The Clicking of Cuthbert

of Millicent Boyd. Women are essentially hero-worshippers, and when a

warm-hearted girl like Millicent has heard a personable young man

imitating a bulldog and a Pekingese to the applause of a crowded

drawing-room, and has been able to detect the exact point at which the

Pekingese leaves off and the bulldog begins, she can never feel quite

the same to other men. In short, Mitchell and Millicent were engaged,

and were only waiting to be married till the former could bite the

Dyeing and Refining Company's ear for a bit of extra salary.

Mitchell Holmes had only one fault. He lost his temper when playing

golf. He seldom played a round without becoming piqued, peeved, or--in

many cases--chagrined. The caddies on our links, it was said, could

always worst other small boys in verbal argument by calling them some

of the things they had heard Mitchell call his ball on discovering it

in a cuppy lie. He had a great gift of language, and he used it

unsparingly. I will admit that there was some excuse for the man. He

had the makings of a brilliant golfer, but a combination of bad luck

and inconsistent play invariably robbed him of the fruits of his skill.

He was the sort of player who does the first two holes in one under

bogey and then takes an eleven at the third. The least thing upset him

on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the

butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

It seemed hardly likely that this one kink in an otherwise admirable

character would ever seriously affect his working or professional life,

but it did. One evening, as I was sitting in my garden, Alexander

Paterson was announced. A glance at his face told me that he had come

to ask my advice. Rightly or wrongly, he regarded me as one capable of

giving advice. It was I who had changed the whole current of his life

by counselling him to leave the wood in his bag and take a driving-iron

off the tee; and in one or two other matters, like the choice of a

putter (so much more important than the choice of a wife), I had been

of assistance to him.

Alexander sat down and fanned himself with his hat, for the evening was

warm. Perplexity was written upon his fine face.

"I don't know what to do," he said.

"Keep the head still--slow back--don't press," I said, gravely. There

is no better rule for a happy and successful life.

"It's nothing to do with golf this time," he said. "It's about the

treasurership of my company. Old Smithers retires next week, and I've

got to find a man to fill his place."

"That should be easy. You have simply to select the most deserving from

among your other employees."

"But which is the most deserving? That's the point. There are

two men who are capable of holding the job quite adequately. But then I

realize how little I know of their real characters. It is the

treasurership, you understand, which has to be filled. Now, a man who

was quite good at another job might easily get wrong ideas into his

head when he became a treasurer. He would have the handling of large

sums of money. In other words, a man who in ordinary circumstances had

never been conscious of any desire to visit the more distant portions

of South America might feel the urge, so to speak, shortly after he

became a treasurer. That is my difficulty. Of course, one always takes

a sporting chance with any treasurer; but how am I to find out which of

these two men would give me the more reasonable opportunity of keeping

some of my money?"

I did not hesitate a moment. I held strong views on the subject of

character-testing.

"The only way," I said to Alexander, "of really finding out a man's

true character is to play golf with him. In no other walk of life does

the cloven hoof so quickly display itself. I employed a lawyer for

years, until one day I saw him kick his ball out of a heel-mark. I

removed my business from his charge next morning. He has not yet run

off with any trust-funds, but there is a nasty gleam in his eye, and I

am convinced that it is only a question of time. Golf, my dear fellow,

is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone,

with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ball

where it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well. The

man who can smile bravely when his putt is diverted by one of those

beastly wormcasts is pure gold right through. But the man who is hasty,

unbalanced, and violent on the links will display the same qualities in

the wider field of everyday life. You don't want an unbalanced

treasurer do you?"

"Not if his books are likely to catch the complaint."

"They are sure to. Statisticians estimate that the average of crime

among good golfers is lower than in any class of the community except

possibly bishops. Since Willie Park won the first championship at

Prestwick in the year 1860 there has, I believe, been no instance of an

Open Champion spending a day in prison. Whereas the bad golfers--and by

bad I do not mean incompetent, but black-souled--the men who fail to

count a stroke when they miss the globe; the men who never replace a