What is it?" demanded Mrs. Morton, weak with laughter. "Football or deep-sea diving?" 41 The Nineteenth Hole "It's the ordinary chauffeur costume/' ex- plained Mr. Morton, somewhat nettled. "I imported it from Paris, and I've been waiting for its arrival to make my first run." "Then you haven't tried the thing yet?" said Mrs. Morton, doubtfully. "No," answered Maddox, "but I have read over the book of instructions several times, and it is a perfectly simple matter. Run her out, Michael." The carriage was pushed into the yard, and Maddox Morton mounted to his place. Out- wardly he was confidently calm, inwardly he would have liked to have had just one more glance at the manual of instructions. But he would have died rather than ask for it. He did resort to some dilatory tactics with a monkey- wrench, but Mrs. Morton's eye was upon him, and after two or three attempts he actually managed to get the motor started. It wheezed and clacked away at a great rate, and the noise was naturally confusing to an amateur chauf- feur who had already forgotten how to make the proper connection with the driving mechan- ism. "Why don't you go?" demanded Mrs. Mor- ton, impatiently. Maddox pulled a lever at random, and the automobile majestically rolled back into the 42 The Car of Juggernaut coach-house, upset the stove, and smashed the new brougham into splinters. The accidental slipping of a driving-belt seemed like the direct interposition of Providence, for the automobile was gyrating about the confined limits of the coach-house like a top in the last stages of in- toxicated giddiness, and Maddox had succes- sively pulled every single lever but the right one. Mrs. Morton had seen enough, but the blood of Maddox was up. "Run her out again," he shouted, champing savagely on his rubber mouth-piece. Mrs. Morton held a whispered colloquy with Michael, the coachman, who nodded and disappeared in the direction of the cow-barns. It was some few minutes before Mr. Morton was ready to start again, but this time he felt sure of his ability to control the monster. The automobile moved quickly ahead, and then came to a sudden stop as the heavy ox-chain attached to the off hind wheel was drawn taut. Maddox Morton's body rose gracefully to a standing position and was then projected in a hyperbolic curve over the dash-board. Mrs. Morton scream- ed and fainted as she saw the insensible form of her husband lying beneath the wheels, but fortunately the ox-chain held firm and the res- cue was quickly accomplished. 43 The Nineteenth Hole Concussion of the brain was what the doctors called it, and all night long they worked over him, while the new Frankenstein ramped and roared and strained at its steel tether in the court-yard below. For of course nobody but the unconscious Maddox knew how to stop the confounded thing, and he was none too sure about it, either, as Henry, the second man, remarked to the upper housemaid. It was two o'clock the next afternoon before the man from the factory arrived and the demon was at last exorcised—but only to bide its time. It was a surprisingly quick recovery for Mad- dox Morton, but then, perhaps, it wasn't con- cussion of the brain. The doctors can settle it as they like; the fact remains that within three days Maddox Morton was at it again; but this time with greater caution and with proportionate success. Within a week he had acquired control of the machine under ordinary conditions, and with increasing skill the old confidence returned. Curiously enough, the subject of the accident was never mentioned between Mr. and Mrs. Morton. It is dangerous work, the digging up of a double-edged hatchet.

Mr. Morton's automobile had come to be a familiar sight upon the highway, and it was commonly known as the "Car of Juggernaut," 44 The Car of Juggernaut from its playful habit of forcibly appropriating wheels belonging to other vehicles. But Mad- dox Morton was always prompt in settling claims for damages, and two or three owners of antiquated hacks made quite a good thing out of him while it lasted. It was a proud day for Maddox when he first succeeded in motoring to the railway station in time to catch the bankers' express, and that without a single break-down or smash-up. What did it matter that he was given a whole car to himself, the odor of carbureted gasoline being offensive to delicately constituted people? Now he could call himself a chauffeur! It is not to be supposed, however, that his pride did not have the occasional and prover- bial fall. It was extremely mortifying, his ex- perience on the day that he made his first ap- pearance at the golf club. The broad piazzas were crowded that bright Saturday afternoon, and Maddox Morton had purposely timed his arrival with the view of communicating the largest possible sensation to the greatest possi- ble number of people. His bosom dilated with honest pride as the "Juggernaut" dashed up the roadway and into the circle laid out before the doorway. Mrs. Morton had finally been induced to accompany her husband, but she had not enjoyed the experience, and the strain 45 The Nineteenth Hole was beginning to tell on her nerves. "It's running away with usl" she screamed, just as Morton was preparing to "shut off" and round-to in handsome style at the carriage block. "Leggo the lines!" shouted Maddox. "I mean, take your hand off that starting-lever!" But Mrs. Morton was past reasoning with, and she only tightened her despairing clutch upon the lever. Morton had all he could do to steer the carriage, which was now running at frightful speed round and round the circular driveway, and the groom behind was powerless to aid. Round and round, and still Mrs. Mor- ton held the lever at the top-speed notch with the strength of ten men, while Morton wrestled convulsively with the steering-wheel, and all the world (and his wife) wondered. It was a hard turn to make, but Morton managed to get the "Juggernaut" safely on to the broad expanse of the golf course. He made the sixteenth and seventeenth holes in the shortest time on record, and then took a short cut to the eighteenth, heading directly for the far side of the big cop-bunker. Surely that would stop her. Like a cat, the big, clumsy machine climbed up the sloping, grassy bank and hung balanced on the bunker top, its fore wheels suspended 46 The Car of Juggernaut over the abyss of the hazard proper. Old Colonel Dormie happened to be in the bunker, and it gave him such a shock, when he looked up and saw those monstrous rubber-tired wheels revolving within an inch of his nose, that he entirely lost count of his strokes. Judge Stymie, his opponent, insisted upon its being seventeen, but Colonel Dormie would not admit to anything above twelve. Consequently the dispute had to be referred to the Green Committee, and that sagacious body ordered the match to be played over again, and suspended Morton from the club for one calendar month for the offence of climbing up on a bunker. Mrs. Morton went home in a hack, and consistent- ly refused to be convinced that she had had any share in bringing about the catastrophe. " The idea of trying to carry that bunker with an automobile I" she said, with biting irony. "You, Maddox Morton, who could never get over it with any one of your seventeen clubs! Could anything be more ridiculous!" And Maddox Morton, being a wise man, did not in- sist further.

But in spite of these little discouragements the cause of the automobile was advancing. First, Traphagen bought a steam runabout, and then Morgan Gordon and J. Robinson 47 The Nineteenth Hole Brown became the owners of electric vehicles. Alderson and Rivers and Challis quickly follow- ed suit, and by the middle of October fully a dozen horseless carriages were owned in Lauris- ton. The establishment of a club naturally followed, and Morton was elected its first presi- dent. While in the act of accepting the honor an inspiration came to him. "We'll have a meet at my house next Saturday," he said, "and a driving contest for points, as they do in Paris. What do you say?" The proposition was enthusiastically accepted, and Traphagen was generous enough to present a hundred-dollar cup for a prize. Everybody would be there; it would be the event of the season, and Maddox Morton could snap his fingers at the golf club and its sentence of suspension. Who played golf, anyhow, nowa- days?

The course had been marked off on the lower lawn, and the brightly colored flags made the scene a brilliant one. It is to be understood that the arena was arranged to represent a narrow and winding street, and the amateur chauffeur was expected to show his skill by driving his motor wagon at good speed twice around the course without coming into contact with the line of flags or with any of the ordinary 48 The Car of Juggernaut obstructions of street traffic, the latter being simulated by piles of papier-mach6 bricks, cast-iron figures of street-sweepers and nursery maids, real wheelbarrows, genuine go-carts, practicable gas-lamps, and other objects too numerous to mention. The slightest contact counted as a touch, and of course the cleanest score won the cup. It took a long time to get the contestants together that Saturday afternoon; but then the horseless carriage is apt to indulge in moods and tenses tipon such an occasion. Traphagen, in his steam runabout, was reported as " burned out" at Chester, six miles away, and Challis, who had been experimenting with liquid air, was "frozen up" at Monkton. But Gordon and Brown and Rivers and Alderson finally managed to make the meet, and the contest was started with five entries. Needless to say that all Lauriston was there to look on—'that is, everybody except their nominal hostess, Mrs. Maddox Morton. Morton had no explanation to offer for this extraordinary conduct either to himself or to his guests, and it was with some apprehension that he kept looking up at the tightly closed blinds of his wife's room. But no Mrs. Morton appeared, and Maddox was obliged to mumble out something about a severe nervous headache in answer to the D 49 The Nineteenth Hole natural inquiries that were made. The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Morton, being an extremely absent-minded person, had entirely forgotten about the great event, and had gone out immediately after luncheon, with the baby- carriage, the latter containing that most im- portant personage, Maddox Morton, Jr., aet. two. But only the reader is supposed to be acquainted with this fact, for no one in the house had noticed her departure or had any notion of her where- abouts.

The contest was waged with great spirit. Rivers and Morton made their first circuit respectably, but Alderson scored heavily off the gas-lamps, and bowled the cast-iron bank president clean off his pins. Disqualified by the judges. Brown and Gordon got a nurse- maid apiece and were put upon probation. In the second round Brown lost his head and cut a wide swath among the line flags. He was ordered off the course, and in attempting to obey caromed heavily against Gordon's park brake, knocking its battery-equipment galley west and dishing a wheel. Of course the accident put out Gordon—considerably so, it may be added—and the struggle was now narrowed down to Rivers and Morton. Their score was a tie, and Rivers pleased his backers 50 The Car of Juggernaut by making the second round without a mis- take. Morton did the same. Rivers went around for the third time and knocked the pipe out of a crossing-sweeper's mouth. Morton followed and smashed a papier-mache" brick. The judges consulted and then ordered the con- testants to proceed. Rivers had the misfortune to touch a line flag and to upset the Italian banana cart. It was Morton's cup if he but kept his head. Down the course he sped, avoiding every obstacle with consummate dexterity. It was marvellous, and the air was vibrant with ap- plause. Morton bowed his acknowledgments and let out another link in his speed. A sharp sweep to the left and he had cleared the orange girl, another to the right and the high-church bishop stood trembling on his narrow pedestal, safe, indeed, but still visibly agitated as to his gaiters. "BravoI" shrieked the crowd, and Morton, with the reckless confidence engendered by success, responded by making the "Jugger- naut " pirouette on two wheels among the cast- iron nurse-maids and their baby-carriages. Then wheeling at top speed he dashed for the judges' stand and the finishing line.

Maddox Morton gazed stupidly at the real 51 The Nineteenth Hole woman pushing a real perambulator in which lay a real baby. Undoubtedly he had some responsibility in the matter, but he could not seem to make up his mind on the question of decisive action. Steering-wheel, reversing-lever, emergency-brake—all were within reach of his hand, and yet he felt singularly incapable of even the raising of a finger. And then in a flash he understood the truth—the "Jugger- naut" had suddenly been endtied with sen- tient life; it had become a monster, implacable in its energy, ruthless in its intelligence. And it was within sight of its prey! Mrs. Morton, being both preoccupied and a trifle hard of hearing, was fairly out in the open before she realized her peril. Instinctively she stopped short and then tried to run back. The automobile, with an angry "teuf," changed its course and bore down upon its quarry. Mrs. Morton made a desperate forward plunge, and then as suddenly dodged back again. The " Juggernaut" seemed puzzled, but it was bound to follow, even at the expense of a severe shock to its differential gearing. A large oak- tree stood some fifteen feet away, and the in- telligent automobile rightly calculated that Mrs. Morton would endeavor to reach the pro- tection afforded by its massy trunk. Reason- ing from established precedent, she would un- 52 The Car of Juggernaut doubtedly stop, run ahead a few steps, and then turn back, and the automobile had only to keep a straight course to be sure of its game. As it happened, however, Mrs. Morton first ran back, and then, contrary to all precedent, stopped where she was. The "Juggernaut," carried forward by an irresistible impetus, crashed into the tree, and was incontinently reduced to a scrap-heap, on top of which Maddox Morton sat dolorously. Mrs. Morton picked up her baby and went into the house.

" It was marvellous, my dear Morton, simply marvellous!" said Traphagen, as he assisted at the rehabilitation of the president of the Lauriston Automobile Club. "The coolness that you showed in making that last turn was magnificent. You are assuredly a born chauf- feur." Maddox Morton did not reply. He knew in his heart of hearts that the "Juggernaut" had destroyed itself by falling into the fatal trap of thinking that it could tell what a woman was going to do in making a street-crossing. But he did not say this; he had become a moral coward. Would these people never go I And then as he looked up again at that second-story window he realized that he would much prefer to have them all stay on indefinitely. "Even 53 The Nineteenth Hole J. Robinson Brown/' he thought, confusedly. "Wasn't he the fellow who went for a week's visit to a country house, liked it so well that he stopped on for twenty years, and was finally buried in the family vault? If he only would stay!" Traphagen's voice fell dully on his ears: "It looks a bit like rain, and perhaps we'd better be motoring along. Great success, wasn't it? And, by-the-way, you've won it, you know. A great contest, but Rivers was fairly outclassed in that last round." Morton mechanically extended his hand to receive the prize cup; it felt as though it might have been made of lead. His guests were al- ready departing; there was a hurried embar- rassment in their leave-takings. And now he was alone. Maddox Morton walked tip on the piazza, turned, and, with a mighty round-arm swing, hurled Traphagen's hundred-dollar cup into space. There was a tinkling crash as it fell— the conservatory, of course. "Mrs. Morton's prize pink orchid!" thought Maddox Morton, miserably. Then he opened the hall door very slowly for the space of ten inches or so and slipped in sideways.

They were half-way through the litany before 54 The Car of Juggernaut the Maddox Mortons appeared on that succeed- ing Sunday morning. The countenance of Rivers was lighted up with a fearful joy as he leaned over to Robinson Brown in the pew ahead and whispered, thickly: " Clock of the world's progress set back three centuries—the Maddox Mortons are going about in a sedan-chair." Mrs. Robinson Brown shot out an admonitory elbow. "Good Lord, deliver us I" responded Robinson Brown, loudly, as he settled down again upon his hassock. The Tantalus Loving-Cup

I feel particularly fit the day, Keen is the green, unclouded are the heavens. And yet there's summat wrangj the holes I play Are all at saxes when they're not at sevens. —Auld Wullie's Almanack (1633), The Tantalus Loving-Cup

