The Clicking of Cuthbert

there was no chance of the opposition being able to hire another car at

the garage. This machine was his own property, and the only other one

at present in the shop was suffering from complicated trouble of the

oiling-system and would not be able to be moved for at least another

day.

I, however, shook my head when he pointed out the advantages of his

position. I was still wondering about Ralph.

"I don't like it," I said.

"Don't like what?"

"Ralph Bingham's manner."

"Of course not," said Arthur. "Nobody does. There have been complaints

on all sides."

"I mean, when you told him how you intended to get the ball out of the

car."

"What was the matter with him?"

"He was too--ha!"

"How do you mean he was too--ha?"

"I have it!"

"What?"

"I see the trap he was laying for you. It has just dawned on me. No

wonder he didn't object to your opening the door and chipping the ball

out. By doing so you would forfeit the match."

"Nonsense! Why?"

"Because," I said, "it is against the rules to tamper with a hazard. If

you had got into a sand-bunker, would you smooth away the sand? If you

had put your shot under a tree, could your caddie hold up the branches

to give you a clear shot? Obviously you would disqualify yourself if

you touched that door."

Arthur's jaw dropped.

"What! Then how the deuce am I to get it out?"

"That," I said, gravely, "is a question between you and your Maker."

It was here that Arthur Jukes forfeited the sympathy which I had begun

to feel for him. A crafty, sinister look came into his eyes.

"Listen!" he said. "It'll take them an hour to catch up with us.

Suppose, during that time, that door happened to open accidentally, as

it were, and close again? You wouldn't think it necessary to mention

the fact, eh? You would be a good fellow and keep your mouth shut, yes?

You might even see your way to go so far as to back me up in a

statement to the effect that I hooked it out with my----?"

I was revolted.

"I am a golfer," I said, coldly, "and I obey the rules."

"Yes, but----"

"Those rules were drawn up by----"--I bared my head reverently--"by the

Committee of the Royal and Ancient at St. Andrews. I have always

respected them, and I shall not deviate on this occasion from the

policy of a lifetime."

Arthur Jukes relapsed into a moody silence. He broke it once, crossing

the West Street Bridge, to observe that he would like to know if I

called myself a friend of his--a question which I was able to answer

with a whole-hearted negative. After that he did not speak till the car

drew up in front of the Majestic Hotel in Royal Square.

Early as the hour was, a certain bustle and animation already prevailed

in that centre of the city, and the spectacle of a man in a golf-coat

and plus-four knickerbockers hacking with a niblick at the floor of a

car was not long in collecting a crowd of some dimensions. Three

messenger-boys, four typists, and a gentleman in full evening-dress,

who obviously possessed or was friendly with someone who possessed a

large cellar, formed the nucleus of it; and they were joined about the

time when Arthur addressed the ball in order to play his nine hundred

and fifteenth by six news-boys, eleven charladies, and perhaps a dozen

assorted loafers, all speculating with the liveliest interest as to

which particular asylum had had the honour of sheltering Arthur before

he had contrived to elude the vigilance of his custodians.

Arthur had prepared for some such contingency. He suspended his

activities with the niblick, and drew from his pocket a large poster,

which he proceeded to hang over the side of the car. It read:

    COME

    TO

    McCLURG AND MACDONALD,

    18, WEST STREET,

    FOR

    ALL GOLFING SUPPLIES.

His knowledge of psychology had not misled him. Directly they gathered

that he was advertising something, the crowd declined to look at it;

they melted away, and Arthur returned to his work in solitude.

He was taking a well-earned rest after playing his eleven hundred and

fifth, a nice niblick shot with lots of wrist behind it, when out of

Bridle Street there trickled a weary-looking golf-ball, followed in the

order named by Ralph Bingham, resolute but going a trifle at the knees,

and Rupert Bailey on a bicycle. The latter, on whose face and limbs the

mud had dried, made an arresting spectacle.

"What are you playing?" I inquired.

"Eleven hundred," said Rupert. "We got into a casual dog."

"A casual dog?"

"Yes, just before the bridge. We were coming along nicely, when a stray

dog grabbed our nine hundred and ninety-eighth and took it nearly back

to Woodfield, and we had to start all over again. How are you getting

on?"

"We have just played our eleven hundred and fifth. A nice even game." I

looked at Ralph's ball, which was lying close to the kerb. "You are

farther from the hole, I think. Your shot, Bingham."

Rupert Bailey suggested breakfast. He was a man who was altogether too

fond of creature comforts. He had not the true golfing spirit.

"Breakfast!" I exclaimed.

"Breakfast," said Rupert, firmly. "If you don't know what it is, I can

teach you in half a minute. You play it with a pot of coffee, a knife