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Adventures of a Suburbanite

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<h2> X. ADVANCED GOLF </h2> THAT evening Millington dropped over to chat for a few minutes, and he was in good spirits. He told me he had found the automobile where I had left it with its nose against the tree, and that it had been necessary to hire a team to pull it home. Isobel said she would never forget the pleased expression on Millington's face as he saw the helpless machine being towed into his yard, and between what both of them said I felt rightly proud at having lifted such a load from his mind. “Now,” said Millington cheerfully, “we can all start for Port Lafayette in the morning. I will get up at four to-morrow morning and tinker at the motor, and by nine, or ten at the latest, we will be ready to start.” At ten the next morning, therefore, Isobel and I went over to Millington's garage, but our first glimpse of him told us all was not well. He was sitting on the garage step with his head buried in his arms, while his wife was sitting beside him, vainly endeavouring to console him. For awhile he made no response to my queries, and then he only raised his mournful face and pointed at the automobile. He was too overcome for words, and his wife had to give us the awful facts. “This morning at four,” she said, “Edward came out and prepared to do what he could to repair the motor you had so kindly put to the bad. He was then his usual, cheerful self. He leaped lightly into the chauffeur's seat, touched the starting lever, and, to his utter distress, the automobile moved smoothly out of the garage and down the driveway, without a single misplaced throb or sign of disorder. There was nothing the matter with the automobile at all. Not a thing to repair. It was as if it had just come from the factory. Of course he immediately gave up all idea of the little run to Port Lafayette. Now, there is only one thing to be done. You must take the machine and run it around the block until it is in a fit condition to be repaired. I am afraid you did not do a good job yesterday.” Although I felt rather hurt by the last words, I was not a man to desert Millington in his need, and without a word I jumped into the automobile and started. That morning I put in some hard work. It seemed that the automobile had repaired itself so well that nothing would ever be the matter with it again, but by persistent efforts and by doing everything an amateur could possibly do to ruin an automobile, I succeeded in developing its weak spots. Not until noon was I satisfied, but when the horses at last pulled the automobile into Millington's garage I felt I had done my duty. I had mashed the hood and cracked a cylinder, dished the left front wheel and absolutely ruined all the battery connections. I would have defied any man to make that automobile run one inch. It had been hard work, but I was amply repaid when Millington threw his arms around me and wept for joy on my shoulder. He was not usually a demonstrative man. “Next week, or the week after, John,” he said cheerfully, as he took off his coat, “I may have the machine patched up a little, and we will take that little run out to Port Lafayette. I feel that the trip has been delayed too long already, and I shall get to work at once.” “If you wish,” I said, “I will lend you Mr. Prawley to hold things while you work on them.” “Prawley?” said Millington. “Prawley? That man of yours? No, thank you, John. That man Prawley is so fearful of automobiles that he trembles at the sight of a pair of goggles. He would die of fear if we forced him into this garage.” I left Millington whistling over his work, and that afternoon I took my putter and went to the golf grounds alone, for I had spent half the night reading the golf book Mr. Rolfs had lent me, and I saw I had not gone at the game in the right way. I knew now that I should have held my club with my right hand more to the right—or to the left—and my right foot nearer the ball—or not so near it—and with the head of my club heeled up more—or not so much. The directions given by the book were very explicit. They said a player must invariably lay his thumb along the shaft of the club, unless he wrapped it around the shaft, or let it stick up like a sore toe, or cut it off and got along without it, or did something else with it. The book seemed to imply that the proper way for a beginner to learn golf was to lock himself in a dark closet and indulge in silent meditation until he became an expert player, but the closets in my house were so narrow and shallow I felt I could not meditate broadly in them. So I went to the Country Club. I met young Weldorf there, and as soon as he saw me he immediately proposed a round. He said he had wanted to play a round with me ever since he had heard of my clubs. He said he hoped I would not mind his dog being along, for the dog took a lively interest in the game of golf. So I told Weldorf I loved dogs and that I thought a dog or two scattered around the links added greatly to the picturesqueness of the game. Weldorf's dog was a rather thin dog, of the white terrier kind, with black spots, and Weldorf explained that the reason there were bare, flesh-coloured spots on the dog was because he was just recovering from an attack of mange. Weldorf drove first, and a beautiful drive it was, and with a gay bark the dog darted after the ball, but Weldorf spoke to him sternly, and he stopped short, although he still gazed after the ball