T was Robinson Brown who made the discovery that Graeme Elphinstone had never won any kind of a golf prize, although he had been a member of the Marion Cotmty Club for more than twen- ty years. It was astonishing, incredible, but after the Executive Committee had taken the matter up and gone carefully over the prize list from the very first page, it was seen that Brown was right—the name of Graeme Elphin- stone was conspicuously absent from that roll of immortal fame. When this painful task was ended, the members of the Executive Com- mittee leaned back in their chairs and exchanged glances of sorrowful dismay. What were they to do in the face of a situation so unparalleled? How was it possible that Elphinstone had es- caped? "But he has," growled Montague, "and that argues a defect in the system somewhere. Once again, what are we going to do about it?" 59 The Nineteenth Hole "It's something of a distinction in itself, isn't it?" suggested Algerson. "Might we not award him some kind of a cup in recognition —er—of his extraordinary career as a non- prize winner?" "Golf is not charity/' quoted the Fiend, aus- terely. "Of course not," laughed Robinson Brown, "but it's a pretty fair business. Now I'm not much of a player, but I did very well last sea- son for a man without any definite occupation in life. I entered every one of the seventy-six competitions., and cleared a trifle over eight thousand dollars in plate. Really, gentlemen, I don't know how I should ever have got through the hard winter of 1905 if the department stores had not offered me a very generous rate of exchange in the matter of flannels and gro- ceries. I actually lived for three months upon the proceeds of the Grand Challenge Cross for Class M players, and Robinson Brown, Jr., would not be at Princeton now if it were not for that blessed Lackawanna Cup and your kindness, gentlemen, in keeping my handicap at fifty-four." And Brown pulled out a big bandanna handkerchief and proceeded to fleck away an imaginary fly on his nose. I think we were all more or less affected as we remembered what a brave fight dear old 60 The Tantalus Loving-Cup Brown had made against a veritable sea of troubles—wrong stance, impossible grip, golf- elbow, and I don't know what all. Of course we had helped him out, for that was the way we did things at Lauriston. When a member fell into pecuniary difficulties we did not in- sult him by passing around a subscription pa- per or by doling out soup tickets; not at all; we simply raised his handicap allowance and increased our orders at the medal factory. "But Elphinstone is well off," objected Mon- tague; "he doesn't need assistance." "That's not the question," retorted Bob Chal- lis, impatiently. "He has never won a prize of any description, and the fact is a .reflec- tion upon the club that must be removed at any cost. We have a tournament to-morrow, at medal play, for the famous Punch-bowl Pewter, and Elphinstone's present handicap is minus four. I move that it be raised to plus eighteen." The motion was adopted, nem. con. and the committee rose. Well, the blind handicap for the Punch-bowl Pewter came off, and Elphinstone's gross score of eighty-two was an easy winner when reduced by the liberal allowance of eighteen strokes. We all pressed forward to congratulate him upon his accession to the noble army of cup-winners, but he waved aside our outstretched hands 61 The Nineteenth Hole and demanded an immediate audience of the Green Committee. Upon its being accorded, Elphinstone confessed that he had tried a few practice putts upon the fourth green the morn- ing of the match, and was consequently dis- qualified. There was no getting around this, and the Peioter went to the Fiend, 104—72=32. We were all very sorry for Elphinstone, and the committee tried in several ways to give him another chance at the prize-barrel, but without success. Something always happened at the last moment to knock out the unlucky Elphinstone, and finally he refused altogether to hand in his cards, alleging as an excuse that his ill fortune was too persistent to be overcome. Too bad! for by this time his handi- cap was away up in double figures, and on one occasion he might have won Marion County Mug, No. 1318, in the remarkable score of four strokes net, had he not torn up his score-card at the very last hole, simply because he had failed to hole an eighteen-foot putt. He after- wards acknowledged that he had lost his tem- per, but, of course, it was then too late. " I hope this will be a lesson to you, Elphin- stone," said Alderson, severely. " It will/' returned Elphinstone, as he walked hastily away. There was just one more chance during this 62 The Tantalus Loving-Cup present season, and that was the regular au- tumn tournament conducted under medal and match rules for the possession of the Tantalus Loving-Cup, an ornate piece of massive plate that took two men to carry., and whose cost was about equal to the annual salary of a bank president. It was certainly worth winning, and it was hinted (unofficially, of course) that it was to go to Elphinstone, and that it would be as much as a man's membership was worth to win it over the poor fellow's head. Well, through the luck of the draw, Elphin- stone was obliged to dispose in succession of every crack player in the club, and Robin- son Brown, of all men, was left in with him for the finals. The contest would hardly be worth much from the golfing point of view, seeing that Elphinstone could easily give Brown two strokes a hole, but the gallery nevertheless turned out in force. Everybody wanted to see for the last time the man who had never won a prize in twenty years of play at the Marion County Golf Club. It was a bright, glorious October morning, and Robinson Brown was on the ground at an early hour, practising brassey shots and running up short approaches. Elphinstone still remained in the seclusion of his hum- ble home a short distance away, and I fancy 63 The Nineteenth Hole that few among that brilliant gallery that were assembling around the first tee would have recognized the favorite of the day in the wan- faced, sad-eyed man sitting in a darkened room, and nervously awaiting the fatal stroke of ten. But perhaps it is just as well that our ordinary human eyes are as yet unprovided with the X-ray appliance. No member of the Marion County Club could have fathomed the meaning of that piteous spectacle—a strong man in his agony. "It's of no use, Mary," said Elphinstone, sadly, to his devoted wife, in answer to the mute appeal in her eyes. " I've fought against this thing for twenty years, and now the end has come. I can't put up a bad enough game to let Robinson Brown beat me, a man who possesses a heaven-born genius for foozling. And yet it is hard—hard to be obliged to win a prize after all these years of falsifying scores, slyly kicking my ball into unplayable lies, and negotiating short putts with my eyes shut. And we were so happy in our humble way of living, our little income just sufficient for our needs, and not even the care of a solitary claret- jug to weigh upon our minds." His voice broke, and his breast heaved with a dry, chok- ing sob. "But we must be brave," continued Graeme 64 The Tantalus Loving-Cup Elphinstone, with a mighty effort. "We will take turns in sitting up nights to guard that accursed piece of plate, and perhaps by the first of next month I may be able to set enough aside from my slender salary to hire a safe-de- posit vault. But I fear that Johnny will have to leave school, and Ellen must give up her piano lessons. You know as well as I do that the Tantalus Loving-Cup is but the beginning of the deluge. We are lost I" "Graeme," said Mrs. Elphinstone, with a resolute ring in her voice, "I can't tell why I know it, but I feel sure, absolutely sure, that there is yet some way out of this miserable business. See how nicely I have oiled the grips of your clubs; it is almost impossible to hold them at all. Now go; it wants but five minutes of the hour. Heaven will not desert our just, though humble, cause while a bunker remains upon the Marion County course." "AmenI" echoed Elphinstone, fervently, and with bowed head. Then straightening up, and with a new light in his eyes: " You have given me new faith, new courage; I believe that the opportunity will present itself, that the way of escape will open. We have not worked and suffered all these years that our imitation oak-finished sideboard should groan beneath the weight of a sixteen-thousand-dol- E 65 The Nineteenth Hole lar golf cup. I can cheerfully slave and toil for you, Mary dear, and for our beloved chil- dren, but I will not spend my very life-blood in paying storage and insurance charges upon an inartistic monstrosity that is neither food, drink, nor good clothes to wear." And Graeme Elphinstone brought his mighty fist down upon the family Badminton with a crash that fairly dislocated the photographic reproduction of Mr. Hutchinson's famous full swing. (Poor, sim- ple-minded Elphinstone! he knew naught of Mr. Robinson Brown's advantageous contract with the department stores.) "Colonel Bogey will surely protect his own," murmured Mrs. Elphinstone, as she watched her husband's tall form striding rapidly down the road to the club-house. "Let me not for- get in my prayers that lost ball is lost hole." It was to be expected that Elphinstone would outclass Robinson Brown, but no one had sup- posed that the latter could be actually seven- teen holes down at the ending of the first round. Elphinstone had played badly enough, but Brown's foozling had been something super- human. He played as though inspired (as, in- deed, he was by a hint from the Executive Com- mittee), and Elphinstone could not have lost a hole if he had played with his eyes shut. The home hole was halved by the pure accident of 66 The Tantalus Loving-Cup a long putt, and the morning play ended with Elphinstone seventeen up and eighteen to go. Elphinstone was as white as a sheet when we went into the club-house for luncheon, but we put it down to nervous excitement at the prospect of winning the magnificent Tantalus Loving- Cup. We tried to encourage him by assurances that he could not possibly lose, but he refused to be comforted, and lunched in gloomy seclusion upon a biscuit and a soda lemonade. Brown, on the contrary, was the centre of an uproarious circle who drank champagne at his expense, and chaffingly offered odds of a hundred thou- sand to one against him. And Brown took all the bets, Now it is an unwritten law of the club that the principals in the last round of an impor- tant match shall wear all the medals, crosses, and similar small insignia which they may have won in previous contests. The custom is a picturesque one, and Brown was certainly a resplendent spectacle as he stepped to the tee in response to the referee's call of time. Eighty-nine medals, stars, and crosses, by ac- tual count, were displayed upon his ample per- son; he was simply incrusted with gold and glitter, and looked for all the world like an Indian idol out for a holiday call upon some neighboring deity. But his chief pride and 67 ' The Nineteenth Hole glory was one enormous gold medal, about the size of a soup-plate, that he wore suspended from a chain around his neck. This medal had been awarded to Brown for his remark- able record in holing the long course in sixty- nine minutes actual time—number of strokes not given. Brown had a way of alluding to this record without mentioning the word minutes, and this omission led literal-minded persons into forming erroneous conclusions as to Mr. Brown's standing in the world of golf. How- ever, we all have our weaknesses, and no one could be deceived who had ever seen Brown play. Elphinstone had made a poor tee shot, and it was Brown's turn to play. As he addressed his ball, the full force of the sun caught the polished surface of the big medal, and the sud- den dazzle seemed to disconcert him. He stood there apparently forgetful of his surroundings, his podgy white hands mechanically waggling the club and his mild blue eyes fixed in a curi- ous glassy stare. What could be the matter with the man? Elphinstone had been watching his adver- sary intently, and now, as though moved by a sudden impulse, he stepped forward and whis- pered a few words in Brown's ear. The latter nodded an assent, and then drove what any 68 "HE WAS SIMPLY 1NC1U1STKD WITH GOU) AND CI.1TTKH ' The Tantalus Loving-Cup golfing reporter would have described as a clean two-hundred-yard raker. As a matter of fact, it did carry the green, one hundred and forty-seven yards away, and the hole was Brown's in two. Elphinstone sixteen up and seventeen to play. After Brown had won fourteen straight holes by the most machine-like and perfect of golf, Alderson, of the Executive Committee, managed to get him to one side and remonstrated with him. Brown declared, with every show of sincerity, that he had been doing his utmost to play off, but that the ball would find its way into the hole. "I'm going to press every shot after this," he concluded, timidly. "That ought to do the business, don't you think?" "Be sure that it does," returned Alderson, with cold severity. "Understand clearly, Brown, that there must be no more trifling in this matter. It is some five years since you began feeding at the public crib, and, as the Fiend has well said, 'Golf is not charity.' If Elphinstone doesn't win, look out for squalls." Well, Brown did the next four holes each in a stroke below par, and the score stood all square, with one hole to play. Brown had the honor, of course, at the eighteenth tee, and he looked as though he were about to collapse as he prepared to drive. 69 The Nineteenth Hole "Top it into the pond/' admonished Alder- son, in a loud stage-whisper. " You've done it often enough when it wasn't necessary." The wretched man gasped, shut his eyes tight, and literally threw his club at the pa- tiently waiting "gutty." It was beautiful to see the ball cleave the air as straight and hard as though shot out of a rifle barrel—there 1 it had carried the green—it was rolling true for the cup—down in oneI Shame! The "gallery" shouted the execration as one man, and Brown opened his eyes only long enough to see what he had done and to cower beneath the lightning scorn that flamed upon him from every quarter. Then he fell down in a fit, and was carried off to the horse-trough by two of the grooms. Jove I but it was fine, the plucky way in which Elphinstone took his defeat. He was very quiet, but curiously cheerful, and he even insisted on shaking hands with Robinson Brown, when that scoundrelly hypocrite, very wet and very penitent, presented himself at the back door of the club and tried to explain away his abominable conduct. The Tantalus Loving-Cup was hastily handed over without any of the usual jollification and speech-mak- ing, and then Alderson compassionately bun- 70 The Tantalus Loving-Cup died him into a cab and sent him home, while a meeting of the full board was immediately called to consider the question of his expul- sion from the club. It was a serious situation, for you recall the wagers that Brown had taken against himself at the ridiculous odds of one hundred thousand to one. He had won no less than eighty million dollars by his trickery, and bankruptcy stared us all in the face.

It is six months later, and I add a postscript. Robinson Brown is still a member of the club, but Graeme Elphinstone has resigned, and is now living somewhere out West. It was the week after he went away that we received his explanation in a letter to Alderson. It seems that Brown had involuntarily hypno- tized himself while admiring the glittering radiance of his big gold medal, and Elphin- stone had grasped the situation and had taken advantage of it. Poor Brown had been but a puppet in his hands for the whole of that remarkable final round, and of course was perfectly innocent of any sharp practice. In making this remarkable communication Elphin- stone expressed no regret for his extraordinary course of action except by way of apology to Brown, and when we came to think it over there really seemed to be no tenable ground of 71 The Nineteenth Hole offence. It was not as though Elphinstone had won the Tantalus Loving-Cup by his psycho- logical sharp practice. And yet, what could have been his object? The mystery was in- soluble. Of course, Brown was reinstalled with all the honors. We settled the bets by giving him our IOU'S for the several amounts, and Brown used them as fuel wherewith to cook a chafing- dish of oysters & la Chamberlin. They were delicious; it is not often that one has a chance at a chafing-dish supper that cost $80,000,000. It was at this supper that Brown read some extracts from another letter that he had just received from Elphinstone. "He sends lots of love, and says that he is very happy," said Brown, glancing over the pages. " They have organized a golf club, and it must be an odd one. Just listen: "fNo club-house—simply an old stone barn, with a big fireplace at one end and the club- maker's bench at the other. "'No society functions, nor afternoon tea. There isn't a red coat nearer than a thousand miles, and the only refreshment allowed is Scotch and soda. "'No handicap prizes. '"No prizes of any kind, except a spring and autumn medal (value, fifty cents), and one 72 The Tantalus Loving-Cup challenge-cup, which must be won ninety-nine consecutive times to become any one's absolute property. We call it THE CUP.'" " Gracious, Bogey I'' gasped Montague. " No club-house, no society, no tea, no handicaps. What do they have, then?" "Just golf," put in the Silent Member, with an emphasis that made everybody jump. "What rot!" ejaculated the Fiend, recover- ing himself. " Come, you fellows, and help un- pack the spring prizes; I see the express wag- ons have just driven up. By-the-way, Brown, it's your turn to win the May Scratch event. Which would you rather have, a silver cleek with gold mountings or a house and lot?" But Robinson Brown answered never a word; he was staring absent-mindedly into the fire. "Just golf!" he murmured, under his breath. "What an idea!" The Love Chase

She's a most enchanting picture in her golfing coat of red. Watch her " kill " the patient gutty. (But she never lays it " dead.") You surely must have seen her, for her progress may be traced By the meek and lowly divots that are nevermore re- placed. —Golfers I Have Met, by COLONEL BOGEY. The Love Chase

OR twelve years Blondel Hardinge had served as Honorary Secretary of the Marion County Golf Club, and for thrice that period of time he had been the particular pet and pride of his two maiden aunts, the Misses St. John. Add that he was a bachelor, and the pen-portrait is complete. Up to the psychological moment at which this story begins, there was absolutely nothing more to be .said abotit Mr. Blondel Hardinge. When a man has reached the age of thirty- six years without complicating his existence with matrimony, he may with some justice consider himself immune. But the sense of security may be in itself a source of danger, and the Misses St. John had never been able to feel quite easy in mind about their favorite nephew. From their simple stand-point, to know him was to love him, and the dear boy seemed so pathetically unconscious of the daily peril in. which he stood. At any cost he must 77 The Nineteenth Hole be guarded against a mistake which might have serious consequences upon the whole of his future life. When the woman came along who could be trusted to make Blondel happy, why, then it would be time enough to make other arrangements. "You understand, Joanna, that there cannot be two opinions upon a matter of such im- portance. Blondel must be protected, and, if necessary, even from himself." Miss Honor St. John spoke as one having authority, and Miss Joanna hastened to acquiesce. This was the theory promulgated upon the occasion of Blondel's first tail-coat, and it had never been discarded; these excellent women had never for an instant lost sight of their self-imposed trust. They had their reward, for their guardianship had been wonderfully efficacious. Here was Blondel Hardinge at the age of thirty-six abso- lutely heart-whole. There was no smell of fire upon his garments; his lips had never even approached the magic cup of Love's elixir. It is true that the draught had often been de- scribed to him as exceedingly pleasant, and perhaps he might have been tempted into taking a sip had it not been for the elder Miss St. John's terrifying description of the serpent lurking at the bottom of the vessel. She had looked 78 The Love Chase over the edge more than once and had seen the monster distinctly. Blondel was conscious of being short-sighted, and he knew that his Aunt Honor possessed excellent eyes. So, being a proper youth, he would not allow himself to be dazzled by the seductive sparkle of the love philter. The homely draught of the soda-water fountain was quite enough in the way of effervescence, and, if he really felt thirsty, he had only to wend his way to the " Dovecote," where a brew of Soochong " golden tips " was always at bis service, fragrant, non-inebriating, and prepared by the hands of Aunt Honor in person. Yet once or twice during the critical decade of the twenties the guileless Blondel had strayed uncomfortably close to the danger line. There had been moments in his quiet youth when he had been strangely stirred by the flash of a dark eye, the cadence of a silvery laugh. Several times he had happened in the company of young ladies who had seemed to him to con- verse remarkably well, and whose artless nat- ures were unspeakably attractive to contem- plate. But BlondeFs Aunt Honor always suc- ceeded in dispelling these illusions before they had time in which to permanently cloud his sensitive mind. He learned that soulfulness, as well as beauty, may be only skin deep, and 79 The Nineteenth Hole he was soon able to distinguish infallibly be- tween angel plumage and ordinary goose feath- ers. With Aunt Honor at his elbow, Blondel Hardinge was not likely to make any mistake in his bargaining at the matrimonial counter, but the years had rolled on without even a purchase on approval. It is possible, of course, to be too particular, and so to end where one began—with nothing. Being wise in their (past) generation, Blondel's aunts had realized that something must be found for idle hands to do. It was not necessary that he should actually work for a living, since he possessed a comfortable income in his own right and was heir to the St. John estate, but clearly Blondel ought to have some vocation in life. The Army and Navy were manifestly out of the question, and in the Church there were pitfalls innumerable of the sentimental variety. The confinement of ordinary business would certainly injure his health, and he had no inclination for a professional career. What was to be done? It was at this critical moment that golf sud- denly became a fixture on the national calen- dar of sports, and the question was answered. Blondel Hardinge went in for golf, and for twelve years had filled the honorable post of club secretary. 80

• The Love Chase But Blondel Hardinge was something more than a golfer—he was a sportsman as well. And as a sportsman he had no use for the "ulterior motive/' whether it concerned the future welfare of his liver or the present dis- position of a fifty-cent piece. To him the game was the thing; and the sentiment was all the more creditable, considering the fact that Blondel Hardinge had no game worthy of the name. Having taken up the sport after the im- pressionable days of childhood had gone by, he was emphatically a self-made golfer, and a poor job at that. But he looked at life bravely from the platform of thirty-six in the club handi- cap list, he had no illusions about the length of his drive (even the clean hits), and he never allowed himself to disparage another man's game. As a consequence, Blondel Hardinge was popular with his brother golfers, and no picked-up foursome was complete without his cheerful presence and inimitable foozling. To paraphrase one of the late Mr. Ruskin's geni- al characterizations, Blondel Hardinge, by his golfing life and actions, had earned the respect always accorded to honest, helpless, hopeless imbecility. As a bachelor and golfer he had lived for thirty-six years a pure and blameless life; so far as human foresight could determine, P 81 The Nineteenth Hole he would probably round out his threescore and ten under the same equable conditions. He played his daily match at golf without even a glance in the direction of that unattainable prize-list, and the Misses St. John kept his linen and his affections in unimpeachable re- pair. A simple, wholesome, normal existence, but already Destiny was knocking at the gate. The automobile, that very latest toy of Fash- ion's jaded fancy, had made its appearance in Lauriston. Challis and Alderson and Robin- son Brown and Rivers and all the rest of them had, one by one, been drawn away to worship at this new shrine, and in the erstwhile crowded temple of the goddess of golf the faithful might now be counted upon one's fingers. It was disgraceful 1—this wholesale defection. Blondel Hardinge resented the schism with a feeling almost personal. Twice now he had been obliged to hold over the regular monthly handi- cap for want of a qualifying number of entries in the several classes; if this sort of thing went on, the course might as well be closed up and presented to the moles and rabbits in perpetual fee-simple. "To the deuce with the automobile, anyway I Granted that you can go to Hackensack at an expense of half a cent a mile, why the dick- ens should you want to go there at all?" 82 The Love Chase In Blondel Hardinge's opinion there could be no reasonable reply to this clincher.

