"Members of the Greens Committee and one other"--and here he looked at Hamilton, whose face showed that he had not forgotten the uncla.s.sified hog--"we are here this evening to arrange an exchange of courtesies. You think you represent the Midland Manufacturing Company at this meeting.

You do not. You represent the Sundown Golf and Country Club. I represent the Third Avenue Country Club--an organisation lately formed. You may have heard something of it, though not under that name."

He paused to let this sink in.

"Gentlemen," he continued, "you may recall that I once made a courteous request of you for something which was entirely within my rights. You made an arbitrary ruling on that request. You refused to let me through.

You told me I was too fresh, and advised me to sit down and cool off. I see by your faces that you recall the occasion.

"You may also recall that I promised to devote myself to the task of teaching you to be more considerate of others. Gentlemen, I am the opposition to your playing through on Third Avenue. I am the Man Behind.

I am the Voice of the People. I am a singleton on the course, holding you up while I sink a putt. If you ask me why, I will give you your own words in your teeth: You can't go through because I don't want you to go through."

Here he stopped long enough to light a cigarette, and again his left eyelid flickered, though he did not look at me. I think if he had I should have erupted.

"You see," said he, flipping the match into the air, "it has been necessary to teach you a lesson--the lesson, gentlemen, of courtesy on the course, consideration for others. I realised that this could never be done on a course where you have power to make the rules--or break them. So I selected another course. Members of the Greens Committee and one other, you do not make the rules on Third Avenue. You are perfectly within your rights in asking to go through; but I have blocked you. I have made you sit down on the bench and cool off. Gentlemen, how do you like being held up when you want to play through? How does it feel?"

I do not regret my inability to quote Colonel Peck's reply to this question.

"Quit it, Jim!" snapped Watlington. "Your bark was always worse than your bite, and it's not much of a bark at that--'Sound and fury, signifying nothing.' Young man, I take it you are the chairman of the Greens Committee of this Third Avenue Country Club, empowered to act.

May I ask what are our chances of getting through?"

"I _know_ I'm going to like you--in time!" exclaimed Wally. "I feel it coming on. Let's see, to-morrow is Sat.u.r.day, isn't it?"

"What's that got to do with it?" mumbled Hamilton.

"Much," answered Wally. "Oh, much, I a.s.sure you! I expect to be at the Sundown Club to-morrow." His chin shot out and his voice carried the sting of a lash. "I expect to see you gentlemen there, playing your usual crawling foursome. I expect to see you allowing your fellow members to pa.s.s you on the course. You might even invite them to come through--you might _insist_ on it, courteously, you understand, and with such grace as you may be able to muster. I want to see every member of that club play through you--every member!"

"All d-d.a.m.ned nonsense!" bleated Peebles, sucking his fingers.

"Shut up!" ordered Watlington savagely. "And, young man, if we do this--what then?"

"Ah, then!" said Wally. "Then the reward of merit. If you show me that you can learn to be considerate of others--if you show me that you can be courteous on the course where you make the rules--I feel safe in promising that you will be treated with consideration on this other course which has been mentioned. Yes, quite safe. In fact, gentlemen, you may even be _asked_ to play through on Third Avenue!"

"But this agitation?" began Hamilton.

"Was paid for by the day," smiled the brazen rascal, with a graceful inclination of his head. "People may be hired to do anything--even to annoy prominent citizens and frighten a City Council." Hamilton stirred uneasily, but Wally read his thought and froze him with a single keen glance. "Of course," said he, "you understand that what has been done once may be done again. Sentiment crystallises--when helped out with a few more red handbills--a few more speeches on the street corners----"

"The point is well taken!" interrupted Watlington hurriedly. "d.a.m.n well taken! Young man, talk to me. _I'm_ the head of this outfit. Pay no attention to Jim Peck. He's nothing but a bag of wind. Hamilton doesn't count. His nerves are no good. Peebles--he's an old goat. _I'm_ the one with power to act. Talk to me. Is there anything else you want?"

"Nothing," said Wally. "I think your streak of consideration is likely to prove a lasting one. If not--well, I may have to spread this story round town a bit----"

"Oh, my Lord!" groaned Colonel Peck.

It was a n.o.ble and inspiring sight to see the Big Four, caps in hand, inviting the common people to play through. The entire club marched through them--too full of amazement to demand explanations. Even Purdue McCormick, trudging along with a putter in one hand and a mid-iron in the other, without a bag, without a caddie, without a vestige of right in the wide world, even Purdue was coerced into pa.s.sing them. At dusk he was found wandering aimlessly about on the seventeenth fairway, babbling to himself. We fear that he will never be the same again.

I have received word from Barney MacShane that the City Council will be pleased to grant a permit to lay a spur track on Third Avenue. The voice of the people, he says, has died away to a faint murmuring. Some day I think I will tell Barney the truth. He does not play golf, but he has a sense of humour.

