The Clicking of Cuthbert

James paused for a moment for air, and as he paused Miss Forrester

spoke.

"This is all gibberish to me," she said.

"Gibberish!" gasped James. "I am quoting verbatim from one of the best

authorities on golf."

Miss Forrester swung her tennis racket irritably.

"Golf," she said, "bores me pallid. I think it is the silliest game

ever invented!"

The trouble about telling a story is that words are so feeble a means

of depicting the supreme moments of life. That is where the artist has

the advantage over the historian. Were I an artist, I should show James

at this point falling backwards with his feet together and his eyes

shut, with a semi-circular dotted line marking the progress of his

flight and a few stars above his head to indicate moral collapse. There

are no words that can adequately describe the sheer, black horror that

froze the blood in his veins as this frightful speech smote his ears.

He had never inquired into Miss Forrester's religious views before, but

he had always assumed that they were sound. And now here she was

polluting the golden summer air with the most hideous blasphemy. It

would be incorrect to say that James's love was turned to hate. He did

not hate Grace. The repulsion he felt was deeper than mere hate. What

he felt was not altogether loathing and not wholly pity. It was a blend

of the two.

There was a tense silence. The listening world stood still. Then,

without a word, James Todd turned and tottered away.

       *       *       *       *       *

Peter was working moodily in the twelfth bunker when his friend

arrived. He looked up with a start. Then, seeing that the other was

alone, he came forward hesitatingly.

"Am I to congratulate you?"

James breathed a deep breath.

"You are!" he said. "On an escape!"

"She refused you?"

"She didn't get the chance. Old man, have you ever sent one right up

the edge of that bunker in front of the seventh and just not gone in?"

"Very rarely."

"I did once. It was my second shot, from a good lie, with the light

iron, and I followed well through and thought I had gone just too far,

and, when I walked up, there was my ball on the edge of the bunker,

nicely teed up on a chunk of grass, so that I was able to lay it dead

with my mashie-niblick, holing out in six. Well, what I mean to say is,

I feel now as I felt then--as if some unseen power had withheld me in

time from some frightful disaster."

"I know just how you feel," said Peter, gravely.

"Peter, old man, that girl said golf bored her pallid. She said she

thought it was the silliest game ever invented." He paused to mark the

effect of his words. Peter merely smiled a faint, wan smile. "You don't

seem revolted," said James.

"I am revolted, but not surprised. You see, she said the same thing to

me only a few minutes before."

"She did!"

"It amounted to the same thing. I had just been telling her how I did

the lake-hole today in two, and she said that in her opinion golf was a

game for children with water on the brain who weren't athletic enough

to play Animal Grab."

The two men shivered in sympathy.

"There must be insanity in the family," said James at last.

"That," said Peter, "is the charitable explanation."

"We were fortunate to find it out in time."

"We were!"

"We mustn't run a risk like that again."

"Never again!"

"I think we had better take up golf really seriously. It will keep us

out of mischief."

"You're quite right. We ought to do our four rounds a day regularly."

"In spring, summer, and autumn. And in winter it would be rash not to

practise most of the day at one of those indoor schools."

"We ought to be safe that way."

"Peter, old man," said James, "I've been meaning to speak to you about

it for some time. I've got Sandy MacBean's new book, and I think you

ought to read it. It is full of helpful hints."

"James!"

"Peter!"

Silently the two men clasped hands. James Todd and Peter Willard were

themselves again.

       *       *       *       *       *

And so (said the Oldest Member) we come back to our original

starting-point--to wit, that, while there is nothing to be said

definitely against love, your golfer should be extremely careful how he

indulges in it. It may improve his game or it may not. But, if he finds

that there is any danger that it may not--if the object of his

affections is not the kind of girl who will listen to him with cheerful

sympathy through the long evenings, while he tells her, illustrating

stance and grip and swing with the kitchen poker, each detail of the

day's round--then, I say unhesitatingly, he had better leave it alone.

Love has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times; but there

are higher, nobler things than love. A woman is only a woman, but a

hefty drive is a slosh.

3

 A Mixed Threesome

It was the holiday season, and during the holidays the Greens

Committees have decided that the payment of twenty guineas shall

entitle fathers of families not only to infest the course themselves,

but also to decant their nearest and dearest upon it in whatever

quantity they please. All over the links, in consequence, happy,