But in spite of all opposition the automo- bile continued to multiply itself in Lauriston. Whereupon did Blondel Hardinge, heroic cham- pion of a dying cause, inaugurate a campaign of extermination. Under the highway laws an automobile could not be excluded from the roads, but its owners could be held legally responsible for all the wilftil damage that it might cause. So Blondel borrowed of the Misses St. John a ramshackly "one-hoss shay/' and hired a wall-eyed equine brute, familiarly known as "the Limb," from a local liveryman. Thus prepared, he sallied forth on the Monkton road to meet the enemy. Within a week he had taken part in eight different smash-ups, and in every case the courts had awarded him substantial damages as against the offending automobile. A re- markable record, and yet Mr. Hardinge's plan of operation was simplicity itself. He made no attempt, directly or otherwise, to bring on a collision; on the contrary, he did his utmost to avoid it. Whenever an automobile hove in sight Blondel immediately pulled "the Limb" into the gutter and waited patiently for the horseless carriage to go by. Strange 83 The Nineteenth Hole to say, this apparently harmless procedure always aroused the suspicious temper of the automobile and caused it to wobble in its mind. " What the deuce" (it would say) " does this impertinent fellow insinuate? The road is wide enough for three vehicles to pass; does he doubt my ability to steer clear of his wretch- ed vehicle? Why, dash it all!"—but at this point in the argument the automobile invariably ran plump into the "one-hoss shay," and it was in order for the chauffeur and Blondel to exchange cards. As time went on, however, the amateur stokers began to fight shy of Blondel Hardinge and of his terrible "shay" that fell to pieces at a touch, and yet was always on hand for the next customer by four o'clock of the following afternoon. And so the automobilists got in the habit, whenever they saw Blondel in the distance, of turning down convenient side streets, or of pulling into the gutter themselves until the "one-hoss shay" was safely past. The heart of Blondel Hardinge flamed with a vindictive satisfaction. "Now to carry the war into Africa," he said to himself.

The buck-board was constructed on ice- wagon lines, and in point of solidity it would 84 The Love Chase have compared favorably with a South African armored train. It was guaranteed for heavy work, and after two or three trials Blondel was so well satisfied with its powers that he would not have hesitated to tackle a steam-roller or road-ditcher. One after another the Lauriston automobiles had met and gone down under its terrible iron tires, the hunter had become the hunted, and in less than a week there was not a horseless carriage in commission throughout the whole of Marion County. The damage suits were now piling up on the other side, but Blondel did not care. He could stand a good deal of legal pounding, and Miss Joanna St. John had offered to back him up to the last penny of her fortune. To Aunt Joanna the auto- mobile was an accursed thing. The steam- carriages might be expected to blow up at any moment, the storage-battery affairs were always looking for a chance to run away, to say nothing of the ever-present danger of electrocution, the gasoline machines—well, nothing would ever convince Miss Joanna St. John that the odor of carbureted gasoline could be a healthy thing to breathe into your lungs, and dear Blondel had always had tendencies, etc., etc. And so the merry war went on, and it was Thursday, the fifteenth day of May. 85 The Nineteenth Hole Blondel Hardinge, lifting up his eyes, could not believe them for the moment. An auto- mobile had turned in from the side road and was actually bearing down upon him. What impertinence 1 Blondel drew his whip - lash smartly across "the Limb's" flanks and pulled into position for the encounter that was now inevitable. "The near back wheel/' muttered Blondel Hardinge, and so neatly had the calculation been made that he got it without even a turn of the wrist. There was a shrill cry from the driver of the automobile as the axle snapped. Then the motor-car lurched heavily to one side, and the unfortunate chauffeur went flying, like a stone from a sling, clean over a hedge- row and into a field that lay beyond. Such ac- cidents were bound to happen now and then; they were part of the fortunes of war, and Hard- inge did not pretend to any hypocritical regrets for what he had done. Still he could do no less than proceed to the assistance of his van- quished foe; he must at least leave a card upon him. The automobilist lay quite still where he had fallen, and for a moment Blondel's heart beat tremulously. But a hasty examination showed that it was only a faint; the chauffeur's winter costume of heavy furs had saved him from 86 The Love Chase broken bones or serious injury, and a cupful of water would soon bring him around. A lit- tle brook gurgled within a few paces. Blondel saturated a pocket-handkerchief and clumsily belaved the pallid forehead. The teeth were clinched, and he tried to force them open that he might get down a few drops of brandy. With an impatient hand he unfastened the clasp of the high sable collar, and a tendril of golden hair twined itself about his finger. . . . It was too late to think of flight, for the soft hazel eyes were looking straight at him. "Where am I?" "With friends," answered Blondel, vaguely. He was conscious of a genuine desire to set him- self right in this young person's esteem, and, after all, he did not know who owned the field in which they were. Mademoiselle Incognita sat up very straight and contemplated Blondel with judicial eyes. "I've seen you somewhere" — she spoke hesitatingly. And then, with positive convic- tion : " You are the—the imbecile who ran into me just now. How could you have been so stupid?" Blondel winced. She seemed willing to ac- cord him the amnesty of contempt, but this he could not accept. Better the mark of Cain than the stigma of the incapable. 87 The Nineteenth Hole "Pardon me, but I did it on purpose, don't you know. If you'll let me explain—•" "Pray do." He told her the story of this modern crusade, omitting nothing and varnishing nothing, and she listened with a flattering interest. "A latter-day Don Quixote," she commented, with cruel distinctness. "Really, Mr. Hard- inge, egotism in you has reached its perfect and consummate flower; thank you so much for permitting me to inhale its exquisite per- fume. And now, if you please, we will discuss the question of reparation. What do you pro- pose?" Hardinge reddened. "Of course I will have the material damages made good, and you must know that every apology that language can convey—" "To me personally, yes; but how about the great and glorious cause that you have so per- sistently vilified and attacked?" Blondel Hardinge mumbled some unintelligi- ble words. "I thought so," she continued, pitilessly, "and I shall therefore reserve the forgiveness for which you plead. It shall be yours only on the day that you bring me the Monkton Cup." The Monkton Cup! It was nothing less than The Love Chase the open road-race trophy of the Marion County Automobile Club, and it had just been put up as an annual fixture by the genial president of the organization, Mr. J. Robinson Brown. The first contest was to be held on Saturday, July 3d, and chauffeurs from all over the country would be present to compete for what was already re- garded as the blue ribbon of automotor achieve- ment. This, then, was the price that my Lady Disdain set upon the forgiveness to be accorded Blondel Hardinge. His face paled as he listened, but he did not attempt to protest. In silence they passed through a convenient stile and proceeded to the scene of the wreck. "If you will accept a seat in my buck-board," said Hardinge, stiffly, "I can have the auto- mobile sent for later and taken to the machine- shop." "Not on any account," returned his im- placable antagonist. "Our house is only five minutes' walk, and nothing would induce me to ride behind such a dangerous animal as a horse. Good-day, Mr. Blondel Hardinge, and Heaven send you the understanding with which to inter- pret the handwriting upon the wall of progress. Perhaps a term at night-school—but take your own way about it. And so, again, good-bye." Blondel Hardinge watched the lissome figure out of sight, and then drove homeward in a 89 The Nineteenth Hole mood so abstracted that he never noticed a gas- motor tricycle that was performing its imper- tinent evolutions under his very nose. And yet the olfactory organ is generally sensitive to the odors arising from the imperfect com- bustion of gasoline vapor.

"I don't believe that Blondel has been near the golf club this week," said Miss Honor St. John to Miss Joanna a few evenings later, as they were about to sit down to their solitary tea. Blondel, as usual now, was dining out. Miss Joanna started guiltily. She was thinking of a discovery that she had made that afternoon while engaged in putting away Blondel's shirts. In the upper bureau drawer lay a newly purchased scarf, its color — an automobile red. "Honor must never suspect it," thought Aunt Joanna, miserably. "Those new people, the Edmunds," said Aunt Honor to herself. " There's a girl in the family, a minx named Clarice—Blondel took her out to dinner at the Aldersons'. Joanna must not know; it would break her heart." The two old ladies looked at each other stealthily. "It's golf-elbow, dear," said Aunt Honor, with a little gulp. The Recording Angel wiped away a tear. 90 The Love Chase Blondel Hardinge and Clarice Edmunds had met not once but several times since that fatal Thursday, but their relations continued to be coldly formal. Miss Edmunds was a young woman of character, and she quickly gave Hardinge to understand that she had meant every word she said. He tried to persuade himself that he did not care, btit failed miser- ably, and the revelation of his weakness was as though the solid ground had been cut away from beneath his feet. At the end of the fortnight he informed the Misses St. John that he should stay in town for the month of June. Business was the specious plea, and, though the excuse deceived no one, it answered its purpose in staving off discussion. "Anything to keep him out of Lauriston while this ridiculous automobile fever is raging/' said Aunt Joanna to herself. " I am confident of the strength of dear Blondel's principles, but it is better to avoid temptation altogether." "He won't see that minx for a month," was Aunt Honor's mental comment, "and time is everything just now." So, receiving their blessing and a six-months' supply of shirts, Blondel kissed his aunts good-bye and took the train for town. Arrived at the metropolis he registered at an 91 The Nineteenth Hole obscure hotel under an assumed name, and forthwith avoided sedulously the principal thoroughfares and the club and theatre centres. Blondel Hardinge had come to the city for a purpose, and the very next day he arranged with a celebrated French professional for a course of private lessons in the noble art of stoking a gas-engine. At the end of the first lesson he was constrained to admit that there was something more in this "teuf-teuf" busi- ness than he had supposed; he even found himself comparing it with golf, and to the latter's disadvantage. There is a problem here, but its solution is not a difficult task for even the amateur in psychologic research. For example: It had been the artless and yet baffling sim- plicity of the game of golf that had original- ly fascinated Blondel Hardinge and had kept him enthralled through so many years. There must be a secret somewhere; he would find it. And so he might have worked on to the very end of the chapter, for, as all the scratch players know, there isn't any secret in golf except jtist to hit the ball clean and hard. But it seemed mysterious to Blondel Hardinge, and it gave him an aim in life, something to work at, a riddle to solve, a secret to discover. And yet what child's play it had beenl All 92 The Love Chase this inutile wrangling about stance and grip and follow-on, when compared to the ordinary, every-day exigencies of running a petroleum motor-carriage. A golf-ball might have moods and tenses, the gas-engine had its " accidents " as well, and sometimes the chauffeur got mixed up with the latter and an ambulance call would be found necessary. It was the element of personal risk that made the pursuit of knowl- edge in the automobile field so fascinating, and Blondel Hardinge was quick to feel the insidious seduction. At the end of the week he would not have stepped down from the box- seat of his newly purchased gasoline mail- cart to fill the shoes of any golf champion on earth. Reduced to philosophic terms, Blondel Iiardinge's mental attitude was a remarkable illustration of the expulsive power of a new affection. Le roi est mart; vive le roiI

