Mr. Punch's Golf Stories 6 – Anonymous · Verses Across
Literature · Humor
Mr. Punch's Golf Stories 6Chapter 6
18
Literature · Humor
Mr. Punch's Golf Stories 6
Chapter 6
AnonymousEnglish
'Onnesty is the best pollicy, and, 'Evin knows, 'Enery Wilks 'as allus tried 'is levil best to live up to them golden words. But I reckon there is certain excepshuns to the cast-iron 'onnesty of all of us, and every yumin being 'as 'is little weakness. Mine is golf balls.
Tips is well enuff in their way, and I 'ave nuthing at all to say agin them, but the present of a good ball is far more pleesing to the 'art of 'Enery Wilks. Praps it's becos of 'is allmost inkonquerabul pride which shrinks at times from taking munney from them 'oom 'e feels to be 'is equils or hinfeeriors; or praps it grattifies 'is artistick nachure to be given the himplements of that great sience which 'e onderstands so well. Any'ow golf balls is my temptashun, and one which once or twice in the course of my 'onnerabul kareer I 'ave allowed meself to yeeld to.
Some golfers will ercashunally 'and you tuppence or an 'arf-used ball, wif a jenial word of thanks for your attenshuns which is worth more to a proud nachure than the gift itself. And there's uthers 'oo never think of doing nuthink of the sort. Among them is Mister Schwabstein, 'oo is not French or Scotch, as you might think from 'is name, but German, wiv praps a touch of Jentile.
'E's a man what catches the eye on the links, it being 'is constant and hannoying 'abbit to were a peaked yotting cap, large specks, and a white silk coat which was once a good deal whiter. An egsellent sort of person, I dessay, in the 'ome sircle, but 'ardly what you'd call a brillyent success upon the links. They say as 'ow 'e 'as more munney than 'e ritely knows what to do wiv, but I fancy 'e's made it by never giving any of it away. 'Owever, 'Enery Wilks 'as done 'is best to put that rite.
Let me diskribe to you a rarnd which 'e played the uther day wiv Mister 'Erminius Brellett, our litterry member, 'oo allus seems to go out of 'is way to play wiv kurious people. I 'ave taken Mister Schwabstein in charge before, but never 'ave I seen 'is pecooliarities so noticeabul as on that day.
'E took the 'onner, and for about three minutes 'e addressed the ball wiv 'is 'uge, thick, ugly driver, which 'as always rarsed my perfessional hindignashun. 'E swung at last, quite slow like, but wiv all 'is great weight and strength piled into it. I shall never know egsackly what 'e did, becos the tees was dry, and for the moment I was 'arf blinded by the dust. But there was a thud and a krackling snap, and two things was flying through the thick, dusty air. Them two missils was the ball and the 'ead of the driver, and they fell togevver thirty yards from the tee. 'E said somethink which I couldn't catch and didn't want to, and walked rarnd in a slow sircle, smiling to 'isself. 'E's a man 'oo allus smiles. It often seems to me that it is 'is misforchune.
Then Mister Brellett took one of 'is yusual springing drives, which 'appened to come off, and 'e won that fust 'ole on 'is head. Mister Schwabstein kontrived to redooce 'is brassey to fragmints at the second 'ole; and after that he took out 'is niblick, and nuthing wouldn't perswade 'im to put it back. 'E drove wiv that niblick, and 'e played 'is many shots through the green wiv it. And the way that thick strong niblick eat into the turf was enuff to brake the 'art of 'Enery Wilks. We moved slowly forward, leaving be'ind us a line of crewel deep kassims, which nuthink wouldn't fill up. And 'is stile of bunker play was equilly distrucktive.
'Is noshun of getting out was to distroy the wall of the bunker wiv reppeated blows, and then to force 'is ball throo the rewings. I wouldn't 'ave belleeved that meer wood and iron could 'ave done the work that that one German niblick did wivout turning an 'air.
