The Clicking of Cuthbert

her. And Ramsden Waters was such a one. He might not look like a

Viking, but after all it is the soul that counts and, as this

afternoon's experience had taught her, Ramsden Waters had a soul that

seemed to combine in equal proportions the outstanding characteristics

of Nero, a wildcat, and the second mate of a tramp steamer.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night Ramsden Walters sat in his study, a prey to the gloomiest

emotions. The gold had died out of him by now, and he was reproaching

himself bitterly for having ruined for ever his chance of winning the

only girl he had ever loved. How could she forgive him for his

brutality? How could she overlook treatment which would have caused

comment in the stokehold of a cattle ship? He groaned and tried to

forget his sorrows by forcing himself to read.

But the choicest thoughts of the greatest writers had no power to grip

him. He tried Vardon "On the Swing", and the words swam before his

eyes. He turned to Taylor "On the Chip Shot", and the master's pure

style seemed laboured and involved. He found solace neither in Braid

"On the Pivot" nor in Duncan "On the Divot". He was just about to give

it up and go to bed though it was only nine o'clock, when the telephone

bell rang.

"Hello!"

"Is that you, Mr. Waters? This is Eunice Bray." The receiver shook in

Ramsden's hand. "I've just remembered. Weren't we talking about

something last night? Didn't you ask me to marry you or something? I

know it was something."

Ramsden gulped three times.

"I did," he replied hollowly.

"We didn't settle anything, did we?"

"Eh?"

"I say, we sort of left it kind of open."

"Yuk!"

"Well, would it bore you awfully," said Eunice's soft voice, "to come

round now and go on talking it over?"

Ramsden tottered.

"We shall be quite alone," said Eunice. "Little Wilberforce has gone to

bed with a headache."

Ramsden paused a moment to disentangle his tongue from the back of his

neck.

"I'll be right over!" he said huskily.

10

 The Coming of Gowf

PROLOGUE

After we had sent in our card and waited for a few hours in the marbled

ante-room, a bell rang and the major-domo, parting the priceless

curtains, ushered us in to where the editor sat writing at his desk. We

advanced on all fours, knocking our head reverently on the Aubusson

carpet.

"Well?" he said at length, laying down his jewelled pen.

"We just looked in," we said, humbly, "to ask if it would be all right

if we sent you an historical story."

"The public does not want historical stories," he said, frowning

coldly.

"Ah, but the public hasn't seen one of ours!" we replied.

The editor placed a cigarette in a holder presented to him by a

reigning monarch, and lit it with a match from a golden box, the gift

of the millionaire president of the Amalgamated League of Working

Plumbers.

"What this magazine requires," he said, "is red-blooded,

one-hundred-per-cent dynamic stuff, palpitating with warm human

interest and containing a strong, poignant love-motive."

"That," we replied, "is us all over, Mabel."

"What I need at the moment, however, is a golf story."

"By a singular coincidence, ours is a golf story."

"Ha! say you so?" said the editor, a flicker of interest passing over

his finely-chiselled features. "Then you may let me see it."

He kicked us in the face, and we withdrew.

THE STORY

On the broad terrace outside his palace, overlooking the fair expanse

of the Royal gardens, King Merolchazzar of Oom stood leaning on the low

parapet, his chin in his hand and a frown on his noble face. The day

was fine, and a light breeze bore up to him from the garden below a

fragrant scent of flowers. But, for all the pleasure it seemed to give

him, it might have been bone-fertilizer.

The fact is, King Merolchazzar was in love, and his suit was not

prospering. Enough to upset any man.

Royal love affairs in those days were conducted on the correspondence

system. A monarch, hearing good reports of a neighbouring princess,

would despatch messengers with gifts to her Court, beseeching an

interview. The Princess would name a date, and a formal meeting would

take place; after which everything usually buzzed along pretty

smoothly. But in the case of King Merolchazzar's courtship of the

Princess of the Outer Isles there had been a regrettable hitch. She had

acknowledged the gifts, saying that they were just what she had wanted

and how had he guessed, and had added that, as regarded a meeting, she

would let him know later. Since that day no word had come from her, and

a gloomy spirit prevailed in the capital. At the Courtiers' Club, the

meeting-place of the aristocracy of Oom, five to one in pazazas

was freely offered against Merolchazzar's chances, but found no takers;

while in the taverns of the common people, where less conservative odds

were always to be had, you could get a snappy hundred to eight. "For in

good sooth," writes a chronicler of the time on a half-brick and a

couple of paving-stones which have survived to this day, "it did indeed

begin to appear as though our beloved monarch, the son of the sun and