It was the 3d of July, and the appointed day for the first annual road race in competition for the Monkton Cup. Public interest in the event had been growing steadily, and the race had already been acclaimed as the great sport- ing fixture of the year. At all events, it was indisputably a novelty, and as such it com- manded universal attention. Over one hun- dred entries had been received; all the im- 93 The Nineteenth Hole portant newspapers were represented by their ablest space writers; enormous crowds blocked the starting and terminal points and stood three deep along the entire line of the course; all was color, noise, and animation, a gala day indeed! The course, as laid out by the committee of the Automobile Club, ran from Addison, in a neighboring State, to a point directly op- posite the entrance gate of the Marion County Golf Club, in Lauriston, and was exactly one hundred miles in length. The road was macad- amized for the most part, but there were several stretches of unimproved highway and some rough hill-work. It should be an admirable test of all-around endurance, and some of the contestants considered it too severe; but any excuse will serve a competitor who realizes that his chances are small, and the malcontents would probably have scratched in any event. Still the percentage of withdrawals was un- usually large, for, out of the hundred entries, only twenty-two vehicles put in an appearance at the starting-post in Addison. Among them was the Butterfly, a charming white-and-gold gas-phaeton, driven by Miss Clarice Edmunds, and the Avalanche, a business-looking petro- leum nondescript, with Mr. Blondel Hardinge at the levers. 94 The Love Chase It had been a keen shock to Blondel when he realized that Clarice herself was among the competitors. According to the conditions of the contest each vehicle must carry one pas- senger, and he had cherished the insane hope that Miss Edmunds might occupy the right- hand box-seat of the Avalanche. But here she was driving her own trap, and her companion was that odious Major Topham, a beast who sported impossibly luxuriant Dundreary whisk- ers and who was stispected of corsets. Blondel's heart was heavy and sore. Surely the chances of his success had been small enotigh without her taking a hand against him. "But anything, I suppose, to keep me from a win," thotight Blondel Hardinge. "How she must loathe me, and I—I who was fool enough to think—" Bang! went the gong, and the contestants prepared to get into position. The conditions governing the race were few and simple. The carriages would be started separately at two- minute intervals, which should permit them to get well away. Each contestant was provided with an ordinary coach-whip, and if he could get near enough to touch with this whip any part of the vehicle ahead, that touch was to be considered equivalent to the " bump" of an English rowing race. The "touched" vehicle 95 The Nineteenth Hole was thereupon to give way instantly and al- low a free passage to its conqueror. The first carriage to arrive at the golf club in Lauriston would win the cup, proper allowances being made, of course, for the handicaps in the start- ing-time. The first carriage was sent away at exactly ten o'clock, and with any kind of luck the contestants should all be on hand at Lauriston for tea at five o'clock. Morgan Gordon had hoped for great things from his new electric seven-tonner. But his tires went flat at the last moment, and he was glad to accept Hardinge's invitation to the box- seat of the Avalanche. By this time half a dozen of the contestants had been sent away, and Miss Edmunds was No. 8, Hardinge being almost at the tail-end, with No. 19. As the Butterfly puffed up to the starting-line, she glanced over at him. It was six weeks since they had met, and she seemed surprised to see him here. It was only then that Blondel realized that he might have been a trifle hasty in his previous judgment. Now that he thought of it, he had left Lauriston without giving her any hint of his intentions. No wonder that his appearance as an actual competitor for the Monkton Cup was somewhat disconcert- ing, even to so well-poised a young woman as 96 The Love Chase Miss Clarice Edmunds. She blushed unmis- takably as she bowed to him, and the heart of Blondel Hardinge bounded in bis breast with the exuberant buoyancy of a toy balloon. "No. 8!" bawled the starter, and the Butter- fly dashed over the line, with Major Topham in the act of kissing his hand to the admiring multitude. "BeastI" muttered Blondel Hard- inge, his fingers closing involuntarily abovit the gripstock of his coach-whip. Twenty minutes later the Avalanche was started, and for the first few miles Blondel kept a restraining hand on the speed-lever. One hundred miles is a long cotirse, and machinery, like a horse, should be warmed up gradually to its best work. He even permitted the Ghost, a vulgar steam runabout, to " fcmch " and pass him, but five miles farther on the Avalanche stopped for a moment to pick up the senseless form of Bob Challis, erstwhile stoker of the runabout. The Ghost itself had vanished into thin air; the disappearance, indeed, was so complete that the Society for Psychical Re- search heard of the case and sent up a com- mission to investigate it. (See the journal of the society for 1900, page 21 et seq.) By noon the Avalanche had got into her stride and was fairly eating up the miles. Strange to say, Blondel had not been obliged G 97 The Nineteenth Hole to "touch" a single competitor, although he had now gained eight or ten numbers upon his original position. Rivers, in his acetylene dog-cart, had been put out by the Addison fire department immediately after the start. Traphagen, using compressed air and unpar- liamentary language, had barely managed to cross the State line, and six electrics had per- ished in a bunch at the first piece of sandy going. By four o'clock in the afternoon the goal was but fourteen miles away, and judging from the disjecta membra of valuable machinery that the Avalanche had been passing for the last two hours, it did not seem possible that even one practicable automobile besides their own could be still in the race. "Go it, Avalanche /" shrieked J. Robinson Brown, imprisoned under the wreck of his hopes, a beau chauffeur who was being slowly poisoned by his own carbureter. "Anybody ahead?" asked Morgan Gordon, as the Avalanche swept by. "Only the Butterfly." "And behind?" But already the Avalanche had gained the crest of the divide, and they had only to look back for the question to answer itself. Hardly a mile away, and coming strong, was a long, low machine of the four-cylinder, balanced-motor type. An umbrella-like cloud 98 The Love Chase of dust hovered above the monster and marked its progress. "Talfotird Jones!" "The Jolly RogerI" The exclamations broke simultaneously from the lips of Morgan Gordon and of Blondel Hard- inge. "Tchickl" and the speed-lever of the Avalanche rattled into the last notch. Twelve miles farther on, and the Butterfly was not more than a hundred yards ahead. Evidently the continuous strain had been too much for Miss Edmunds, for she had changed places with Major Topham and the latter was in charge of the levers. Now the Avalanche was within striking distance, and Blondel cracked his whip-lash smartly against the tail- board of the Butterfly. According to the rules governing the contest, Major Topham should instantly have pulled over to the right and per- mitted Blondel to pass. But instead of doing that Topham drove the Butterfly diagonally to the left, thereby closing the road completely. Believing it to be a misunderstanding, Blondel again gave the required signal, and again he was coolly and unmistakably blocked off. For an instant Blondel felt a wild desire to wind bis whip-lash about the villain's shoulders, but sober reflection prevailed, and he slowed up to consider what he ought to do. 99 The Nineteenth Hole Could it be possible that Clarice—Miss Ed- munds— did not desire a reconciliation, or, what was even more incredible, did she value a bauble like the Monkton Cup above his friend- ship? She had apparently made no effort to interfere with Topham's unwarrantable pro- ceedings ; her face, as he had seen it, had been like marble, the lips tightly pressed together. What ought he to do? The Butterfly had been lost to sight around a curve, and as the Avalanche rounded it in turn Morgan Gordon raised an exultant whoop. The Butterfly, apparently disabled, stood mo- tionless in the middle of the road. It was the simplest and yet the most irremedi- able of disasters—the gasoline tank had been permitted to run. dry, and the parable of the Foolish Virgins had received its truly modern application. Without a word Blondel caused the Avalanche to come into gentle contact with the tail-board of the Butterfly, and the two automobiles moved forward again. Not the faintest suspicion of his surpassing magnanimity entered Blondel Hardinge's mind; it was enough that Miss Edmunds wanted the Monkton Cup—well. Major Topham had only to keep the Butterfly straight and she should have it. And the goal was now but a short mile away, ioo The Love Chase There was the rumble of flying wheels, the clank of machinery working at its highest speed. Blondel glanced over his shoulder. Talfourd Jones and the Jolly Roger were a scant two hundred yards in the rear and coming like the wind. The Avalanche was working at its utmost power, but it was carrying a double load, and the struggle was a hopeless one. It would be Jones, then—maddening thought I— who would carry off the coveted prize. The mind of Blondel awoke to a supernatural alertness. The two leading vehicles were already on the crest of the gentle quarter-of-a-mile slope leading down to the golf club. A vigorous parting shove, and the Butterfly went spinning on alone. It, at least, was sure to arrive at the goal. Blondel turned to Morgan Gordon; an old principle of golf strategy had occurred to him. "Did you ever play a match with Jones?" "Why, yes; but—" "Supposing the game was all square at the eighteenth tee and you sliced your drive out of bounds, what then?" Morgan Gordon grinned. "It would be a hundred to one that Jones's ball would be found within a foot of the first one." " Exactly. Hold on tightI" The Avalanche swerved with a sickening 101 The Nineteenth Hole lurch into the ditch. Crash! and it brought up squarely against a telegraph pole and turned completely over, its wheels still feebly rotating. Smash 1 and the Jolly Roger had added itself to the scrap-pile. Talfourd Jones crawled out of the wreckage. His face was white with passion, and he drew bis whip-lash threateningly through his fingers. "Imitation/1 remarked Blondel Hardinge, coldly, "is the sincerest form of flattery." The committee could do nothing less than award the cup to Miss Clarice Edmunds, driver of the gas-phaeton Butterfly. Talfourd Jones entered a protest of foul play, but what was there to be said? The committee would cheer- fully disqualify Mr. Hardinge, but how would that help Mr. Jones, it being admitted that neither of the gentlemen had finished the pre- scribed course? The only one to arrive had been the Btitterfly, and the committee could not go behind the returns. And that was positively the last word—good-day, Mr. Jones. Blondel Hardinge had witnessed the pres- entation of the trophy, but his spirit was ill- attuned to the gayety about him. Hardly knowing what he did, he went to his locker, took his favorite niblick and an old ball, and made his way to that famous bunker, "Grim- shaw's Grave." With furious, feverish strokes 102 The Love Chase he began again upon the old, hopeless task; after all, this was his metier, and he should never have left it. A shadow fell athwart the yellow sand, and Clarice Edmunds stood before him. In her hand was the Monkton Cup; she held it out to him. "No, not" and Blondel hastily backed away. " As you will, but"—pleadingly—" don't you see that it has double handles." Blondel Hardinge had a brilliant inspiration. "Oh, a loving-cup I" he said, eagerly. Miss Edmunds blushed rosily. The crunching of wheels on the gravel drive of the "Dovecote" aroused the Misses St. John from their blameless post-prandial somnolence. "BlondelI" exclaimed Aunt Joanna, looking out of the window; and then, in a still, small voice: "A white-and-gold gas-phaeton I Oh, Honor V "That minx!" ejaculated Miss Honor, draw- ing herself up stiffly.

And yet time works wonders. To-day the Butterfly and niece Clarice stand second only to Blondel himself in the affections of these estimable women. Miss Joanna has several times been indticed to take a little spin in the Butterfly, and she has privately decided that 103 The Nineteenth Hole the sensation is delightful. As for Miss Honor, has she not formally bequeathed to Clarice her hitherto unpublished collection of house- hold receipts, including the priceless formula of the celebrated St. John blackberry jam? Indeed but she has, and she knows that her treasures are in the right hands. "Golf, the automobile, and now me," said young Mrs. Hardinge one day. "How can I be sure, Blondel dear, that your wandering fancy is fixed at last?" Blondel colored. "But there never was any real secret about golf, you know, and as for a gas-engine, why, once you have taken it apart—" "I see," said his wife, decisively. "As with all other men, it is only the pursuit of the ap- parently unknowable that attracts you. I shall have to protect myself by always keeping just around the corner." That was five years ago, and Blondel Hard- inge is still running—breathlessly. But every- body says that he is the most devoted husband in all Lauriston, and the Blondel Hardinges are certainly a happy couple. The Greatest Thing in the World

If the pleasure of golf lies in hitting the ball, And in seven a hole you do, Then I, who have played fourteen in all. Have had twice as much fun as you. —The Compleat Gowffer. The Greatest Thing in the World

HE president of the U. S. G. A. sat in his private office at the Marion County Golf Club, a prey to painful perplexity. In the anteroom a secre- tary waited as patiently as might be for the important document over which the president had been working all through the night. It was getting on to nine o'clock, and in half an hour the players would begin to arrive. They would expect to see the announcement displayed upon the bulletin-board, and they would make it unpleasant for the secretary if it should not be there. The young gentleman puffed ner- vously at his cigarette, and began again on his self-imposed task of committing to memory the club handicap list that hung on the oppo- site wall. The clock struck nine. President Nicholas Longspoon groaned aloud, as he looked at the broad sheet spread out on 107 The Nineteenth Hole the table before him with that dreadful blank still unfilled. But he, too, had heard the clock striking nine. "I shall have to chance it/' he muttered. "It will give me three weeks of grace, and in that time I shall surely be able to think up something. So here goes for 'The Greatest Thing in the World.'" The president took his pen and wrote quickly. The secretary appeared in answer to the sum- mons of the call-bell, and the chief having committed the precious document to his sub- ordinate's care, entered his automobile car- riage and was steered away to the nearest Turkish bath. The secretary posted the no- tice upon the club bulletin - board and went in with a light heart to his long - delayed breakfast. Ferdinand Baffy entered the club-house, and, tossing his bag of clubs on a settle, walked up eagerly to the bulletin-board. The notice was there, and he read it over with a light frown contracting his high, bald forehead. "So!" remarked Mr. Baffy, proceeding to check off on his fingers the several items of interest. " On October 2d, 3d, and 4th—annual match play competition for mixed foursomes—• married couples barred—first prize,' The Great- est Thing in the World.'" 108 The Greatest Thing in the World "' The Greatest Thing in the World/ " repeated Mr. Baffy, meditatively. "It sounds attractive, but a trifle indefinite. Wonder if Nick Long- spoon knows what it is himself, or where to get it when he wants it? 'The Greatest Thing in the World!' Bah! It will be a sorry day for Nicholas Longspoon when that promissory note comes due." And Ferdinand Baffy threw back his head and emitted a gurgling chuckle from which both sound and mirth were con- spicuously absent. And then, with renewed gravity: "If I could but win that prize it would be a sweet revenge for by-gone wrongs. I have not forgotten how Nicholas Longspoon once stymied me at the eighteenth hole when we were playing for a bag of sweet-potatoes, and the match was all square. That night the children went supperless to bed, for I had been having poor luck in the club grocery handicaps. And that jade Cicely, his daugh- ter I I can hear her latigh yet as I missed my putt for a half." A frightful expression distorted for an in- stant the usually impassive and gutta-per- chary-like features of Mr. Ferdinand Baffy. The newspaper files shivered in their racks, and a full-length portrait of old Tom Morris turned itself hastily to the wall. "And I could win," he continued, "were it 109 The Nineteenth Hole not that Jack Hazard is paired for the event with Cicely Longspoon. They are just a shade better than Charlotte Brassey and me, and they will beat us out, I cannot deceive my- self, and yet I would give anything to have the chance of humiliating Nicholas Long- spoon!" At such periods of spiritual crisis the devil is never far away from those who would invoke his aid. Even now he was standing behind Ferdinand Baffy and whispering softly. "Speak up, won't you?" said Mr. Baffy, irritably, at the same time putting his hand to his ear. The infernal communication evidently com- mended itself to Mr. Baffy's mind; for, after assuring himself by a hasty glance around that he was still alone in the room, he crossed over to the glazed cabinet in which was kept the club's collection of antiquities. By some oversight it had been left unlocked. Prominent among the curiosities displayed was a golf-ball of a make that had been very popular during the closing years of the nine- teenth century. Now, in 1999, it had been advanced to the dignity of a relic, and was catalogued as an exceedingly rare specimen of its kind. Hastily appropriating the venerable object, Ferdinand Baffy stowed it away in an no The Greatest Thing in the World inside pocket and left the room on tiptoe. The wheels of destiny had begun to move.

II In order to fully understand the situation, the intelligent reader must now be content to swallow a few historical crumbs from the loaf of universal knowledge. As every school-boy knows, golf was carried to the Western World in the last decade of the preceding century. Its advent was almost unnoticed, save by the comic weeklies, and its existence was more than once seriously menaced by the rival sport of afternoon tea, as pursued upon the west piazzas of the leading clubs. But, in spite of all, golf continued to spread. Persons suffering with chronic golficitis were permitted to land upon our shores without the slightest let or hinderance from the immigration commissioners, and they carried the infection into every nook and corner of this broad land. Golf-courses be- gan to multiply by tens, by hundreds, by thou- sands, and by 1925 the official map of the United States resembled nothing so much as a gigantic spider's web. And in that web lay entangled the entire population of the country, without distinc- tion of age, sex, or previous condition of servi- tude. The United States had become golficized. ill The Nineteenth Hole In 1950 the offices of President of the United States and President of the U. S. G. A. were merged into one, under the second title, and the seat of government was removed from Wash- ington to Lauriston, the latter being the home of the Marion County Club, and a convenient golfing centre. In 1952 Congress passed the Compulsory Golf Bill, which made the exercise of the game obligatory upon all citizens between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, the pro- vision applying to women as well as to men. The agricultural, industrial, and commercial interests of the country continued to be of vast importance, but their active direction was com- mitted to cripples, persons afflicted with defec- tive vision, and the great army of idiots who persistently refuse to see any difference between golf and shinny. From the economic stand-point, the new system was immediately successful. The hours of labor were short, being from half after nine in the morning to early putting light, and no player could be compelled to do over thirty- six holes a day. In order to avoid even the suspicion of professionalism, an ingenious sys- tem of prize coupons was devised, under which a hard-working golfer could easily obtain any- thing that he might desire in the way of pro- visions, clothing, and furniture, while fancy gro- 112 The Greatest Thing in the World ceries, tickets to the opera and other luxuries were a regular feature of the Saturday afternoon handicaps. A player had only to do his daily rounds, honestly holing out all his putts, and he was sure of a comfortable livelihood during his working years and a pension upon retire- ment. It was indeed a new order of things, and, of course, it could not please everybody. Human nature remains the same, and there was a rapidly growing class of the disaffected, who were op- posed to the practical blessings of compulsory golf. Some of these malcontents had gone so far as to disable their driving arms, with the deliberate intention of unfitting themselves for the exercise of the noble sport. The idea was, of course, that they would then be assigned to some department of manual labor, or, per- haps, to the aristocratic retirement of shop- keeping. But the government quickly put a stopper on that game by decreeing that these malingerers should, upon conviction, be pun- ished by being assigned to duty as golf re- porters. Now, if compulsory golf be an irk- some task, what can the compulsory reporting of compulsory golf be called? The remedy proved immediately successful. Along with the universal diffusion of the game had gone its improvement at the hands H 113 The Nineteenth Hole of the American inventor. Self - centring play clubs, range-finders, anti - foozling mashies, wind-gauges, automatic cleeks, hypnotic putt- ers—these are but a few of the wonderful im- provements upon the old-fashioned tools. Fossils, like oid Hugh Dormie, used to insist that this sort of thing was not golf. How poor human nature repeats itself I There were old Hugh Dormies in the consulship of Horace Hutchin- son, and they talked in exactly the same way about bulgers and Colonel Bogey. But in truth, golf had come to be an exact science, and the personal equation had been wellnigh eliminated. Theoretically, every match should have turned out a tie, but in practice there was diversity of gifts, as of yore. It required brains to use the range-finders, and one might easily make a mistake in the calculations. There were other players, too, who would insist upon falsifying their scores. The weakness was in their blood, inherited from famous handicap winners of the nineteenth century, and it could not be eradicated. But perhaps the most radical of changes was that which had been made in the golf-ball. The ball of 1899 was an irresponsible piece of gutta-percha, and chock-full of that total de- pravity which is characteristic of all inanimate things. By a special process, the ball of 1999 114 The Greatest Thing in the World had been deprived of all its unamiable propen- sities and rendered completely subservient to its owner's will. Such a ball could neither be sliced, pulled, nor topped, and under no circum- stance did it ever find its way into a bunker. The veriest novice could drive it three or four hundred yards at will, and, as the advertise- ments say, it was a perfect ball for putting. Does all this read as though it must be too good to be true? Alas! there is another and a darker side to the picture, and this must now be pre- sented. The "innocuous" golf-ball had indeed been achieved, but it is dangerotis work experiment- ing in nature's laboratory. The indestructi- bility of matter is a truism of science, and the same law applies in the spiritual world. Evil is not necessarily destroyed by being driven out of its accustomed habitation. The golf-ball had been freed of its concentrated fund of total depravity, but the devil that had been cast out had to go somewhere, and he promptly entered the system of the golfer himself. The golf player of 1899 was a cheerfully plumaged biped, overflowing with love and charity for all man- kind (handicappers alone excepted). The golf- er of 1999 was a sad - colored creature, breath- ing forth envy and the east wind, an object of detestation to his fellows and a torment to him- 115 The Nineteenth Hole self. Remember, too, that he had become but a mere cog in a vast machine. The State con- trolled and regulated his every action, from the cradle to the tomb, even marriages being ar- ranged on the basis of the official handicaps. The very conception of what we call love had passed out of men's minds and died within their hearts. And so with faith and courage and patience, and a dozen other of the graces and virtues. Indeed, the words themselves had dropped out of common speech, and had been replaced by such outlandish expressions as: "Play two more!" "Hoot, mon!" "Keep your e'e on the ba'l" "Aiblins!" and the like. Men groaned under the iron tyranny of the " gowff," but there was none to deliver them. They had made their bunker, and they must lie in it. Such was the situation on the day that Ferdi- nand Baffy walked away from the Marion County Golf Club with an 1899 ball in his pocket. There is a limit to everything, and it had now been reached.

