The Clicking of Cuthbert

He was now using his putter for every shot, and, except when he got

trapped in the cross-lines at the top of the hill just before reaching

Bayside, he had been in no serious difficulties. He was playing a nice

easy game, getting the full face of the putter on to each shot.

At the top of the slope that drops down into Woodfield High Street he

paused.

"I think I might try my brassey again here," he said. "I have a nice

lie."

"Is it wise?" I said.

He looked down the hill.

"What I was thinking," he said, "was that with it I might wing that man

Bingham. I see he is standing right out in the middle of the fairway."

I followed his gaze. It was perfectly true. Ralph Bingham was leaning

on his bicycle in the roadway, smoking a cigarette. Even at this

distance one could detect the man's disgustingly complacent expression.

Rupert Bailey was sitting with his back against the door of the

Woodfield Garage, looking rather used up. He was a man who liked to

keep himself clean and tidy, and it was plain that the cross-country

trip had done him no good. He seemed to be scraping mud off his face. I

learned later that he had had the misfortune to fall into a ditch just

beyond Bayside.

"No," said Arthur. "On second thoughts, the safe game is the one to

play. I'll stick to the putter."

We dropped down the hill, and presently came up with the opposition. I

had not been mistaken in thinking that Ralph Bingham looked complacent.

The man was smirking.

"Playing three hundred and ninety-six," he said, as we drew near. "How

are you?"

I consulted my score-card.

"We have played a snappy seven hundred and eleven." I said.

Ralph exulted openly. Rupert Bailey made no comment. He was too busy

with the alluvial deposits on his person.

"Perhaps you would like to give up the match?" said Ralph to Arthur.

"Tchah!" said Arthur.

"Might just as well."

"Pah!" said Arthur.

"You can't win now."

"Pshaw!" said Arthur.

I am aware that Arthur's dialogue might have been brighter, but he had

been through a trying time.

Rupert Bailey sidled up to me.

"I'm going home," he said.

"Nonsense!" I replied. "You are in an official capacity. You must stick

to your post. Besides, what could be nicer than a pleasant morning

ramble?"

"Pleasant morning ramble my number nine foot!" he replied, peevishly.

"I want to get back to civilization and set an excavating party with

pickaxes to work on me."

"You take too gloomy a view of the matter. You are a little dusty.

Nothing more."

"And it's not only the being buried alive that I mind. I cannot stick

Ralph Bingham much longer."

"You have found him trying?"

"Trying! Why, after I had fallen into that ditch and was coming up for

the third time, all the man did was simply to call to me to admire an

infernal iron shot he had just made. No sympathy, mind you! Wrapped up

in himself. Why don't you make your man give up the match? He can't

win."

"I refuse to admit it. Much may happen between here and Royal Square."

I have seldom known a prophecy more swiftly fulfilled. At this moment

the doors of the Woodfield Garage opened and a small car rolled out

with a grimy young man in a sweater at the wheel. He brought the

machine out into the road, and alighted and went back into the garage,

where we heard him shouting unintelligibly to someone in the rear

premises. The car remained puffing and panting against the kerb.

Engaged in conversation with Rupert Bailey, I was paying little

attention to this evidence of an awakening world, when suddenly I heard

a hoarse, triumphant cry from Arthur Jukes, and, turned, I perceived

his ball dropping neatly into the car's interior. Arthur himself,

brandishing a niblick, was dancing about in the fairway.

"Now what about your moving hazards?" he cried.

At this moment the man in the sweater returned, carrying a spanner.

Arthur Jukes sprang towards him.

"I'll give you five pounds to drive me to Royal Square," he said.

I do not know what the sweater-clad young man's engagements for the

morning had been originally, but nothing could have been more obliging

than the ready way in which he consented to revise them at a moment's

notice. I dare say you have noticed that the sturdy peasantry of our

beloved land respond to an offer of five pounds as to a bugle-call.

"You're on," said the youth.

"Good!" said Arthur Jukes.

"You think you're darned clever," said Ralph Bingham.

"I know it," said Arthur.

"Well, then," said Ralph, "perhaps you will tell us how you propose to

get the ball out of the car when you reach Royal Square?"

"Certainly," replied Arthur. "You will observe on the side of the

vehicle a convenient handle which, when turned, opens the door. The

door thus opened, I shall chip my ball out!"

"I see," said Ralph. "Yes, I never thought of that."

There was something in the way the man spoke that I did not like. His

mildness seemed to me suspicious. He had the air of a man who has

something up his sleeve. I was still musing on this when Arthur called

to me impatiently to get in. I did so, and we drove off. Arthur was in

great spirits. He had ascertained from the young man at the wheel that