yearningly. Then I drove. I exerted the whole of my enormous strength in that drive, and I think I surprised Weldorf. I know I surprised the dog. If I had been that dog, I, too, would have been surprised. There stood the dog, looking at Weldorf's ball, wagging his tail and thinking of nothing, and here came my ball with terrific speed. Suddenly the ball hit the dog on the hip with a splashy sort of smack, and immediately the dog was impelled forward and upward, giving voice, as we dog-fanciers say. He gave voice three times while in the air, and when he alighted he put his tail between his legs and dashed madly away. <hr /> <div class="fig"> <ANTIMG src="images/219.png" alt="219" width-obs="100%" /> </div> We were not able to retrieve the dog until we reached the third teeing ground, and then I apologized to him. He did not accept my apology. He looked upon my most friendly advances with unjust suspicion. He seemed to have no faith in my game, and kept well to the rear of me, but when Weldorf addressed him in a few well-chosen words he unlooped his tail and wagged it in a halfhearted sort of way. I decided to ignore the dog. I raised the hinged lid of the sandbox and took out a large handful of sand to form my tee, and letting the lid fall took a step forward. Immediately the dog gave voice! Weldorf had to raise the lid of the sand-box before the dog was able to get his tail out, but as soon as he had reassumed full control of his tail he placed it firmly between his legs and dashed madly away. It is nonsense to have a golf dog with a long tail. By the time we reached the sixth putting-green the dog had begun to get lonely, and assumed a cheerful demeanour. He returned to us with ingratiating poses, mainly sliding along the ground on his stomach as he approached, and I was glad to see him happy again, for I love dogs and I like to have them happy. He stood afar off, however, until he saw our balls on the putting-green. He knew that golfers do not “putt” as strenuously as they “drive.” Then he came nearer. I took the flag-pole from the hole and let it fall gracefully to the ground. Without an instant of hesitation the dog gave voice! It was a long flag-pole, made of a plump bamboo fish-rod, and when it fell it seemed to strike directly on the eighth dorsal vertebra of the dog, at a spot where he was not recovering very well from the mange. Weldorf said he had no doubt the dog would find his way home, and we stood and listened until the voice the dog was giving died away in the far distance, and then we holed out. It is nonsense for a dog to have dorsal vertebrae. When we reached the seventh hole I found that the grounds committee was already using my initiation fee, for the grass mowers were at work there, and a man with a rake immediately stepped up to me, and said in the most friendly manner that he would be willing to part with some golf balls for money, if I would say nothing about it to the Board of Governors. He had sixteen, nine of which I recognized as some of those I had lost the day before, and he very generously offered to let me have the lot at fifteen cents each. I purchased them eagerly, and the man who was driving the mower at once descended and offered me twelve more at the same price. Between there and the ninth hole numerous caddies appeared from behind trees and bunkers and offered me balls at ridiculously low prices, and I, quite naturally, took advantage of their offers. When I reached home Isobel asked me how I was progressing with my game. “Well,” I said, “I return with forty-two more golf balls than I had when I went out.” Instantly her face brightened. She congratulated me warmly and said she was sure Mrs. Rolfs and Mrs. Millington had overstated the evils of the game. She said she thought she could see an improvement in my health already. She advised me to keep at the game until my health was beyond compare. I now know that the book Mr. Rolfs lent me is mere piffle and that, for a man who takes his golf in the right way, a broom or a hairpin is as good as any other tool. I enjoy the game immensely, and find it great sport. Often I come home with fifty golf balls, and my low record is eighteen—but that was a legal holiday and the grass mowers were on vacation. I have so many golf balls in the house already that Isobel talks of having an addition built over the kitchen for storage purposes. As my game has improved I have acquired such dexterity that I can buy balls from the caddies at the rate of four for twenty-five cents. If I practise regularly I believe I shall in time reach a point where I can buy balls for five cents each. By holes, my best score is thirty-eight balls, made at the eighth hole on July 6th, from the red-headed caddy and the fat mowing man. My low score is one ball, made August 16th, at the first hole. I never make a large score there, as it is near the club house and the caddies are afraid of the Board of Governors. When golf is taken rightly it arouses the instincts of the chase in a man, and I now feel the same joy in running down a caddy and bargaining for found balls that others feel in hunting wild animals. Golf, taken thus, is a splendid game. And I have found that if I use my putter only, and knock the ball but a few yards each stroke, there is no need of losing a ball from one end of the year to the other. But even then one must remember the cardinal rule of all golfers—“Keep the eye on the ball.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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