The Clicking of Cuthbert

"What's golf?"

I had at that time just succeeded in getting my handicap down into

single figures, and I welcomed the opportunity of dilating on the

noblest of pastimes. But I had barely begun my eulogy when he stopped

me.

"It's a game, is it?"

"I suppose you could call it that," I said, "but it is an offhand way

of describing the holiest----"

"How do you play it?"

"Pretty well," I said. "At the beginning of the season I didn't seem

able to keep 'em straight at all, but lately I've been doing fine.

Getting better every day. Whether it was that I was moving my head or

gripping too tightly with the right hand----"

"Keep the reminiscences for your grandchildren during the long winter

evenings," he interrupted, abruptly, as was his habit. "What I want to

know is what a fellow does when he plays golf. Tell me in as few words

as you can just what it's all about."

"You hit a ball with a stick till it falls into a hole."

"Easy!" he snapped. "Take dictation."

I produced my pad.

"May the fifth, take up golf. What's an Amateur Championship?"

"It is the annual competition to decide which is the best player among

the amateurs. There is also a Professional Championship, and an Open

event."

"Oh, there are golf professionals, are there? What do they do?"

"They teach golf."

"Which is the best of them?"

"Sandy McHoots won both British and American Open events last year."

"Wire him to come here at once."

"But McHoots is in Inverlochty, in Scotland."

"Never mind. Get him; tell him to name his own terms. When is the

Amateur Championship?"

"I think it is on September the twelfth this year."

"All right, take dictation. September twelfth win Amateur

Championship."

I stared at him in amazement, but he was not looking at me.

"Got that?" he said. "September thir--Oh, I was forgetting! Add

September twelfth, corner wheat. September thirteenth, marry Amelia."

"Marry Amelia," I echoed, moistening my pencil.

"Where do you play this--what's-its-name--golf?"

"There are clubs all over the country. I belong to the Wissahicky

Glen."

"That a good place?"

"Very good."

"Arrange today for my becoming a member."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sandy McHoots arrived in due course, and was shown into the private

office.

"Mr. McHoots?" said Vincent Jopp.

"Mphm!" said the Open Champion.

"I have sent for you, Mr. McHoots, because I hear that you are the

greatest living exponent of this game of golf."

"Aye," said the champion, cordially. "I am that."

"I wish you to teach me the game. I am already somewhat behind schedule

owing to the delay incident upon your long journey, so let us start at

once. Name a few of the most important points in connection with the

game. My secretary will make notes of them, and I will memorize them.

In this way we shall save time. Now, what is the most important thing

to remember when playing golf?"

"Keep your heid still."

"A simple task."

"Na sae simple as it soonds."

"Nonsense!" said Vincent Jopp, curtly. "If I decide to keep my head

still, I shall keep it still. What next?"

"Keep yer ee on the ba'."

"It shall be attended to. And the next?"

"Dinna press."

"I won't. And to resume."

Mr. McHoots ran through a dozen of the basic rules, and I took them

down in shorthand. Vincent Jopp studied the list.

"Very good. Easier than I had supposed. On the first tee at Wissahicky

Glen at eleven sharp tomorrow, Mr. McHoots. Hi! You!"

"Sir?" I said.

"Go out and buy me a set of clubs, a red jacket, a cloth cap, a pair of

spiked shoes, and a ball."

"One ball?"

"Certainly. What need is there of more?"

"It sometimes happens," I explained, "that a player who is learning the

game falls to hit his ball straight, and then he often loses it in the

rough at the side of the fairway."

"Absurd!" said Vincent Jopp. "If I set out to drive my ball straight, I

shall drive it straight. Good morning, Mr. McHoots. You will excuse me

now. I am busy cornering Woven Textiles."

       *       *       *       *       *

Golf is in its essence a simple game. You laugh in a sharp, bitter,

barking manner when I say this, but nevertheless it is true. Where the

average man goes wrong is in making the game difficult for himself.

Observe the non-player, the man who walks round with you for the sake

of the fresh air. He will hole out with a single care-free flick of his

umbrella the twenty-foot putt over which you would ponder and hesitate

for a full minute before sending it right off the line. Put a driver in

his hands and he pastes the ball into the next county without a

thought. It is only when he takes to the game in earnest that he

becomes self-conscious and anxious, and tops his shots even as you and

I. A man who could retain through his golfing career the almost

scornful confidence of the non-player would be unbeatable. Fortunately

such an attitude of mind is beyond the scope of human nature.

It was not, however, beyond the scope of Vincent Jopp, the superman.

Vincent Jopp, was, I am inclined to think, the only golfer who ever

approached the game in a spirit of Pure Reason. I have read of men who,

never having swum in their lives, studied a text-book on their way down