"Don't rub it in!"

Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him, and the general conversation languished until the devil himself prompted one of the veteran golfers to offer advice:

"I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Bob. You're overgolfed. You've been playing too much lately."

"You've gone stale," said another.

"Nonsense!" argued a third. "You don't go stale at golf; you simply get off your game. Now what Bob ought to do is to take one club and a dozen b.a.l.l.s and stay with that club until he gets his shots back."

"That's no good," said a fourth. "If his wood has gone bad on him he ought to leave his driver in his bag and use an iron off the tee. Chick Evans does that."

"An iron off the tee," said the veteran, "is a confession of weakness."

"Bob, why don't you get the 'pro' to give you a lesson or two? He might be able to straighten you out."

"Oh, what does a professional know about the theory of golf? All he can do is to tell you to watch him and do the way he does. Now what Bob needs----"

Every man who plays golf, no matter how badly, feels himself competent to offer advice. For a long ten minutes the air was heavy with well-meant suggestions. Coming at the wrong time, nothing is more galling than sympathetic counsel. Bob Coyne, six-handicap man and expert in the theory of golf, hunched his shoulders and endured it all without comment or protest. Somewhere in his head an idea was taking definite shape. Slowly but surely he was being urged to the point where decision merges into action.

"I tell you," said the veteran with the calm insistence of age, "Bob ought to take a lay-off. He ought to forget golf for a while."

Coyne rose and moved toward the door. As his hand touched the k.n.o.b the irrepressible Parkes hurled the last straw athwart a heavy burden.

"If ever I get so that I can't enjoy this game any more," said he, "I hope I'll have strength of character enough to quit playing it."

"Oh, you do, do you?" demanded Coyne with the cold rage of a quiet man, goaded beyond the limit of his endurance. "Well, don't flatter yourself.

You haven't--and you won't!"

The door closed behind this rather cryptic remark, and the listeners looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Never knew Bob to act like this before," said one.

"Anything can happen when a man's game is in a slump," said the veteran.

"Take a steady, brainy player--a first-cla.s.s golfer; let him lose his shots for a week and there's no telling what he'll do. Nothing to it--this is the most interesting and the most exasperating outdoor sport in the world.

"Just when you think you've learned all there is to learn about it--bang! And there you are, flat!"

"He's been wolfing at me all morning," said Parkes. "Kind of silly to let a game get on your nerves, eh?"

"You'll never know how a real golfer feels when his shots go bad on him," was the consoling response. "There he goes with his bag of clubs.

Practice won't help him any. What he needs is a lay-off."

"He's headed for the caddie shed," said Parkes. "I'd hate to carry his bag this afternoon. Be afraid he'd bite me, or something.... Say, have you fellows heard about the two Scotchmen, playing in the finals for a cup? It seems that MacNabb lost his ball on the last hole, and MacGregor was helping him look for it----"

"I always did like that yarn," interrupted the veteran. "It's just as good now as it was twenty years ago. Shoot!"

A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested they listened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carrying profession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the name of Butch:

"And you oughta seen him at the finish--all he needed was an undertaker!

You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time.

The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag--darned if it wasn't pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the last hole----"

"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the clubhouse. "Here he comes now!"

Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what brought him into their midst.

"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which one would you take?"

"If I had a _what_?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement.

"Which one of these clubs do you like the best?"

"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!"

Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag.

"It's yours," said he briefly.

"Mine!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Butch. "You--you ain't _giving_ it to me, are you?"

Coyne nodded. "But--but what's the idea? You can't get along without that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!"

"Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf."

"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the privileges of long acquaintance. "n.o.body ever quits unless they get so old they can't walk!"

"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of these other boys----"

"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you meant it at first. I----"

"Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?"

"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This ain't Injun givin'? Because--me, I had my eye on that bra.s.sy for some time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, mister! Gee! What do think of that--hey? Some club!"

At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the getting was good.

"Please, can I have that driver?"

"Aw, mister, you know me!"

"The mashie would be my pick!"

"Who ast _you_ to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old bra.s.s putter there, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a bra.s.s putter."

"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's a mighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!"

In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entire collection of golfing instruments, representing the careful and discriminating acc.u.mulation of years, pa.s.sed into new hands. Everybody knows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite, once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possesses something more than proper weight and balance; it has personality and is, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver, the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, the scarred old niblick, the two putters--everything was swept away in one wild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these old friends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all,"