The Clicking of Cuthbert

one day when Grace Forrester was knitting a sweater that there seemed a

chance of getting a clue to her hidden feelings.

When the news began to spread through the place that Grace was knitting

this sweater there was a big sensation. The thing seemed to us

practically to amount to a declaration.

That was the view that James Todd and Peter Willard took of it, and

they used to call on Grace, watch her knitting, and come away with

their heads full of complicated calculations. The whole thing hung on

one point--to wit, what size the sweater was going to be. If it was

large, then it must be for Peter; if small, then James was the lucky

man. Neither dared to make open inquiries, but it began to seem almost

impossible to find out the truth without them. No masculine eye can

reckon up purls and plains and estimate the size of chest which the

garment is destined to cover. Moreover, with amateur knitters there

must always be allowed a margin for involuntary error. There were many

cases during the war where our girls sent sweaters to their sweethearts

which would have induced strangulation in their young brothers. The

amateur sweater of those days was, in fact, practically tantamount to

German propaganda.

Peter and James were accordingly baffled. One evening the sweater would

look small, and James would come away jubilant; the next it would have

swollen over a vast area, and Peter would walk home singing. The

suspense of the two men can readily be imagined. On the one hand, they

wanted to know their fate; on the other, they fully realized that

whoever the sweater was for would have to wear it. And, as it was a

vivid pink and would probably not fit by a mile, their hearts quailed

at the prospect.

In all affairs of human tension there must come a breaking point. It

came one night as the two men were walking home.

"Peter," said James, stopping in mid-stride. He mopped his forehead.

His manner had been feverish all the evening.

"Yes?" said Peter.

"I can't stand this any longer. I haven't had a good night's rest for

weeks. We must find out definitely which of us is to have that

sweater."

"Let's go back and ask her," said Peter.

So they turned back and rang the bell and went into the house and

presented themselves before Miss Forrester.

"Lovely evening," said James, to break the ice.

"Superb," said Peter.

"Delightful," said Miss Forrester, looking a little surprised at

finding the troupe playing a return date without having booked it in

advance.

"To settle a bet," said James, "will you please tell us who--I should

say, whom--you are knitting that sweater for?"

"It is not a sweater," replied Miss Forrester, with a womanly candour

that well became her. "It is a sock. And it is for my cousin Juliet's

youngest son, Willie."

"Good night," said James.

"Good night," said Peter.

"Good night," said Grace Forrester.

It was during the long hours of the night, when ideas so often come to

wakeful men, that James was struck by an admirable solution of his and

Peter's difficulty. It seemed to him that, were one or the other to

leave Woodhaven, the survivor would find himself in a position to

conduct his wooing as wooing should be conducted. Hitherto, as I have

indicated, neither had allowed the other to be more than a few minutes

alone with the girl. They watched each other like hawks. When James

called, Peter called. When Peter dropped in, James invariably popped

round. The thing had resolved itself into a stalemate.

The idea which now came to James was that he and Peter should settle

their rivalry by an eighteen-hole match on the links. He thought very

highly of the idea before he finally went to sleep, and in the morning

the scheme looked just as good to him as it had done overnight.

James was breakfasting next morning, preparatory to going round to

disclose his plan to Peter, when Peter walked in, looking happier than

he had done for days.

"'Morning," said James.

"'Morning," said Peter.

Peter sat down and toyed absently with a slice of bacon.

"I've got an idea," he said.

"One isn't many," said James, bringing his knife down with a jerk-shot

on a fried egg. "What is your idea?"

"Got it last night as I was lying awake. It struck me that, if either

of us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fair

chance. You know what I mean--with Her. At present we've got each other

stymied. Now, how would it be," said Peter, abstractedly spreading

marmalade on his bacon, "if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, the

loser to leg out of the neighbourhood and stay away long enough to give

the winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood?"

James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye with

his fork.

"That's exactly the idea I got last night, too."

"Then it's a go?"

"It's the only thing to do."

There was silence for a moment. Both men were thinking. Remember, they

were friends. For years they had shared each other's sorrows, joys, and

golf-balls, and sliced into the same bunkers.

Presently Peter said:

"I shall miss you."

"What do you mean, miss me?"