in Jack Hazard was to be married shortly to Cicely Longspoon, daughter of the 'president of the U. S. G. A. That is, the young man was officially betrothed to Miss Longspoon, 116 The Greatest Thing in the World and he really disliked her less than any other girl he knew. They both belonged to the Brahmin caste (players who give odds to Bogey), were of a congenial age, and played admirably together in a mixed foursome. Everybody agreed that it would be a most excellent match. Strange as it may seem in an age so utilitarian, the golfer still had his little weaknesses. One of them was for winning prizes. And so when Hazard read the announcement of the autumn competition for mixed foursomes he was mightily taken by the glittering generality of President Longspoon's offer of "The Greatest Thing in the World" to the winners. That ought to be something worth having, and he strolled over to the home putting-green to consult Cicely Longspoon. "You know, Cicely, that everything helps when you're starting in at housekeeping. Perhaps it's some new dodge for splitting kind- ling-wood by hypnotic suggestion, or biscuit- making without a master. Hasn't your father said anything more definite?" "No, and he doesn't intend to do so. All I can get out of him is that we shall know when the time comes. And to tell you the truth, Jack, the poor old pater looks a bit worried." "Don't wonder at it," returned Hazard, with "7 The Nineteenth Hole energy. "Every year the prizes in this par- ticular event have been growing more and more extravagant and out of all proportion to its real importance. But custom is custom, and every new president, under penalty of impeachment, is obliged to overtop, by at least a hair's-breadth, all that his predecessors have done before him. In 1899 the prize was a pair of butter-coolers; in 1998 President Bulger presented the State of Illinois to the successful competitors. What was there left for your poor father except to offer' The Greatest Thing in the World'? And the thing for us to do is to win it." Cicely Longspoon gave her hand in frank amity to John Hazard. "As you say, it should come in useful for housekeeping/' she murmured, softly. "And I bide my time," hissed Ferdinand Baffy, as he crawled out of the bunker, which men call "Tophet," and gazed malevolently after the retreating couple. The 2d and the 3d of October had come and gone, and to - day was Saturday, the 4th. The great competition for mixed four- somes had narrowed down to the finals, Miss Charlotte Brassey and Mr. Ferdinand Baffy being pitted against Miss Cicely Longspoon and Mr. John Cheviot Hills Hazard, and the 118 The Greatest Thing in the World match had just been called. The men were to drive from the first tee, and Jack Hazard had the honor. The range-finder was already in position, and Hazard had only to read off the indicated angles. "Twenty-one degrees, four minutes, and nineteen seconds, and one degree, six minutes, and eight seconds/' repeated Cicely, as she took down the figures upon her scratch-pad. "Dividing II. by the cosine of the asymptote, we get two pounds eight and fourpence ha'- penny." She turned to the table of logarithms, and the pencil fairly raced over the paper. " Sight for eight hundred and sixty-one yards/' she said, turning to the caddie. The boy turned the indicators on the play club and handed it to his master. Hazard shut his eyes and whacked away. The ball fell to earth, arid finally, after a tremendous roll, came to rest. "Eight hundred and sixty-one yards two inches and a quarter," came back in mega- phonic tones from the fore-caddie. It was the most brilliant piece of calculation that had ever been seen upon the Marion County grounds, and Cicely had to bow again and again to the plaudits that greeted her success. Even the miserable chain-gang in the " gallery " shuffled their feet and raised a feeble shout of "Forel" 119 The Nineteenth Hole It was great mathematics, as everybody agreed delightedly. Ferdinand Baffy, with a sneer, sighted his play club by pure guess-work, and drove exact- ly eight hundred and sixty-two yards. And so honors were easy, although no one gave him any applause; anybody could do that. The whole assemblage—players, scorers, ref- eree, and "gallery"—piled themselves solemnly into automobiles and were trundled away to the scene of action. Whatever else may be said about the golf of 1999, it was at least up-to-date, and even old Hugh Dormie was glad enough to get a lift for that weary half-mile. It was Cicely's turn to play, and Hazard accordingly took charge of the wind-gauges. "East nor'east by one-half nor' nor'eastl" shouted Jack. The distance was less than two hundred yards, but the course just given out was a difficult one, and Cicely's friends looked a trifle anxious. Could she do it? Miss Longspoon selected her favorite " lay- 'em-dead" mashie (a club endowed with an intelligence almost human), and, after con- sulting the tiny jewelled compass inlaid in the grip, she pitched the ball within six inches of the cup. More applause. Miss Brassey did equally well, and the hole was halved in three. 120 The Greatest Thing in the World Both women drove well from the second tee, but Hazard misplaced a decimal point in cal- culating his elevations for the second shot, and overplayed the hole by a quarter of a mile. This made Baffy and his partner one up, but the score was squared again at the fourth, Miss Brassey failing to bring off a forty-yard steal on account of defective insulation in her new electric putter. With varying fortunes the match went on, and now the contestants were at the eighteenth tee with the score all square. Through the hushed ranks of the " gallery " Cicely Longspoon made her way to the teeing-ground, and smil- ingly indicated to the caddie where to build his little mound of moist sand. But who had the ball? The caddie looked at Miss Longspoon, and Cicely in turn appealed to Hazard. It was very strange, but no one knew where it was. You and I, dear reader, being behind the scenes, are entitled to know that the missing ball was at this very moment quietly reposing in the right-hand pocket of Mr. Ferdinand Baffy's red coat. He had managed to appro- priate it a moment before, when nobody was looking, and his heart beat high as he realized that his hour of triumph was at hand. " Where is the ball?" said Miss Longspoon, for the third time, and with a slightly acid accent. 121 The Nineteenth Hole "I beg your pardon/' spoke up Ferdinand Baffy, "but I must have picked yours up by mistake; here it is;" and putting his hand into his pocket he took out a golf-ball and gave it to the caddie. Had, then, Ferdinand Baffy repented him at this last moment of the evil that he purposed? One would gladly think so—but alas! it was from his left-hand pocket that he had taken the ball which Miss Long- spoon was now about to drive. It was a new ball, white and clean—but then the " innocuous" golf-ball never showed any marks of usage. To all appearances it was the missing ball. The curve of the parabola was generally used in playing this, the home hole; and Miss Longspoon accordingly selected a driver, whose striking surface was a frustrated cone, and confidently banged away. Great Scotland! the ball, instead of describing the beauti- ful curve of the parabola, was trundling dis- gracefully along the ground; another instant and it had disappeared into the depths of the bunker, "Tophet." Cicely Longspoon had topped her ball I For a full minute the vast throng stood mo- tionless, stupefied. Such a thing as a topped ball had not happened for three generations; with the exception of old Hugh Dormie, not a soul among them all had the slightest con- 122 The Greatest Thing in the World ception of what a top really was. And now the miracle had happened before their very eyes. Four newspaper reporters started off on a run for the nearest telegraph office, and the crowd drew its breath again with a long, shud- dery sigh. What was to happen now? It was with a profound feeling of awe that Jack Hazard took his niblick and descended into the gloomy depths of "Tophet/' untrodden by human foot for more than half a century. And yet, strange to say, there was the ball lying in the exact middle of an old heel-print. How inscrutable indeed are the ways of the golfing Providence I It had been many years since anybody had had occasion to use a niblick, and in conse- quence the club had not enjoyed the attention of the inventors and patent-makers. It was still the plain old niblick, and treacherous as of yore. Hazard played at the ball, but only succeeded in digging a large hole in the sand. Cicely followed suit, and buried the ball in the hole.* In playing the sixty-seven more Jack just managed to get the ball over the edge of the * Twenty-two minutes are supposed to elapse between these two paragraphs. The ball of 1899 was having its chance and improving it.—EDITOR. I23 The Nineteenth Hole bunker cliff, and then fell back exhausted into the arms of his ever-faithful caddie. This is the moment that the artist has chosen to im- mortalize in the famous oil-painting of the match that now hangs in the rotunda of the national capitol. Observe the expression on the face of the niblick, and note that Ferdinand Baffy is smiling behind his hand. He never smiled again. "Perhaps we had better pick up," said Hazard to Cicely, and there was just the hint of discouragement in his tone. "You have to play sixty-eight more, you know." "Never!" returned Miss Longspoon, firmly, as she waggled her driving-iron over the ball. "A hole is never lost until it's won, and we are playing for 'The Greatest Thing in the World.' Sixty-eight more." Miss Longspoon's iron ploughed up the ground in an astonishing manner, and the ball, instead of flying on towards the green, shot almost vertically into the air. Everybody stared at it open-mouthed—a dangerous pro- cedure, as Ferdinand Baffy found out a mo- ment later. The ball, descending with fright- ful speed, struck him squarely on the upper lip, incidentally destroying a large amount of expensive artificial work, and giving him full two minutes of exquisite agony. 124 The Greatest Thing in the World Mad with pain, Ferdinand Baffy fell writhing to the ground, and the curious crowd closed in around him. But Mr. John Cheviot Hills Hazard stood apart from the hurrying throng, and his face was as one who had looked upon a new heavens and a new earth. And truly, had he not just seen, with his own eyes, the most wonderful, the most fascinating sight in all the world—a pretty girl in the act of foozling an iron shot! Jack came up close to the pretty girl, and gently imprisoned that little fluttering hand. "Cicely," he said, softly; and for a little while these two were quite content to let the world go by. Mr. Ferdinand Baffy had been assisted to his feet, and some one had tied a handkerchief about his wounded jaw. Biit his appearance was still far from prepossessing. "Looks like fifteen cents, marked down from thirty/' remarked young Swiper, in a loud whisper. "All right," growled Mr. Baffy. "You wait till you see Nick Longspoon's face when I request him to hand over 'The Greatest Thing in the World.' Come along, Charlotte. Hazard has picked up his ball, and we win by one up." The hum of many voices floated in through the windows of President Longspoon's private office, and he knew that the great match must 125 The Nineteenth Hole be over. They would be looking for him to appear, and he must go out to meet his doom. He had not been able to think of anything that could beat ex-President Bulger's State of Illinois, and now he must acknowledge his defeat and accept its humiliating consequences. He had offered as a prize "The Greatest Thing in the World," and he had not got it to give— more than that, he did not even know what it was or where it could be found. The mind of man could not conceive of anything bigger than the State of Illinois in the way of a golf prize, and yet he had promised " The Greatest Thing in the World." Pulling himself together by a heroic effort, President Longspoon stepped out upon the club piazza and looked upon the pur- ple face of his old enemy, Ferdinand Baffy, standing in the forefront of the vast crowd. With an evil smile, Ferdinand Baffy ascended the steps and stood before the president of the U. S. G. A. "How about those sweet - potatoes, Nick Longspoon?" sneered the scoundrel, in an un- dertone of concentrated malice, and then, aloud, with an accent of mocking courtesy: " Having won the match, Mr. President, I shall be happy to receive at your hands 'The Greatest Thing in the World.'" "One moment, Mr. President." It was old 126 1'EUIIAl'S I OUGHT TO SAY The Greatest Thing in the World Hugh Dormie who spoke, and the crowd made way for him, breathless, and yet triumphantly waving aloft an old and tattered volume. "Well, what is it?" said the president. '"Ha player's ball hit his opponent, . . . the opponent loses the hole/ " quoted old Hugh Dormie, solemnly. "Mr. Baffy having met with that imhappy accident, the hole and match go to Mr. Hazard and partner." "What is your authority for such a state- ment?" interrupted Ferdinand Baffy. His face was white and his eyes glassy. "The RULES OF GOLF," thundered old Hugh Dormie, in a terrible voice, and involun- tarily every head was bared. Incredible I and yet the reader must remember that for over half a century patent clubs and the "innocuous" golf-ball had held undisputed sway, and the very memory of fines and of penalties had faded from the minds of men. But old Hugh Dormie had remembered—he used to win his matches by those dear old rules, and he knew what they could do. Ferdinand Baffy jumped into the nearest automobile and motioned to the chauffeur to go on. "Where to?" inquired that gentleman. "Gehennal" yelled Mr. Baffy, as he sank back on the cushions. 127 The Nineteenth Hole And so Jack and Cicely had won their match, after all. Friendly hands were drawing them forward, and now they stood, still hand in hand, before the president. But even though Ferdi- nand Baffy had been discomfited, Nicholas Longspoon must still drink his bitter cup. He drew a long breath. '"The Greatest Tiling in the World,'" he began, firmly. And then his voice wavered. "Perhaps I ought to say—er—" he went on, lamely, "that—er—The Greatest Thing in the World/ you know—" He stopped short, in pitiable confusion. "Got it right here, sir," said Jack, cheer- fully. "Eh, what's that?" stammered the president. '"The Greatest Thing in the World,'" re- turned the young man, unabashed, as he drew the blushing Cicely to his side. "And if you have no objection, sir, we would like to have the cards go out by Wednesday of next week." And men's hearts softened and their eyes grew dim as they realized that this was, in- deed, "The Greatest Thing in the World." Alas! and for how many weary years had they turned aside upon the unprofitable worship of strange golf. "By St. S within l" swore Haggis Glenlivat, as he stepped forward and confronted the throng. 128 " SMASHED HIS FAVOKITE PLAY-CLUB ' The Greatest Thing in the World "I for one have holed my last putt. Monday morning I open a stock - broking office, and Mary Glenlivat shall have her sealskins for Christmas." And with that he deliberately smashed his favorite play club across his knee and hurled the fragments far out on the home putting- green. Now, Haggis Glenlivat was as good a golfer as ever swung a caddie, to use the old familiar phrase. In an instant the crowd had taken his mean- ing and had broken for the locker-rooms. The crash of iron and the splintering of wood re- sounded on every side, and the pile of wreckage on the home putting-green was quickly as high as the club-house. Old Hugh Dormie applied the match, and, as the flames shot up into the evening sky, the people raised a great shout. The revolution had begun, the tyranny of com- pulsory golf was at an end.

Five years later. A more highly blessed and prosperous country than the United States it would be difficult to find, even among the Utopias of the Bellamys and their tribe. The golf-stricken hordes of Europe gaze longingly at our happy shores, but we have at last learned the necessity of self-protection. The immigra- tion laws are now so strictly drawn that no one I 129 The Nineteenth Hole whose Christian name is Willie is ever allowed to get inside Sandy Hook. Jack Hazard is the happiest young quarry man in all the State of New Jersey, and he handles a maul with all the grace and energy that was once expended upon the useless occupation of swinging a brassey. Golf is never mentioned at his pleasant dinner-table, and yet, curiously enough, the chiefest treasure that he and Mrs. Hazard possess is an old scarred and battered golf-ball, a relic of the nineteenth century. I dined with him yesterday, and over the cognac and cigarettes the name of Ferdinand Baffy suddenly cropped up. A shadow passed over Jack's handsome face. "Don't you know?" he said, in answer to my query. "Poor old Baffy ! Judge William Williams gave him ninety-nine years in State prison at hard labor. The trial came off last month." "And the crime?" "He had tried to patent an improvement upon the niblick," said Jack, in a low tone. The Round Robin Championship

Some take a Brassey when they play the Game, Or with a Geek carve out their way to Fame. And Some there be who but a Pencil Stub Have used—and yet have got there just the Same. —The Oolfaiy&t of O. McKAYYAM. The Round Robin Championship

OT long ago the daily press noted the existence of a golf club de- nominated the Round Robin, and situated in a far Western State, where the very name of golf was supposed to be unknown. The item in itself was not par- ticularly noteworthy, except as indicative of the never-ceasing progress of the Royal and Ancient game, but there was something about the name of the club—the Round Robin—that struck my fancy: it sounded as though there might be a story behind it. And so, indeed, there was, as I came to find out some months later—and quite by accident, mind you. Now that the incident is closed, there can be no harm in narrating it; indeed, there is a moral contained in it which might very properly have a wider application. The facts them- selves I have on the authority of Graeme Elphin- 133 The Nineteenth Hole stone — the same Elphinstone who used to be such a shining light of our club—the Marion County—and who disappeared so mysteriously the day after his famous match with J. Robin- son Brown for the Tantalus Loving-Cup. He went West to live, and so became interested in the Round Robin Club, and was one of its original members. So much by way of preface.