LITTLE POISON IVY

I

The leopard cannot change his spots--possibly he wouldn't if he could; and, this being the case, the next best thing is to overlook as many of his freckles as possible.

Yesterday I sat on the porch at the Country Club and listened while the Dingbats said kind and complimentary things about young Ambrose Phipps, alias Little Poison Ivy, alias The Pest, alias Rough and Reddy. One short week ago the Dingbats would have voted him a nuisance and a menace to society in general. Yesterday they praised him to the skies. It just goes to show that good can be found in anybody--if that is what you are looking for.

Understand me: there has been no change in Ambrose. He is still as fresh as a mountain breeze. Unquestionably he will continue to treat his elders with a shocking lack of respect and an entire absence of consideration. He was born with a deep depression where his b.u.mp of reverence should have been located, and neither realises nor regrets his deficiency.

He will never change. It is the Dingbats who have changed. The whole club has changed, so far as Ambrose is concerned.

We are all trying to overlook the dark spots in his character and see good in him, whether it is there or not.

Now as to the Dingbats: if you do not know them you have missed something rich and rare in the golfing line. There are four of them, all retired capitalists on the shady side of sixty. They freely admit that they are the worst golfers in the world, and in a pinch they could prove it. They play together six days a week--a riotous, garrulous, hilarious foursome, ripping the course wide open from the first tee to the home green; and they get more real fun out of golf than any men I know. They never worry about being off their game, because they have never been on it; they know they can be no worse than they are and they have no hope of ever being better; they expect to play badly, and it is seldom that they are disappointed. Whenever a Dingbat forgets to count his shots in the bunkers, and comes home in the nineties, a public celebration takes place on the clubhouse porch.

Yesterday it was Doc Pinkinson who brought in the ninety-eight--and signed all the tags; and between libations they talked about Ambrose Phipps, who was practising bra.s.sy shots off the gra.s.s beside the eighteenth green.

Little Poison Ivy was unusually c.o.c.ky, even for him, and every move was a picture. At the end of his follow-through he would freeze, nicely balanced on the tip of his right toe, elbows artistically elevated, clubhead up round his neck; and not a muscle would he move until the ball stopped rolling. He might have been posing for a statue of the Perfect Golfer. When he walked it was with a conscious little swagger and a flirting of the short tails of his belted sport coat. He was. .h.i.tting them clean, he was. .h.i.tting them far, he had an audience--and well he knew it. Ambrose was in his glory yesterday afternoon!

"By golly!" exclaimed Doc Pinkinson. "Ain't that a pretty sight? Ain't it a treat to see that kid lambaste the ball?"

"Certainly is," agreed Old Treanor with a sigh. "Perfect form--that's what he's got."

"And confidence in himself," put in Old Myles. "That's the big secret.

You can see it in every move he makes. Confidence is a wonderful thing!"

"And youth," said Daddy Bradshaw. "That's the most wonderful thing of all. It's his youth that makes him so--so flip. Got a lot to say, for a kid; but--somehow I always liked him for it."

"Me too!" chimed in Doc Pinkinson. "Doggone his skin! He used to make me awful mad, that boy.... Oh, well, I reckon I'm kind of cranky, anyway.... Yes; I always liked Ambrose."

Now that was all rot, and I knew it. What's more, the Dingbats knew it too. They hadn't always liked Ambrose. A week ago they would have marked his swaggering gait, the tilt of his chin, the conscious manner in which he posed after every shot; and they would have said Ambrose was showing off for the benefit of the female tea party at the other end of the porch--and they wouldn't have made any mistake, at that.

No; they hadn't always liked young Mr. Phipps. n.o.body had liked him. To be perfectly frank about it, we had disliked him openly and cordially, and had been at no pains to keep him from finding it out. We had snubbed him, insulted him and ignored him on every possible occasion. Worst of all, we had made a singleton of him. We had forced him to play alone, because there wasn't a man in all the club who wanted him as a partner or as an opponent. There is no meaner treatment than this; nor is there anything more pathetically lonely than a singleton on a crowded golf course. It is nothing more or less than a grown-up trip to Coventry. I thought of all these things as I listened to the prattling of the Dingbats.

"Guess he won't have any trouble getting games now, hey?" chuckled Old Treanor.

"Huh!" grunted Doc Pinkinson. "He's dated up a week ahead--with Moreman and that bunch! _A week ahead!_"

"And he'll make 'em step!" chirped Daddy Bradshaw. "Here's to him, boys--a redhead and a fighter! Drink her down!"

"A redhead and a fighter!" chorused the Dingbats, lifting their gla.s.ses.

Yes; they drank to Ambrose Phipps, and one short week ago they wouldn't have tolerated him on the same side of the course with them. Our pet leopard still has his spots, but we are now viewing him in the friendly shade cast by a battered old silver cup: namely and to wit, the Edward B. Wimpus Team Trophy, permanently at home on the mantelpiece in the lounging room.

II