'E only smiled 'is slow smile when Mister Brellett or meself venchured a remmonstrance, and 'e would never pick up 'is ball. 'E persevered wiv each 'ole until at last 'e 'ad pushed the ball into the tin, and then 'e would turn and pat my 'ead wiv 'is large 'and. After the fust time I jenerally dodged, and once 'e turned and patted Mister Brellett's 'ead by accerdent. Like most litterry jents, the latter is rather touchy, and there was neerly trouble; but some'ow, thanks to Mister Schwabstein's apparent onconshusness of offense, it was erverted.
At the thirteenth 'ole Mister Brellett was five up. Mister Schwabstein put down a new ball, wiv a sort of groan, and pulled it wiv 'is niblick right rarnd into the rough. For a long two minnutes we 'unted 'igh and low, but nowhere could we find that ball. If I'd seen it I would 'ave handed it over at once, sich being my boundin dooty. But I never did see it. There was jest one little place in that rough where some'ow it didn't seem worth while looking. We 'ad to erbandon it at last; and Mister Schwabstein lost the 'ole and the match.
Later in the day I wandered down on a sort of ferlorn 'ope to that bit of rough, and kuriously enuff I walked bang on to that ball. There was severil courses open to me. I might 'ave 'anded it over to the orthorities, or I might 'ave kep' it as a memmentoe of Mister Schwabstein's unfaling jenerosity and kortesy. But 'Enery Wilks didn't see 'is way to doing either of them two things. 'E jest disposed of that fine new ball to the very best hadvantage.
GOLFING NOTES
"Denmark is the latest of the Continental nations to receive golf."--The Tatler.
(illustration)
But golf must have flourished at Denmark in Hamlet's time, judging by the above reproduction of a very ancient mural decoration which has just come to light.
See also quotation Hamlet, Act II., Scene 2:--" ... drives; in rage, strikes wide!"]
(illustration)
ENCOURAGEMENT.--Professional Golfer (in answer to anxious question). "Weel, no, sir, at your time o' life, ye can never hope to become a player; but if ye practise hard for three years, ye may be able to tell good play from bad when ye see it!"
(illustration)
Bertie (to caddie, searching for lost ball). "What are you looking there for? Why, I must have driven it fifty yards further!"
Diplomatic Caddie. "But sometimes they hit a stone, sir, and bounce back a terrible distance!"]
(illustration)
Old Hand. "Ah, I heard you'd joined. Been round the links yet?"
New Hand. "Oh, yes. Went yesterday."
Old Hand. "Whot did you go round in?"
New Hand. "Oh, my ordinary clothes!"]
(illustration)
GOLFING AMENITIES.
(Overheard on a course within 100 miles of Edinburgh).--Hopeless Duffer (who continually asks his caddy the same question, with much grumbling at the non-success of his clubs). "And what shall I take now?"
His Unfortunate Partner (whose match has been lost and game spoilt, at last breaking out). "What'll ye tak noo! The best thing ye can tak is the fower fifteen for Edinburgh!"]
THE PEDANTRY OF SPORT.--First Golf Maniac. I played a round with Captain Bulger the other day.
Second G.M. When did you get to know him?
First G.M. Oh, about the end of the Gutty Ball period.
(illustration)
Cheerful Beginner (who has just smashed the Colonel's favourite driver). "Oh, now I see why you have to carry so many clubs!"
TEE, TEE, ONLY TEE!
(Song of the Golf Enthusiast. After Thomas Moore)
AIR--"Thee, thee, only thee."
The dawn of morn, the daylight's sinking,
Shall find me on the Links, and thinking,
Of Tee, Tee, only Tee!
When rivals meet upon the ground,
The Putting-green's a realm enchanted,
Nay, in Society's giddy round
My soul, (like Tooting's thralls) is haunted
By Tee, Tee, only Tee!
For that at early morn I waken,
And swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon,
For Tee, Tee, only Tee!