It is a crude country that lies just south of the Great Smoky Divide, and perhaps it would be invidious to designate it by a post-office address. Let us call it the Worst Lands—a title which should certainly identify it in the mind of any one who has ever been there, and yet permits of the benefit of the doubt so far as any one definite locality is concerned. A rugged expanse of table-land, mountain, plain, and valley, affording a scanty sustenance to a few thousand cattle, and inhabited in its two or three hundred square miles by perhaps a score of settlers—such is the Worst Lands; and Graeme Elphinstone, looking upon it for the first time, was exceedingly sorry that he had ever left New Jersey. But the die was cast, and he had to make the best of the throw. Like his neighbors, he went in for raising cattle, and prospered moderately. When I speak of neighbors it is to be un- 134 The Round Robin Championship derstood that I speak in the Pickwickian sense. McMasters lived next door to Elphinstone, but that door was eight miles away as the crow flies, and Knox Graham's ranch was double that distance from McMasters. Some- what discouraging to social intercourse, one would think; but the citizens of the Worst Lands were accustomed to measure their friend- ship in miles, and most of the time there was nothing else to do but to exchange visits. As it happened, moreover, the little colony was composed of congenial spirits, including half a dozen graduates of Eastern colleges and a liberal sprinkling of British younger sons. So they naturally came to forgather at fre- quent intervals at one another's houses; for one cannot herd cattle and brand steers week on end without acquiring symptoms of mental unrest, and it is not good in these rarefied altitudes to drink whiskey before breakfast—a widespread habit among lonely men. Graeme Elphinstone was, of course, enthusiastically received into the little circle; he was of their sort, and was recognized at once as being a brother-in-arms. And here is where the story begins. All unknowingly, Elphinstone still retained in his system the virus of the golf madness, and he had been hardly three weeks in the 135 The Nineteenth Hole Worst Lands before the old fever was upon him. Of course there was no chance to play- golf, and so he had to talk about it. It was at Knox Graham's ranch, and there were nine stalwart men sitting on the sunny side of the Graham shack, each with his pipe in his mouth. Elphinstone, as I have said, began talking golf. " Let's form a golf club/' spoke up McMasters. The motion was gravely put and carried, and then came the question of a course. Where should it be located, so as to be even tolerably convenient for use? It was sixty-seven miles westward from Graham's to where Bruce Inglis held out on Crazy Creek, and Tom Wheatstone lived forty miles due south. The discussion waxed warm, and even acrimonious. Every member wished to have the course as near his house as possible; he would be delighted to present the club with a site for the course, and would bind himself to keep it in playing order. No one would yield, and the situation looked serious. Knox Graham cut the knot. "Then there's only one thing to do," he said, decisively. "Every man must lay out and maintain his own nine-hole cotirse, and the club will meet at each ranch in turn on Thursday afternoons." The proposal was adopted new. con., and the first business meeting of the Round Robin Club was adjourned. 136 The Round Robin Championship It was just a month after this auspicious natal day of the new golf club that Mr. Penning- ton Potts, of New York, ran out to the Worst Lands to pay a long-deferred visit to his cousin, Tom Wheatstone. An estimable young fellow was Potts, familiarly known as Penny, and even if he did affect a mental view-point that was closely akin to what is supposed to be omniscience, he was unaffectedly sincere in his attitude, and never in the least degree of- fensive over it. Yes; everybody liked " Penny' Potts; and Tom Wheatstone, big, blond-bearded son of the vikings, gave him a hearty Western welcome, and promised him the time of his life for the next two weeks. To make his words good, the time began that very night, and it was noon of the next day before Mr. Potts was able to appear. He found Tom in the dining-room, engaged in unpacking a case of mineral waters. "Company expected?" inquired Penny, with- out much enthusiasm. "The Round Robin Golf Club meets at my ranch this afternoon," said Tom, without looking up. Penny opened his eyes. "Golf!" he gasped. "For the Lord's sake, where?" "Haven't you noticed the course?" asked his cousin, placidly. And then, suddenly: The Nineteenth Hole " But naturally you haven't, for I forgot to lay it out yesterday, as I had intended. Well, there's plenty of time; the boys won't begin to turn up before two o'clock." Penny gazed with a mystified expression upon the arid expanse of red earth, strewn with innumerable bowlders, that met his eye at every turn, but he said nothing. He could see that Tom was busy, and that it would not be wise to interrupt him. Half an hour later Tom, having decanted a decent allowance of whiskey for a golfing holiday, came out on the little piazza attached to the shack and sought rest from his labors in a pipe. Then he told Penny all about the Round Robin Club, and the latter listened reverentially. "I'll allow that it isn't always golf as you Eastern chaps know it," continued Mr. Wheat- stone, with a gentle gurgle, "but we enjoy it in our own wild and woolly way. There's Jackson Pell, for instance. He isn't content with having the very sportiest links on the North American continent—not a hole on the course that even a Vardon could do in less than double figures—but he will insist on putting in more and more hazards, until it's like be- ing in a bunker from beginning to end. Talk about your South African kopjes I why, they're 138 The Round Robin Championship just pie compared to the confounded barranca that you have to cross six times in playing the Jackson Pell links. And he's got one hole laid out on his bottom-land that he calls the 'Tantalus.' There really is turf there, and good turf too, but by Jackson's local rules you aren't allowed to sole your club. He says that grass in the Worst Lands is properly a hazard." Potts stirred uneasily and lit a fresh cigarette, while Tom rambled on. "Then there's Will Mills—you'll meet him here this afternoon. Well, Bill conceived the brilliant idea of laying out his course so that each hole would stand for a letter of his name —like this," and Mr. Wheatstone drew a rude diagram with his quirt on the hard dirt path:

"It's all perfectly playable, you see," he went on, "only there are too many of those elbow and zigzag holes. We all told Bill so, but he insisted that it was unique, and that he wouldn't change it. Just nine letters, you notice, for the nine holes, and the S is number 9, so it doesn't make much difference how you 139 The Nineteenth Hole slosh around in playing it. It stands for 'Scotch/ anyhow, and we call it the 'High Ball.'" Penny Potts had still not a word to say. "But we had to sit on another chap, who wanted to improve on Bill's idea. He seemed to think that because he had a name containing eighteen letters, that his would necessarily be the better course. What do you suppose his blasted name was? ROBESPIERRE Y. XlQUEZ! Fancy playing such letters as R and B and Q!—it just wouldn't do, you know. So we unitedly told Robespierre that eighteen holes was against the club rule, and he had to cave. "And finally there was 'Doc' Singleton. A queer fellow, Doc — an inventive genius, you know, always trying to improve upon everything he takes up. Of course he had to try his hand on golf. There was plenty of nice creek-bottom land on his ranch, but he insisted on laying out his course along the side of a mountain—a slope of something like thirty degrees. Naturally it was difficult to make a ball lie on such a steep grade, so Doc evolved the square ball, and constructed a club something between a maul and a garden- spud with which to push it along. It wasn't a very good ball for putting, but Doc saved 140 The Round Robin Championship so many strokes on the other fellows, whose balls were always running down to the foot of the hill, that he could afford to bungle a bit on the greens. So, you see— Good heavens I here it is one o'clock, and I haven't laid out that course yet! Hi, there, you Chin Sing!" A meek-looking Chinaman appeared, leading a burro and Tom's own horse. The jackass was laden with an axe and a quantity of sur- veyors' stakes. Tom swung himself into the saddle. "You're not going to lay out a golf-course on horseback!" exclaimed the scandalized Potts. "Never walk in this country when you can ride, my dear Penny/' answered his cousin. " I'll be back in an hour, and in the mean time you can be setting this hole-tin into the best- looking place for a putting-green that you can discover. They made a mistake at the Eastern shop, and sent me only one cup instead of nine. But it will be all right," and with that Mr. Wheatstone rode off. An hour later he returned in time to welcome his guests. " And now for golf,'' he announced, cheerily. The guests looked about inquiringly. "Straight ahead," answered the guileless Thomas. "The stakes will give you the line, and the course will bring you back to the start- ing-point. Distance, four miles — the longest 141 The Nineteenth Hole hole in the world/' he concluded, with a par- donable flourish. "Yes; but how about the putting?" ventured Graham. "Play around once, and then take your eighteen putts, or play around eighteen times, and be hanged to you I" retorted the unabashed Mr. Wheatstone. Well, they had a good afternoon's sport on the one-hole Wheatstone links, and it was a merry company that sat down to supper. But before it was over, the devil prompted Pen- nington Potts into asking a foolish question, one that was to have far-reaching results. "Who is your club champion?" asked the youth, of "Reddy" McMasters. "Well, we haven't any just so-called," an- swered that gentleman. "You see, no man has ever yet been beaten on his own course," put in Knox Graham. "Oh, nonsense I" said Penny. "You must have a championship meeting and a regular champion. I'll present a silver cup, and act as referee, seeing that I know the rules so well. What do you say?" The insidious temptation was not to be re- sisted, and before the party broke up Penny's proposal had been accepted. It was decided to lay out an entirely new course for the occasion 142 The Round Robin Championship on Doc Singleton's creek bottom, and the day was set for that Thursday week.

The first championship meeting of the Round Robin Club was on, and Penny was in his glory. The contest was to be decided by stroke play, but at the conclusion of the first round it was seen that the struggle lay between Robespierre Xiquez and Nick Prettyman. The other play- ers, indeed, were so hopelessly out-classed that they all dropped out and followed Xiquez and Prettyman. Now, as it happened, the two contestants were the only married men in the party, and each had brought his wife to score and caddie for him. Mrs. Xiquez was of Mexican lineage, and there was no love lost between her and the hard-visaged New England spouse of Mr. Prettyman. Neither knew anything about the game, but each was desperately anxious for her husband to win. Under the circumstances, it is not surprising that more or less friction was developed be- tween the partisans of either side, and once or twice the situation looked squally. Mrs. Pretty- man was detected in the act of improving the lie of her husband's ball, and if the arithmetic of Mrs. Xiquez had been accepted without scrutiny Robespierre would have won hands 143 The Nineteenth Hole down. Potts had to use all his tact to preserve the decencies of the occasion, and he regretted a thousand times that he had ever suggested the idea of a championship to these hot-headed citizens. "Serves you right/' was Graeme Elphin- stone's whispered comment. "Championships are the curse of civilized golf, and you are in the position of the man who introduces rum and air-tight stoves to the attention of the un- tutored savage. You'll regret it, Penny, my boy." But now the competition was drawing to a close, and Potts hoped for the best. Begin- ning the eighteenth hole the scores were ex- actly even, but neither man was playing good golf, even for the Worst Lands. Perhaps the presence of their wives made them nervous, but certainly such a series of foozles was un- pardonable. It took them both fourteen strokes to get in sight of the hole, which lay sixty yards away, in a cup-shaped depression, and it was Robespierre's turn to play. The ball fell well on the green, and was immediately appropriated and swallowed by a brindled steer that had been observing the proceedings in contempla- tive wonderment. Instantly a hubbub arose about the ears of the unfortunate referee. "In equity it would seem that Mr. Xiquez 144 The Round Robin Championship is entitled to play another ball without penalty," said Potts, as soon as partial silence had been restored. "But that was Prettyman's steer, marked with his brand/' put in Graham, " and we con- tend that he was acting as his fore-caddie. In interfering with the ball of Mr. Xiquez, he lost the hole for his master." "That rule applies only to match play," answered Potts, who was really not at all sure about it. The tumult redoubled, and Mrs. Xiquez drew out a long jewelled hat-pin,-and fingered it suggestively. "Play, Mr. Prettyman," commanded Mr. Potts, and the latter obeyed. Astounding fact I but it looked to everybody as though the ball had fallen plump into the cup. No one could say positively, however, for the next instant the sight of the green had been totally oblit- erated by a falling sheet of water. A Worst Lands cloud-burst had stolen upon them un- awares, and the very windows of heaven had been flung wide open. "Competitors may not discontinue play on account of bad weather," quoted Referee Potts, as he fled for shelter. It was all over in five minutes, but the two competitors and their caddies presented a sorry appearance after their drenching. However, K 145 The Nineteenth Hole cold water is a wholesome antidote to angry passions, and even the two ladies were willing to forget the past and to accept the referee's decision in a sensible manner. Only, what was the decision? Who had won the Round Robin championship? Where the home green had been was now a respectable-sized lake, and floating about in it was Nick Prettyman's ball. "But it went into the cup," said Mrs. Pretty- man, frowningly. "We have no proof of that/' answered the unhappy Potts. And then, with a sudden inspiration: "It mustn't be touched on any account, for it's floating directly over the cup. When the water goes down it may drop in, and the only thing to do is to wait." "But that may take a week," said Mrs. Xiquez, with asperity. New murmurs arose from the crowd, and Potts turned pale. Then he managed to get Wheatstone to one side. " Can't you get me out a horse, Tom, without anybody noticing it? I can catch the east- bound train at Cripps Crossing, and you can express me my things." Wheatstone nodded intelligently; and ten minutes later a hatless youth was urging a foam-bespecked horse along the rocky high- way to Cripps Crossing. 146 The Round Robin Championship At Chicago, a day later, the porter brought Mr. Potts a telegram. He tore it open. " Prettyman's ball still suspended like Mahomet's cof- fin above the cup; but we holed the steer last night. Buried him at the dear old " Nineteenth," where many a better man has taken a ball too much. Come back and give your decision. " T. WHEATSTONE." But Pennington Potts kept his face resolute- ly fixed in the direction of the rising sun.

A month later the nine champions of the Round Robin Club sat again around Wheat- stone's hospitable board. In front of each man stood a massive silver tankard suitably inscribed. The gifts had been received that very day from Mr. Pennington Potts, of New York, and Mr. Reddy McMasters rose to pro- pose a toast. "To the Rules," he said, solemnly. "The more time you spend over them, the less you'll have for the playing of the game. Are you ready, gentlemen ?" The nine champions raised the nine tankards to their lips. The Mixed-Up Foursome

A caddie remarked to his master : " Bad lies are a source of disaster. When the ball's in a cup, I will just tee it up, And so we shall get on much faster." —The Bogey Mam an Epic. The Mixed-Up Foursome

