The Clicking of Cuthbert

"Let me tell you one vairy funny story about putting. It was one day I

play at Nijni-Novgorod with the pro. against Lenin and Trotsky, and

Trotsky had a two-inch putt for the hole. But, just as he addresses the

ball, someone in the crowd he tries to assassinate Lenin with a

rewolwer--you know that is our great national sport, trying to

assassinate Lenin with rewolwers--and the bang puts Trotsky off his

stroke and he goes five yards past the hole, and then Lenin, who is

rather shaken, you understand, he misses again himself, and we win the

hole and match and I clean up three hundred and ninety-six thousand

roubles, or fifteen shillings in your money. Some gameovitch! And now

let me tell you one other vairy funny story----"

Desultory conversation had begun in murmurs over the rest of the room,

as the Wood Hills intellectuals politely endeavoured to conceal the

fact that they realized that they were about as much out of it at this

re-union of twin souls as cats at a dog-show. From time to time they

started as Vladimir Brusiloff's laugh boomed out. Perhaps it was a

consolation to them to know that he was enjoying himself.

As for Adeline, how shall I describe her emotions? She was stunned.

Before her very eyes the stone which the builders had rejected had

become the main thing, the hundred-to-one shot had walked away with the

race. A rush of tender admiration for Cuthbert Banks flooded her heart.

She saw that she had been all wrong. Cuthbert, whom she had always

treated with a patronizing superiority, was really a man to be looked

up to and worshipped. A deep, dreamy sigh shook Adeline's fragile form.

Half an hour later Vladimir and Cuthbert Banks rose.

"Goot-a-bye, Mrs. Smet-thirst," said the Celebrity. "Zank you for a

most charming visit. My friend Cootaboot and me we go now to shoot a

few holes. You will lend me clobs, friend Cootaboot?"

"Any you want."

"The niblicksky is what I use most. Goot-a-bye, Mrs. Smet-thirst."

They were moving to the door, when Cuthbert felt a light touch on his

arm. Adeline was looking up at him tenderly.

"May I come, too, and walk round with you?"

Cuthbert's bosom heaved.

"Oh," he said, with a tremor in his voice, "that you would walk round

with me for life!"

Her eyes met his.

"Perhaps," she whispered, softly, "it could be arranged."

       *       *       *       *       *

"And so," (concluded the Oldest Member), "you see that golf can be of

the greatest practical assistance to a man in Life's struggle. Raymond

Parsloe Devine, who was no player, had to move out of the neighbourhood

immediately, and is now, I believe, writing scenarios out in California

for the Flicker Film Company. Adeline is married to Cuthbert, and it

was only his earnest pleading which prevented her from having their

eldest son christened Abe Mitchell Ribbed-Faced Mashie Banks, for she

is now as keen a devotee of the great game as her husband. Those who

know them say that theirs is a union so devoted, so----"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Sage broke off abruptly, for the young man had rushed to the door

and out into the passage. Through the open door he could hear him

crying passionately to the waiter to bring back his clubs.

2

 A Woman is only a Woman

On a fine day in the spring, summer, or early autumn, there are few

spots more delightful than the terrace in front of our Golf Club. It is

a vantage-point peculiarly fitted to the man of philosophic mind: for

from it may be seen that varied, never-ending pageant, which men call

Golf, in a number of its aspects. To your right, on the first tee,

stand the cheery optimists who are about to make their opening drive,

happily conscious that even a topped shot will trickle a measurable

distance down the steep hill. Away in the valley, directly in front of

you, is the lake hole, where these same optimists will be converted to

pessimism by the wet splash of a new ball. At your side is the ninth

green, with its sinuous undulations which have so often wrecked the

returning traveller in sight of home. And at various points within your

line of vision are the third tee, the sixth tee, and the sinister

bunkers about the eighth green--none of them lacking in food for the

reflective mind.

It is on this terrace that the Oldest Member sits, watching the younger

generation knocking at the divot. His gaze wanders from Jimmy

Fothergill's two-hundred-and-twenty-yard drive down the hill to the

silver drops that flash up in the sun, as young Freddie Woosley's

mashie-shot drops weakly into the waters of the lake. Returning, it

rests upon Peter Willard, large and tall, and James Todd, small and

slender, as they struggle up the fair-way of the ninth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love (says the Oldest Member) is an emotion which your true golfer

should always treat with suspicion. Do not misunderstand me. I am not

saying that love is a bad thing, only that it is an unknown quantity. I

have known cases where marriage improved a man's game, and other cases

where it seemed to put him right off his stroke. There seems to be no