I'm game to start all in the dark,
To the Links hurrying--resting never.
The Caddie yawns, but, like a lark,
I halt not, heed not, hastening ever
To Tee, Tee, only Tee!
Of chilly fog I am no funker,
I'll brave the very biggest bunker,
For Tee, Tee, only Tee!
A spell that nought on earth can break
Holds me. Golf's charms can ne'er be spoken;
But late I'll sleep, and early wake,
Of loyalty be this my token,
To Tee, Tee, only Tee!
Golf caddies are now very much in the public eye. The education of some of them is certainly not all that it should be. "Here's an honour for us!" cried one of them excitedly the other day, as he pointed to a paragraph in the paper headed, "King Alfonso visits Cadiz."
THE SCIENCE OF GOLF
[A certain make of field-glasses is advertised just now as "suitable for golf-players, enabling them before striking to select a favourable spot for the descent of their ball." There can be little doubt that this brilliant hint will be further developed, with some such results as those outlined in the following anticipation.]
As I told Jones when he met me at the clubhouse, it was a year or more since I had last played, so the chances were that I should be a bit below form. Besides, I was told that the standard of play had been so raised----
"Raised? I should just think it has!" said Jones. "Why, a year ago they played mere skittles--not what you could properly call golf. Got your clubs? Come along then. Queer old-fashioned things they are, too! And you're never going out without your theodolite?
"Well," I said with considerable surprise, "the fact is, I haven't got one. What do you use it for?"
"Taking levels, of course. And--bless me, you've no inflater, or glasses--not even a wind-gauge! Shall I borrow some for you?--Oh, just as you like, but you won't be able to put up much of a game without them."
"Does your caddie take all those things?" I asked, pointing to the curious assortment of machinery which Jones had put together.
"My caddies do," he corrected. "No one takes less than three nowadays. Good; there's only one couple on the first tee, so we shall get away in half an hour or so."
"I should hope so!" I remarked. "Do you mean that it will be half an hour before those men have played two shots?"
"There or thereabouts. Simkins is a fast player--wonderful head for algebra that man has--so it may be a shade less. Come and watch him; then you'll see what golf is!"
And indeed I watched him with much interest. First he surveyed the country with great care through a field-glass. Then he squinted along a theodolite at a distant pole. Next he used a strange instrument which was, Jones told me, a wind-gauge, and tapped thoughtfully at a pocket-barometer. After that he produced paper and pencil, and was immersed apparently in difficult sums. Finally, he summoned one of his caddies, who carried a metal cylinder. A golf ball was connected to this by a piece of india-rubber tubing, and a slight hissing noise was heard.
"Putting in the hydrogen," explained Jones. "Everything depends upon getting the right amount. New idea? Not very; even a year ago you must have seen pneumatic golf balls--filled with compressed air? Well, this is only an obvious improvement. There, he's going to drive now."
And this he did, using a club unlike anything I had seen before. Then he surveyed the putting-green--about half a mile away--through his glasses, and remarked that it was a fairish shot, the ball being within three inches of the hole. His companion, who went through the same lengthy preliminaries, was less fortunate. In a tone of considerable disgust he announced that he had over-driven the hole by four hundred yards.
"Too much hydrogen," murmured Jones, "or else he got his formulae muddled. Well, we can start now. Shall I lead the way?"
I begged him to do so. He in turn surveyed the country, consulted instruments, did elaborate sums, inflated his ball.
"Now," he said, at length settling into his stance, "now I'll show you."
And then he missed the ball clean.
... Of course he ought not to have used such language, and yet it was a sort of relief to find something about the game which was entirely unchanged.
(illustration)
A LAST RESORT.--Miss Armstrong (who has foozled the ball six times with various clubs). "And which of the sticks am I to use now?"
Weary Caddie. "Gie it a bit knock wi' the bag!"]