R. and Mrs. Maddox Morton were playing their regular daily four- some against Reggie Brewer and Allison Dare, and Mrs. Morton had just topped the ball into the " Hardscrabble" bunker for the fourth successive time. The match had been all square at this, the eighteenth hole, and Mr. Morton considered that he did well to be angry. He played the ball back. "Well, of all stupid things! Be sure and top it again, my dear; it's only six more, and Brewer may have a stroke of apoplexy any moment. Don't look at the ball or you'll be certain to miss it." Mrs. Morton's pretty blue eyes were dim with hushed tears as she lifted her club and struck wildly at the much-enduring "gutty." The result was inevitable; bunkered for the fifth time. Maddox Morton flushed a dark purple and hurled his Glengarry at the ball in impotent vindictiveness. The Nineteenth Hole "Our hole, Morton/' sang out Reggie with cheerful promptness; "touching sand in a bunker, you know." Maddox Morton clambered silently out of " Hardscrabble " and hailed his dog-cart. Mrs. Morton followed meekly and found her seat in the cart without any assistance from her justly offended lord. The bright red wheels crunched the gravel viciously and the Maddox Mortons disappeared in a cloud of dust. A sound as of some one weakly wailing floated back upon the gentle summer breeze, and Al- lison Dare, listening, pressed her lips tightly together. "That makes the tenth straight match for us," remarked Mr. Brewer, as he leaned lazily back in bis chair and waited for the tea to draw. "And Maddox Morton is a brute!" Miss Dare's voice trembled, and there was a bright spot of color in her cheeks. "Oh, I say, but that's hitting him pretty hard, isn't it? As a matter of fact, he is de- voted to Amy, but in golf, you know, and it does make some difference—" "That they are married," finished Miss Dare. " A very real difference, indeed. As it happens, you and I are only engaged—n'est ce pas?" " But, my dear child—" 152 The Mixed-Up Foursome "I missed four short putts yesterday and you only smiled." Miss Dare looked straight at Reggie, and, in spite of himself, his eyes fell. "And to-day," she continued, still gently meditative, "I put you into the brook on both rounds. You remarked that the green com- mittee ought to employ some day-laborers to dam that brook, since the golfers appeared to be unequal to the task. We all laughed, and it was ever so nice and considerate of you. But it set me thinking." Reggie Brewer twisted about uneasily in his chair. What on earth was coming now? "I have concluded, my dear Reggie, that it would be a mistake for us to go on with— with our engagement. I'm awfully sorry, too; you understand that." "Allison!" " But, don't you see, I don't want either my game or my marriage to be a failure, and some- thing has got to give way. It's impossible, of course, for either of us to give up golf, and the only other alternative is not to marry. It's dreadful, but it seems to be inevitable." "You don't believe that I really care for you." There was just the suspicion of a break in Reginald Brewer's voice, and Miss Dare's softened instantly. "No; I have never doubted your love. It 153 The Nineteenth Hole is only that it is complicated by the other mastei passion of golf, and the mixture is explosive. As you say, the Maddox Mortons are devoted to each other, but he has entirely lost the use of his cleek shot, and her handicap is now twenty-seven when it used to be two behind scratch. And you remember the golfing dinner that they gave in honor of our engagement. Everything hot but the soup, and everything cold but the champagne. No, Reggie, we must not repeat their awful mistake; it would be nothing less than a crime." "You talk as though you were actually in earnest." "Never more so in my life," responded Miss Dare, promptly. Well, the argument lasted for a good two hours, but when neither party is open to con- viction there can be but one outcome. They parted sorrowfully, but determinedly, and the next morning Miss Dare received a brief note from Reggie informing her that he had enlisted in the Rough Riders and was to leave immediately for San Antonio. "And would she accept his wooden putter, a genuine Philp, as a final testimonial of his regard." Signed, "Very sincerely yours, Reginald Brewer." Miss Dare read this missive with the utmost attention, and immediately retired to the se- 154 The Mixed-Up Foursome elusion of her own apartment, where she spent the entire day in alternately putting at a mark and crying her eyes out. Now, ridiculous as such a situation may seem to the great ungolfed, it was none the less real, and it had been bound to come in the natural order of things. Allison Dare was a clear-sighted young woman, and she had real- ized from the first that golf was a new factor in existence, and a tremendously important one. Above all, it could not be ignored in the con- sideration of the connubial problem; before it the vexed questions of mother-in-law and the regulation of the furnace faded into com- parative insignificance. It was easy enough when but one of the high contracting parties was a victim of the mania; the golf widow or the golf widower could find distraction else- where, and there were always possibilities for connubial happiness on rainy days and on Sun- days. But with husband and wife both golfers, behold the arrival of the Maddox Mortons and their like. "Never," said Miss Dare, resolutely, "never will I marry until I have made my iron play worthy of any man's respect." An excellent sentiment, and Miss Dare was so pleased with having invented it that she wrote it down in her diary and subsequently repeated it in public 155 The Nineteenth Hole at the club. Alasl that consistency is the one jewel that a woman is not expected to wear, for within two weeks Mr. Reginald Brewer took up his residence in Lauriston, and of course joined the club. As everybody could see, the two young people were made for each other, and they promptly found it out for themselves. An idyllic fortnight, and then that unlucky foursome and the object-lesson afforded by those wretched Maddox Mortons — well, if it was Kismet, at least she had saved her golf from the wreck, and there is an oblivion that may only be found in the "Great Sahara" bunker. Miss Dare seized her bag of clubs, not forgetting the Philp putter, and drove out to the links. Time and the war went on, but Miss Dare only golfed the harder. Morning, noon, and night she was on the course; the daily round had been multiplied by three and four, and in odd moments she drove corks under the watch- ful eye of the professional. After dinner she invariably went out on the lawn and practised her swing until utter exhaustion supervened. Mrs. Dare watched the progress of this curious infatuation with much concern, and remon- strated with her daughter strongly, but in vain. Even the warnings of the family physician had no effect. " It is killing you, my child—" 156 The Mixed-Up Foursome "Then let me die in peace. No, I will not take Burgundy with my dinner; it always upsets my holing out." And so Allison Dare continued to negotiate her seventy-two holes a day, while Reginald Brewer lay ragged and fever - flushed in the noisome trenches before Santiago. It was the final round of the club champion- ship for mixed foursomes, and the pairs were Maddox Morton and Allison Dare against Mrs. Morton and Jim Ferris. The original pairing had been made by drawing for partners, and the arrangement had worked admirably for the Mortons. Both Maddox and Mrs. Maddox had played far better golf apart than they ever had together, and Mrs. Morton in particular had put up a really brilliant game. Ferris was only an ordinary kind of player, but Mrs. Morton had done so well that they had had but little difficulty in reaching the final round. As against Morton and Allison Dare, however, they should have had no chance at all, and everybody was surprised when the match was called all square at the eighteenth tee. Some- how Miss Dare had been playing very badly and her strokes had been getting weaker and more erratic from the very start. Of course, this was very annoying to Maddox Morton, and yet he could not be openly disagreeable 157 The Nineteenth Hole to his partner. But he could and did say nasty things about Mrs. Morton's play, and although this in itself was a breach of etiquette, Ferris did not exactly know what to do about it. The effect was evident enough, for it made Mrs. Morton nervous and she began to miss her strokes. And so the mistakes about balanced each other, and the match was even with one to play. Morton had led off with a slashing swipe, but Ferris, trying to press, had lost his balance and the ball was barely off the teeing-ground. Mrs. Morton stepped up to play the odd. Her husband deliberately moved to a position twenty yards in front of the tee and directly in the line of play. "Straight at me, my dear. Bore a hole through me, if you can, and I'll stand all the damages," he said, scoffingly. Mrs. Morton did not reply, but she examined the lie of the ball carefully and then called for her play club. It was a good stroke, and the ball whizzed so close to Morton's head that he involuntarily ducked. Recovering himself, he ironically congratulated his spouse upon her success. ^ "Really, Amy," he concluded, patronizingly, 'if you would only remember what I have told you about the right-hand grip, you might do 158 The Mixed-Up Foursome that as often as three times out of ten. But of course you won't remember. Play two more, Ferris." Ferris made another execrable foozle, and Mrs. Morton had to play three odd. This time Morton kept off the direct line, but was rude enough to take up a position to the right front and in plain view of his wife. "Now for a short slice and a merry one," remarked Mr. Morton, in a most offensive vein of pleasantry. Then he lit a cigarette and as- sumed a disconcerting stare that was plainly intended to put Mrs. Morton out of countenance. It was a slice, sure enough, for the ball knock- ed the ash from Mr. Morton's cigarette and disappeared into the long grass with a vicious hiss. Morton took the cigarette out of his mouth and examined it with puzzled attention. He looked at his wife and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it, and walked away with a grave face. Ferris played the ball back upon the course, and it was still Mrs. Morton's turn to play. This time Morton kept quietly in the rear and almost directly behind his wife's back. It was astonishing how she ever managed to hook the ball around as she did, but there it went, straight as a bullet, for Maddox Morton's head. That gentleman turned green and made 159 The Nineteenth Hole a most creditable try for the broad jump record. He just managed to save himself, and the ball went off the course again. It will be readily understood that all these foozles and wild shots had not advanced the ball any considerable distance, and it still lay some sixty yards short of Morton's mag- nificent tee shot. Ferris was too conscious of his own deficiencies to venture upon any re- monstrance to his partner, and he meekly played the ball back, the shot being the seven odd. "You play eight more, Mrs. Morton," he said with a sigh. "Perhaps we had better pick up." "Not a bit of it," returned the lady, smartly. "I'll get it this time or you may cut up my red jacket into pen-wipers." It I What did she mean by that enigmatic it? Certainly not the hole, for that was hope- lessly lost long ago. Who or what was it? Perhaps Maddox Morton appreciated the signif- icance of the remark, for his face turned ashy pale and his clothes suddenly seemed to be two sizes too large for him. He got as far behind Mrs. Morton as he conveniently could, and watched her every movement with nervous attention. The lady addressed the ball in the usual manner and then deliberately faced about and looked squarely at her erstwhile 160 The Mixed-Up Foursome tyrant. The wretched man tried to efface him- self in the "gallery/' but the rope-holders would not give way and he was forced back into the open. He moved hastily over to the left, and Mrs. Morton changed her stand so as to keep him covered. The brassey head waggled suggestively. For a moment Maddox Morton stood his ground, but human nature could not endure the strain, and the next instant he was off, down the middle of the course and running like a deer. Ah, but it was magnificent, the coolness and precision with which that deeply injured woman measured her distance and direction. Morton was already a hundred yards away, but he was going heavily and wabbling at every stride. Down swung the club with lightning accuracy, and away sped the little white sphere. It had a beautiful low trajectory, but had she calculated for windage? The "gallery" held its breath. "Missed, by Jove l" And indeed Maddox Morton might have escaped unscathed, but at that last critical instant he lost his head and made a tremen- dous bound to one side and directly into the ball's line of flight. With a yell he fell to the ground and lay there, writhing piteously. Actuated by a common impulse of humanity, the "gallery" and players hastened to the L 161 The Nineteenth Hole assistance of the unfortunate Mr. Morton. Perhaps an exception should be made in the case of Mrs. Morton. She did not appear to be unduly excited, and as she walked along she kept turning the leaves of the St. Andrews golfing code, annotated by the U. S. G. A. Mrs. Morton's coolness was amply justified, for Morton's injury was not severe, nothing more than a sharp crack on the leg. Mrs. Morton looked on placidly as he was assisted to his feet, and then turned to the referee, who happened to be Robinson Brown. "Our hole, I believe. See Rule 23: 'If a player's ball strike ... an opponent . . . the opponent loses the hole.' Here it is in the rules, as you can see." "Well, I don't know," began Brown, doubt- fully. "Perhaps Mr. Morton did get in the way of the ball, but I should say that there were —ahem!—extenuating circumstances." "The letter of the law/' insisted Mrs. Morton, inexorably. The referee yielded. "It is your hole and match then." "Thank you," returned Mrs. Morton. " No, I don't care for the prize. A hand-painted shoe-horn would be inappropriate to our simple way of living, and perhaps an unkind reminder of events that are best forgotten. Let it go 162 The Mixed-Up Foursome into the club museum along with the rubber- necked cleek and the three - cornered ball.* Now, then, Maddox, if you are ready." Mr. Morton attended upon his spouse with the familiar meekness of the proverbial lamb. The red-wheeled dog-cart clattered away, but this time it was Mrs. Morton who occupied the box-seat. Allison Dare loitered behind as the crowd took up its march for the club-house. She felt ill-attuned to the clinking of tea-cups and " high- balls," the lightsome chatter of the red-coated throng jarred oddly upon her ears. "Heigh- hoI" she said, half aloud, "I am certainly grow- ing old." A shadow fell athwart her path; she realized that she was not alone, but for the moment she did not recognize the thin, brown face that looked so wistfully into hers. Then her eyes brimmed saltily. "Reginald!" "Allison!" It was a moving tale of flood and field, and Allison Dare listened to it greedily. But the old issue could not be postponed indefinitely. "I have been following your match," said Brewer, gravely.

• Golfing monstrosities invented by Mr. Brown. 163 The Nineteenth Hole "Oh, then, you saw—" "Everything. You were right, absolutely so. But Fate is often kinder than she intended to be." She looked at the armless sleeve, and her voice was very tender. "It is the left, your driving arm." "Fortunate, isn't it? Otherwise I might have been tempted into emulation of the one- armed prodigies. As it is, I know my place in the world of golf. You will let me carry for you?" "Then you don't know—but how should you—that I am also a victim? It's incurable, too." "Over-golfed, or perhaps a glass elbow?" " Oh, nothing so commonplace. It's my own disease, and Dr. Egerton was kind enough to propose that it should be named after me." "An honor, indeed." "But I declined. It didn't seem quite nice, standing godmother to a medical Frankenstein. So we compromised upon globophobia." "Globophobial" "Meaning 'afraid of the ball.' It is a horrid kind of feeling." Reginald Brewer looked incredulous. " Afraid of a little, smooth, white bit of gutta- percha? It sounds absurd." 164 The Mixed-Up Foursome "Yes, but it doesn't stay smooth and white and expressionless/' returned Miss Dare, with a shudder. "Pretty soon it gets a black eye in the shape of a niblick dent, and then an iron hack that makes a nasty, sneering mouth. And finally it isn't a ball at all any longer, but an ugly little cock-eyed demon, with a grass- green complexion and a most ungentlemanly disposition. You try to 'address' it, and it gives you the (bad) 'lie' direct; you endeavor to make it move away, and it simply sticks its tongue in its cheek and makes another face at you. Perhaps I am foolish, but it's really beginning to get on my nerves." "I should think so," said Mr. Brewer, sym- pathetically. " And the worst of it is that the whole character of the game is changed. The ball finds out quickly enough that you are afraid of it, and then, instead of going from hole to hole, you just progress from one bunker to another." "I see." " Well, I am a practical-minded young woman, and I realize that digging in a bunker is not a useful occupation." "Precisely." "But take the same amount of energy and expend it in the cultivation of a garden." "Splendid!" 165 The Nineteenth Hole "And it's precisely the same kind of game, you know, only you use a hoe in place of a niblick, and you top turnips instead of gutta- percha." " Then let us go back to Eden/' said Reginald Brewer, suddenly. He put out his hand and caught hers, unresisting. And so they walked away. Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Brewer are the hap- piest young couple in all Lauriston, and their kitchen garden is the admiration of all beholders. The Maddox Mortons, too, are more devoted to each other than ever, for they never meet now except at breakfast. Golf, with Maddox Morton, was never anything more than a pass- ing fad, and at present he is an enthusias- tic automobilist. He prides himself upon his scientific stoking, and he is never off the box- seat of his petroleum motor buck-board except when Mrs. Maddox has to play in an important competition; then he carries her clubs and gives his advice only when called upon. First Aid to the Injured A Farce in One Act First Aid to the Injured A Farce in One Act

CHARACTERS REPRESENTED Miss BELLE CHEVIOT. MISS SALLY DRIVER. MISS GRACE LOFTER. MISS CHARLOTTE BRASSEY. MR. JACK HAZARD. DR. AUSTIN CHEVIOT. SCENE.—The hall of the Marion County Golf Clyb. Practicable French window at L. C. back. Entrances at R. C. back and L. Large table at R. C. Small table and large easy-chair at L. front. Small cabinet at R. front. Telephone atR.C. back. Time, morning. Miss CHEVIOT is discovered leaning against table at R. C. She is dressed in golf costume and holds a bundle of golf clubs. Miss C. (resolutely). And I continue to prefer a straight - faced driver; the bulger "pulls" the ball. (Looking over L.) GoneI And without another word! I will never for- give him—never! never! [She sinks into a chair at R. and puts her handkerchief to her eyes. Enter DR. CHEVIOT, L. He carries a morocco- covered medicine-chest. 169 The Nineteenth Hole Dr. C. (crossing over R.). Hello! is that you, Belle? Miss C. (whipping away her handkerchief). Austin 1 I didn't know you were back. Dr. C. (coming down). I came in on the ten train. (Offering to kiss her.) How are you? Miss C. (avoiding him). Please don't— never before luncheon, you know. Dr. C. (laughing and walking away). Oh, I don't mind—being your brother. Miss C. (irritably). I do wish you would be quiet, Austin; it's perfectly maddening the way your boots creak. Dr. C. (looking at her curiously). You seem a trifle upset this morning. Has anything happened? Miss C. Of course not. How absurd you are! Dr. C. I met Hazard outside just now. Miss C. (defiantly). Well? Dr. C. There is something wrong between you two, and I propose to inquire into it. Have you been foolish enough— Miss C. (interrupting). I can't see that it concerns you at all, but since you take such a fraternal interest in my affairs you may as well know that our engagement is broken. Dr. C. What! 170

First Aid to the Injured Miss C. It was all a mistake from the be- ginning, and fortunately we have found it out in time. Nobody was to blame; it is no- body's fault. We have parted, and that is the end of it. Dr. C. But, Belle— Miss C. (interrupting. My dear brother, allow me to remind you again that this is en- tirely my own affair. There is absolutely nothing more to say. Dr. C. (shortly). Oh, very well; I suppose we will have to fall back upon golf, as usual. Mm C. (loftily). It is the mark of a small mind to despise what it cannot appreciate. If it hadn't been for golf— Dr. C. (sotto wee). You would still be en- gaged to Jack Hazard. Miss C. (absently). Ah, what memories! (Looking over R.) I suppose that you have your absurd class in "First Aid to the Injured" this morning. Dr. C. (warmly). I can't see anything absurd about it; but of course your business is to break hearts, not to mend them. I shouldn't like to hear of Jack's taking a dose of poison after what has happened this morning. (Gloomily.) You wouldn't have the faintest idea what to do for him. Miss C. (lightly). I don't think the con- 171 The Nineteenth Hole tingency a likely one. Men don't do that sort of thing nowadays. Dr. C. No; the women are not worth it. Miss C. And the club brandy and soda answers the same purpose in the end. (Picking up her golf clubs and going up.) You might say to Mr. Hazard that I expect to make the course in eighty-two or under, and that I shall use a straight-faced driver. The bulger "PULLS" the ball. [Exit by window, L. C. back. Dr. C. Poor Jack! it's just that little dif- ference between a straight-faced and a bulger driver that has separated them. A miserable eighth of an inch, and yet as wide as the world. [MR. JACK HAZARD enters, L. He is dressed in golf costume and carries a cleek. Jack (with a hasty look around). Gone I And without another word! Dr. C. (turning). That you, Jack? Jack. Don't let me disturb you. (Taking a golf-ball from his pocket and proceeding to "address" it.) We have an in-doors course now, you know, and the inkstand is the last hole. Fore! (Makes two or three ineffectual attempts to hit the ball.) It's no use, I can't keep my eye on the ball this morning. Dr. C. (putting his hand on HAZARD'S shoul- der). See here, old man, I'm awfully sorry about this affair. 172 First Aid to the Injured Jack (with a gulp). Oh, I dare say I was a bit too positive. (Plaintively.) Only a bulger doesn't " pull" the ball if you hit with the mid- dle of the club. Dr. C. Of course; everybody understands that. Jack (mournfully). If she had only let me explain. Dr. C. (sympathetically). Exactly. (Apart.) What fools these golfers be! Jack. But I mustn't stay here; you're going to have your class, I suppose. (Un- certainly.) I think I'll go and work up my " putting " a bit; it's my weak point., you know. (Brightening up.) You can get a tremendous lot of practice with a tumbler on the billiard- room floor. Dr. C. Yes; that's a capital idea; it'll do you no end of good, and, by-the-way, Jack, I know you're not a drinking man, but I brought down with me some particularly choice stuff— "St. Nicholas Club Private Stock," you know. (Crossing over to cabinet.) I keep it in here, and if you feel inclined for a nip., help yourself. (Smiling.) Don't scare at the label; it won't hurt you. Jack (going). Thanks, very much, but I seldom indulge. I find it's apt to make me wild in my "approaching." (At door, L.) I 173 The Nineteenth Hole can make that perfectly plain about the " bulger" any time you like. You might tell your sister what I said about the middle of the club. [Exit, L. Dr. C. (shaking his head). I'm afraid that Cupid has no chance against the caddie. [He bends over the table at R. C. Enter at R. C. back MlSS GRACE LOFTER, Miss CHARLOTTE BRASSEY, and Miss SALLY DRIVER. They wear white caps and large aprons, and each has an im- mense note-book. Sally (coming doum). Good - morning, Dr. Cheviot. Dr. C. (looking up). Oh, there you are. (He passes by SALLY, who holds out her hand, and offers his to GRACE.) Good-morning, Miss Lofter. (Aside.) Am I to have my answer to-day? (Aloud.) How do you do, Miss Brassey? (Shakes hands.) And you too, Miss Driver? It's very nice to see you all again, and to be able to resume our lessons. (Look- ing around.) But where are the rest—Mrs. Bunker and Miss Niblick and the others? Sally. Oh, as for Miss Niblick— [She stops and giggles. Dr. C. (puzzled). Well? Sally. It is really very unfortunate, but she is quite upset about poor Mr. Foozle. 174 First Aid to the Injured Dr. C. Indeed; nothing serious, I hope? Sally. Oh, I don't think so. Dr. Cleek, who is in attendance, says that it is merely an aggravated case of "First Aid to the In- jured," and that he hopes to make it all right in time. But poor Anna is nearly distracted to think that she had put it on wrong. Dr. C. Put it on wrong! What are you talking about? Sally. Why, his hand. You see, he slipped on the smooth grass at the " Punch-bowl" hole and dislocated his wrist. Miss Niblick was very cool, and reduced it all by herself, only she made a mistake and put it back this way. [She illustrates her meaning by twisting her hand around and back upon her wrist. Dr. C. Great Heavens! Charlotte. She explained to Dr. Cleek that you had told her how to do it. Dr. C. I? Sally. She had it all drawn out with dia- grams in her notes, only she happened to open the book upside down. Grace {sympathetically). Dr. Cleek was very nice about it. He exonerated you entirely. Dr. C. {nervously walking up and down). Too bad! too bad! I wouldn't have had it happen for anything. 175 The Nineteenth Hole Charlotte And as for the Putting-Green girls, it has served them just right. Dr. C. (resignedly). What have they been doing? Charlotte. Why, they were both arrested day before yesterday over at Sandhurst and fined twenty-live dollars apiece for practising medicine without a license. They are not coming to the class any longer. Dr. C. (passing his handkerchief over his forehead). Oh dear I This is very unfortunate. [GRACE passes behind table and gives him a sympathetic hand. Sally. I don't think that Mrs. Bunker will be here either. [She stops and giggles. Dr. C. (desperately.) Oh, go on; don't mind me. Sally. Well, you know how perfectly crazy she has been for some one to get half drowned, so that she could try her hand at resuscitation— her specialty. Of course no one would oblige her; it really wasn't to be expected; so yester- day afternoon she persuaded Mr. Bunker to go in bathing with her. All at once there was a tremendous commotion, and Mr. Bunker disappeared. Everybody screamed and ran down to the beach. There was Mrs. Bunker still in the water, and looking as calm as you please, but no Mr. Bunker. It seemed like an 176

