The Clicking of Cuthbert

round white object on a little mound of sand. In spite of his austere

views, the High Priest, always a keen student of ritual, became

interested.

"Why does your Majesty do that?"

"I tee it up that it may fly the fairer. If I did not, then would it be

apt to run a long the ground like a beetle instead of soaring like a

bird, and mayhap, for thou seest how rough and tangled is the grass

before us, I should have to use a niblick for my second."

The High Priest groped for his meaning.

"It is a ceremony to propitiate the god and bring good luck?"

"You might call it that."

The High Priest shook his head.

"I may be old-fashioned," he said, "but I should have thought that, to

propitiate a god, it would have been better to have sacrificed one of

these kaddiz on his altar."

"I confess," replied the King, thoughtfully, "that I have often felt

that it would be a relief to one's feelings to sacrifice one or two

kaddiz, but The Pro for some reason or other has set his face

against it." He swung at the ball, and sent it forcefully down the

fairway. "By Abe, the son of Mitchell," he cried, shading his eyes, "a

bird of a drive! How truly is it written in the book of the prophet

Vadun, 'The left hand applieth the force, the right doth but guide.

Grip not, therefore, too closely with the right hand!' Yesterday I was

pulling all the time."

The High Priest frowned.

"It is written in the sacred book of Hec, your Majesty, 'Thou shalt not

follow after strange gods'."

"Take thou this stick, O venerable one," said the King, paying no

attention to the remark, "and have a shot thyself. True, thou art well

stricken in years, but many a man has so wrought that he was able to

give his grandchildren a stroke a hole. It is never too late to begin."

The High Priest shrank back, horrified. The King frowned.

"It is our Royal wish," he said, coldly.

The High Priest was forced to comply. Had they been alone, it is

possible that he might have risked all on one swift stroke with his

knife, but by this time a group of kaddiz had drifted up, and

were watching the proceedings with that supercilious detachment so

characteristic of them. He took the stick and arranged his limbs as the

King directed.

"Now," said Merolchazzar, "slow back and keep your e'e on the ba'!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A month later, Ascobaruch returned from his trip. He had received no

word from the High Priest announcing the success of the revolution, but

there might be many reasons for that. It was with unruffled contentment

that he bade his charioteer drive him to the palace. He was glad to get

back, for after all a holiday is hardly a holiday if you have left your

business affairs unsettled.

As he drove, the chariot passed a fair open space, on the outskirts of

the city. A sudden chill froze the serenity of Ascobaruch's mood. He

prodded the charioteer sharply in the small of the back.

"What is that?" he demanded, catching his breath.

All over the green expanse could be seen men in strange robes, moving

to and fro in couples and bearing in their hands mystic wands. Some

searched restlessly in the bushes, others were walking briskly in the

direction of small red flags. A sickening foreboding of disaster fell

upon Ascobaruch.

The charioteer seemed surprised at the question.

"Yon's the muneecipal linx," he replied.

"The what?"

"The muneecipal linx."

"Tell me, fellow, why do you talk that way?"

"Whitway?"

"Why, like that. The way you're talking."

"Hoots, mon!" said the charioteer. "His Majesty King Merolchazzar--may

his handicap decrease!--hae passit a law that a' his soobjects shall do

it. Aiblins, 'tis the language spoken by The Pro, on whom be peace!

Mphm!"

Ascobaruch sat back limply, his head swimming. The chariot drove on,

till now it took the road adjoining the royal Linx. A wall lined a

portion of this road, and suddenly, from behind this wall, there rent

the air a great shout of laughter.

"Pull up!" cried Ascobaruch to the charioteer.

He had recognized that laugh. It was the laugh of Merolchazzar.

Ascobaruch crept to the wall and cautiously poked his head over it. The

sight he saw drove the blood from his face and left him white and

haggard.

The King and the Grand Vizier were playing a foursome against the Pro

and the High Priest of Hec, and the Vizier had just laid the High

Priest a dead stymie.

Ascobaruch tottered to the chariot.

"Take me back," he muttered, pallidly. "I've forgotten something!"

       *       *       *       *       *

And so golf came to Oom, and with it prosperity unequalled in the whole

history of the land. Everybody was happy. There was no more

unemployment. Crime ceased. The chronicler repeatedly refers to it in

his memoirs as the Golden Age. And yet there remained one man on whom

complete felicity had not descended. It was all right while he was

actually on the Linx, but there were blank, dreary stretches of the

night when King Merolchazzar lay sleepless on his couch and mourned

that he had nobody to love him.

Of course, his subjects loved him in a way. A new statue had been