First Aid to the Injured age before the bathing-master found him and pulled him out, and then he was purple in the face, and had swallowed just quarts and quarts and quarts of nasty salt water. Dr. C. Was he unconscious? Sally. Oh no; but the dreadful part of it was that as soon as he could speak without choking he flatly accused Mrs. Bunker of deliberately tripping him up and then sitting on his head. He even intimated that it had something to do with the heavy life-insurance policy that he had just taken out. Awful, wasn't it? Dr. C. (smiling involuntarily). I should think so. Sally. He wouldn't give Mrs. Bunker any chance to explain, for of course she had intended to bring him to. Dr. C. Of course. Charlotte. We were all perfectly sure of that. Sally. And the end of it was that he went right off to town to see about getting a divorce, and poor Mrs. Bunker is perfectly prostrated. Dr. C. (gravely). Well, young ladies, this all goes to show that our work here must be taken seriously, or it had better be given up altogether. (Cheerfully.) However, I expect better things of you who remain, and we must endeavor to retrieve ourselves. Perhaps it M 177 The Nineteenth Hole would be well this morning to have a short oral examination on the subjects we have been over instead of the regular lecture. All (anxiously). Examination 1 Dr. C. Oh, it won't be very formidable. If you will kindly be seated. [They bring their chairs forward in front of the table. DR. CHEVIOT seats himself behind it. Dr. C. (looking up). Remember now—sim- plicity, clearness, conciseness. (Referring to some memoranda.) Perhaps Grace—er—Miss Lofter will kindly show us how to make a tour- niquet. We will suppose that Miss Brassey has severed an artery in her arm, and is rapid- ly bleeding to death. Please stand up, Miss Brassey. Now, then, Miss Lofter. [GRACE, with a great show of professional skill, proceeds to tie a scarlet ribbon around CHARLOTTE'S wrist. Dr. C. Above the cut, if you please. [GRACE looks confused, and tries again. Dr. C. (critically). The bow is very taste- fully made, but pardon me if I suggest that the object is to constrict and not necessarily to ornament the arm. I believe that I told you to employ a stout cord, and then by twisting with a small stick— Grace (nervously). I beg your pardon. I 178 First Aid to the Injured had quite forgotten about the stick, but I think I can find one outside. [Going over L. Dr. C. (gravely). I am afraid that you are too late. The patient (looking at his watch) has been dead at least three minutes. Grace (falteringly). I—I am so sorry. [She goes up with her handkerchief to her eyes. Dr. C. (repentantly). What a brute I ami [He follows her up stage and whispers some- thing in her ear. Sally (sotto voce to CHARLOTTE). Somebody else was injured that time. Dr. C. (bringing GRACE down). It really doesn't make the slightest difference, not the least in the world. We're all liable to make mistakes; I do it myself. Please don't think anything more about it. (Jocularly.) I'll make all the necessary explanations to Miss Brassey's sorrowing family. Grace (smiling faintly). Thank you so much. Dr. C. Now let us begin again. Will you, Miss Driver, indicate the proper treatment for a fainting turn? Sally (shutting note-book with a bang and reciting glibly). Hold the patient firmly that he may not injure himself during the paroxysms. In extreme cases pass a stout strap around the chest, confining the arms close to the body. 179 The Nineteenth Hole At short intervals hypodermic injections of weak water and water—no, weak brandy and brandy— Dr. C. Pardon me, but for a faint. Sally (with a hasty glance at her book). Oh, laws! that was for fits. I just happened to see the letter F, and of course I thought—he I he! he! [She giggles in unaffected enjoyment. Dr. C. (annoyed). Really, Miss Driver, this ill-timed levity. (Apart.) I'm devoutly thank- ful that old Dr. Cleek didn't hear that. (Aloud.) Miss Driver, let me beg of you— [He sits back, frowning gloomily. Sally (with unrestrained merriment). Ha! ha! "In extreme cases—paroxysms—hypo- dermic injections." Oh, doctor, it will kill me—he I he ! he I he I (Recovering herself.) I'm sure I beg your pardon. Dr. C. (stiffly). Oh, certainly. Sally (penitently). It was all the fault of that odious letter F. I had them both on the same page, fits and faints, and— [She stuffs her handkerchief in her mouth, and bends over her book. DR. CHEVIOT arranges his papers and proceeds to boil within. A pause. Dr. C. (to CHARLOTTE, who has been studying attentively through everything). Did you make a special study of any particular subject, Miss Brassey? 180

First Aid to the Injured Charlotte (looking up). Yes; I took the re- suscitation of the drowned. Dr. C. If you will be so kind, then, and please be very, very careful. [SALLY involuntarily giggles, and DR. CHEVIOT looks at her sternly. Charlotte (speaking very slowly and distinctly). Lay the patient upon his back so that the water in the mouth may run out. Dr. C. (kindly). You mean lay him upon his face. Charlotte (with dignity). If you prefer it that way. (Continuing.) Then turn him over, taking care to keep the chest depressed and the head slightly elevated. Dr. C. (interrupting). The head depressed and the chest elevated. Charlotte. Didn't I say that? Dr. C. (shortly). No. Charlotte (calmly). I beg your pardon. (Continuing.) Move the arms gently up and down so as to induce artificial refrigera- tion. Dr. C. (wearily). Respiration, if you please. Charlotte (offended). That's what I said. (Continuing.) Finally, and this is of great importance: Roll the patient upon a barrel. Dr. C. (impatiently). Do not roll upon a barrel. 181 The Nineteenth Hole Charlotte (insistently). You distinctly told us to roll him upon a barrel. Dr. C. {restraining himself). Miss Brassey, I distinctly told you not to roll him upon a barrel. Charlotte (calmly argumentative). I can show it to you in my note-book. [She offers him the book. Dr. C. (waving it back). But I tell you that your notes are wrong. Charlotte (coldly). Do you wish me to correct them? Dr. C. If you will be so good. Charlotte (with dignity). Certainly. (She makes the correction.) It now reads: "Do not roll upon a barrel." Is that satisfactory? Dr. C. Perfectly. (Passing his handker- chief over his forehead.) I think that will do for to-day. [The telephone bell rings violently. Charlotte. But the patient is still uncon- scious. Dr. C. (rising and going to telephone at R. C. back). Excuse me; it may be a call for me. (Answering.) Yes; this is Dr. Cheviot—what? Speak louder, please. (He strikes the side of the box excitedly.) Heyl Say that again. (He listens with a horror-stricken countenance.) Very well, I'll come. (He hangs, up the re- ceiver and comes down slowly. Speaking with great deliberation.) May I inquire which one 182 First Aid to the Injured of you young ladies prescribed this morning for old Mr. Dormie's sore throat? [The girls look at each other but no one speaks. Dr. C. (still icily deliberate). Fortunately Mr. Dormie didn't take the prescription himself; he tried it on Mrs. Stymie's pug-dog. Mr. Dormie is now feeling very thankful, as the wretched animal immediately turned green about the mouth and went into a fit. (Sar- castically.) Perhaps Miss Driver would like to attend to the case. (Going to the table and taking his hat.) I suppose I must do what I can, though I don't think there is much chance. (Going up and speaking with suppressed agita- tion.) As it happens, Mrs. Stymie was my one rich patient, and that dog was worth $2000 a year to me. (Bowing.) Ladies, I have the honor to bid you a very good-morning. [Exit, R. C. back. Sally (jumping up). Well, of all the rude, nasty— Grace (stopping her). Girls, I did that. Charlotte. ) TT o „ [-You Sally. ) Grace (despairingly). Yes, I. Sally (explosively). Why couldn't Mr. Dormie have taken the medicine himself? Horrid old suspicious thing. 183 The Nineteenth Hole Charlotte. I'm sure he wasn't worth $2000 a year to anybody. Sally (mournfully). Two thousand dollars a year l You can never make that up to him, even though you are an heiress. There's no way in which he could take it. Charlotte (at window). I do believe that Belle is breaking the record. Such a crowd following her—she's just going to drive. [Exit, L. C. back. Sally (bolting out). You don't say! [Exit, hastily, L. C. back. Grace (with sudden resolution). But there is a way, and I shall take it. [HAZARD appears at door, L., with a bulger driver and a large file. Jack. Beg pardon—thought the class was over. [Enters slowly. Grace (going). So it is, and I am just going —to announce my engagement to Dr. Cheviot. Jack (shaking hands). I'm awfully glad, Miss Lofter. You don't play golf, do you? Grace (going up). No. I don't know a cleek from a clam. Jack. And neither does Cheviot. (Holding open door at R. C. back.) Never learn, as you value your eternal happiness. Never! never! never! (GRACE exit, R. C. back. JACK comes down.) Yes, they'll be happy as the day is 184

First Aid to the Injured long. (Filing away at the club.) I'm changing all my btilgers to straight-faced ones, but I'm afraid it's too late now. (Walking up and down nervously.) Hang it all! I must get some- thing to tone me up a bit. (Desperately.) I'll have some of Austin's whiskey, even if it should ruin my "iron-play." (He goes to the cabinet at R. C. and takes out a bottle and glasses. He pours out a drink and places the bottle on small table at L. C. so as to conceal the label from the sight of the audience. He seats himself in easy- chair at L, C. front. Drinks.) That isn't bad whiskey. I rather think that it might improve my "iron-play." (After a moment's pause.) It seems rather warm in here. (Closing his eyes.) Very warm. [He sleeps. Sounds of hand-clapping and applause heard without. MlSS CHEVIOT appears at window, L. C. back. Miss C. (speaking off). I'm going to put my score up. (She enters, and comes down, waving her score-card triumphantly.) I've done it— broken the record. (Stopping, and looking around.) What have they done with the bul- letin-board? (She catches sight of the bottle standing on the table.) What's that? (She suddenly snatches up the bottle with a face of horror.) Oh, never! It can't be! (Glancing at HAZARD asleep in the chair.) Jack, and un- 185 The Nineteenth Hole conscious already! Oh, what shall I do ? Help! Help 1 (Running up to window, L. C. back, and beckoning frantically.) Grace! Sally ! Charlotte ! [GRACE, SALLY, and CHARLOTTE appear at window, L. C. back. Sally (entering). Belle! What is it? [The others follow her in. Miss C. (pointing to bottle.) There! [The girls are horror-stricken. Miss C. Tell me—tell me— [She is unable to proceed. Sally (recovering herself). We must keep our heads. Charlotte, your note-book! [Miss CHEVIOT kneels at HAZARD'S right and begins to chafe his hand. GRACE nervously tries a succession of tourniquets on his left arm. Cl-IARLOTTE anxious- ly turns the leaves of her note-book, with SALLY looking over her shoulder. Sally (coming down). Grace! run, quick— the doctor1 (To CHARLOTTE.) Have you found it—the treatment? [GRACE exit hastily, L. C. back. Charlotte (calmly). Yes, and I will take charge of the case. Let us all keep perfectly cool. (Consulting book.) Is the patient still unconscious ? [HAZARD has opened his eyes and is look- ing about him in blank astonishment. 186 ' ' NICVISK I IT CAN'T 1I1C ' ' First Aid to the Injured Miss C. {pressing his hand to her heart). Jack! Oh, Jack! Jack. Belle I [He tries to rise, but SALLY holds him down. Miss C. (hysterically). Jack, dearest Jack, do you really know me? Jack (incredulously). It must be all a dream. [Closes his eyes. Charlotte (decisively). We mustn't let him get unconscious again. Burn some feathers, Sally. Pull his hair, Belle! Well, if you won't, I will. [She does so. Jack (opening his eyes). Ouch! (Seeing MISS CHEVIOT.) Belle! Is it really you? Miss C. (anxiously). You mustn't say a word, dear. We're doing everything we can for you. Jack. All right. Keep hold of my hand, and I'll be like a lamb. Charlotte. Never mind the feathers, Sally. Here, take the book while I prepare the antidote. [She goes to the table and pours out a dose. Jack (with some uneasiness). But won't you tell me— Miss C. Hush! hushl Please, dear Jack. Charlotte (administering the dose). There! [She manages to spill it all over him. Sally (snatching up the medicine-bottle). The Nineteenth Hole Charlotte! What have you done? You've given him twenty drops of strychnine instead of the antidote. Jack (cheerfully). No, you haven't—it all went down my collar. Charlotte (severely). Well, it can't be helped now. You would move your head around. Oh, I knew I'd forgotten something. We must get him upon his head at once. Sally (reading from book). "Get the patient upon his feet as quickly as possible." Charlotte (unwilling to yield the point). I'm sure the doctor said head. Sally. Well, look for yourself. (Thrusting the book into CHARLOTTE'S hand.) We must do something. Take hold of his arm, Belle. [Miss CHEVIOT and SALLY assist JACK to rise. Charlotte (consulting notes). I am certain that I am right. Sally (resolutely). Take his other arm, Charlotte, and I'll push behind. We must keep him moving. Jack (disposed to resist). Oh, I say, now! Miss C. (pleadingly). Jack! for my sake. Jack (submitting). All right, only keep hold of my hand. [The quartet cross over and back, SALLY pushing from behind. 188 First Aid to the Injured Sally (breathlessly). Keep him moving, keep him moving. Jack (at the top of his voice). But what is this all about—I will knowI Charlotte (with dignity). Since you insist upon it, Mr. Hazard—you are poisoned. Jack (horror-stricken). POISONED 1 I But I don't insist upon it. Miss C. (putting him along). Oh, Jack I dear Jack! Sally (pushing). Keep him moving, keep him moving. Enter DR. CHEVIOT, in haste, L. C. back. Dr. C. (running down). What's all this? Jack poisoned ! impossible! Let me see him. Sally. Of course he is. Look here. (She snatches up the whiskey-bottle and reads the label aloud.) "LAUDANUM! A DEADLY POISON! ! TAKE CARE! ! !" Dr. C. (taking the bottle). Oh! (He pulls out the cork and sniffs at it.) Exactly; it's my own particular private poison. Jack (puzzled). Why, you gave it to me yourself. Dr. C. Of course I did, and I told you not to scare at the label. I don't propose to have my "St. Nicholas Club Private Stock" sampled by everybody in the club. All. Oh! 189 The Nineteenth Hole Solly {indignantly). It's a beastly shame; that's what it is. [She joins CHARLOTTE, who is still read- ing her note-book. Dr. C. You should stick to fits, Miss Driver. [He goes up and joins GRACE, who enters, L. C. back. Jack (turning). Belle! Miss C. Don't say another word; it was all my fault. Jack (tenderly). I was too hasty. And per- haps a "bulger" does "pull" the ball. I've changed all mine to straight-faced. Miss C. Don't, Jack; I can't bear it. I've— I've just broken the record. Jack (admiringly). Broken the record 1 Miss C. (contritely). Yes, by two strokes; and—and—I did it with a brassey bulger. Oh, JackI [She buries her face on his shoulder. Dr. C. (coming down with GRACE). My dear- est, there's just one thing more. Grace (looking down). Yes. Dr. C. I pulled the pug through, after all, and Mrs. Stymie is profoundly grateful. My practice there will be worth $3000 in the future. Perhaps now—that is, under the present cir- cumstances—your answer— Grace (giving him her hand). It is still the same. 190 First Aid to the Injured Charlotte (looking up). Could we have done any more, doctor? It was impossible to get Mr. Hazard on his head. Sally (sarcastically). And he simply would NOT take the twenty drops of stryclinine. Dr. C. (turning). My dear young ladies, you have handled the case to perfection, and I congratulate you with all my heart. For even if you were not actually called upon to save life, you have at least succeeded in making it worth living for two miserable bachelors, who cannot thank you enough for your prompt and efficient tender of FIRST AID TO THE INJURED. [All join hands and bow profoundly. Miss C, JACK, SALLY, CHARLOTTE, DR, CHEVIOT, GRACE.

CURTAIN.

THE END