(illustration)
Caddie (in stage whisper to Biffin, who is frightfully nervous). "Don't you get nervous, sir. It's all right. I've told every one of 'em you can't play!"
(illustration)
Fitzfoozle (a beginner, who is "teaching" a lady on the men's links, and loses a club). "Pardon me, sir. Have you seen a lady's club anywhere?"
Admiral Peppercorn (very irate at being delayed, wishes ladies would play on their own course). "No, sir, but there's a goose club at the 'Pig and Whistle,' I believe. Try that!"]
ROYAL AND ANCIENT RECORDS.--The Glasgow Evening Times displayed the following headings on the occasion of His Majesty's visit to North Berwick:--
VISIT TO THE GOLF COURSE.
A DRIVE THROUGH THE TOWN.
This, of course, constitutes a new record, the old one standing at about 330 yards.
THE GOLFER'S FRIEND AFTER LONG DRIVES--The Tea-Caddy.
GOLF MOTTO.--The "Hole" hog or none.
(illustration)
Golfer, whose ball has lodged under stone, has had several unsuccessful shots, and finally, with a tremendous stroke, smashed his club.
Old Man. "You put me in moind of my old jackass."
Golfer. "What d'you mean, you idiot?"
Old Man. "Yer've got more strength than knowledge!"]
THE MOAN OF THE MAIDEN
(After Tennyson)
Golf! Golf! Golf!
By the side of the sounding sea;
And I would that my ears had never
Heard aught of the "links" and the "tee."
Oh, well for the man of my heart,
That he bets on the "holes" and the play;
Oh, well for the "caddie" that carries
The "clubs," and earns his pay.
He puts his red coat on,
And he roams on the sandy hill;
But oh! for the touch of that golfer's hand,
That the "niblick" wields with a will.
Golf! Golf! Golf!
Where the "bunkers" vex by the sea;
But the days of Tennis and Croquet
Will never come back to me!
VIRGIL ON GOLF.--"Miscueruntque herbas et non innoxia verba." Georgics, 3, 283.
TO CORRESPONDENTS.--"An Inexperienced Golfer" writes to inquire whether what he has heard about "the Tee Duty" will in any way affect the "caddies."
(illustration)
WILLING TO COMPENSATE.--Mrs. Lightfoot. "Oh, wait a minute, Mr. Sharp--don't drive yet. My husband is still on the green." Mr. Sharp. "Never mind. I'll risk it. For if I do bowl him over, why, I'm ready to replace him any time!"
CAPABLE CADDIES
Rumour has it that a movement is on foot amongst a certain section of the golfing public to ensure that for the future all caddies on English links shall be compelled to furnish satisfactory proof that they are physically and morally qualified for the porterage and cleaning of clubs, and acquainted with the more rudimentary principles of the game. To this end, it is reported, an entrance examination paper is in course of preparation, in which individuals aspiring to official recognition as caddies will be required to obtain a percentage of at least eighty marks. The following questions are said to have been already drafted:--
1. Write your name, legibly if possible, in the top right-hand corner of the sheet.
(Do not trouble to insert your nickname, as it is a matter of indifference to the examiners whether you are locally known as "Tiger," "Ginger," or "Bill Bailey.")
2. State your age. If this is less than six, or more than seventy-five years, you may omit the remaining questions and retire at once from the examination.
3. Are you married or single? Give reasons for your answer.
4. Illustrate the finer points of distinction between
(a) a niblick and a gutty;
(b) a bye and a bulger.
5. Are you a Protectionist or a Total Abstainer?
6. Rewrite the following passage, correcting anything that may strike you as an error or an incongruity:--"In an 18-hole match, X., a scratch player with a handicap of 20, stood dormy 12 at the 17th hole, but while half-way through the final green was unfortunate enough to get badly bunkered behind the tee-box. Being required to play 'two more' to his opponent Y., who had laid himself dead in 6, he only played one of them, thus holing out in 5, and securing a victory by the narrow margin of 4 up and 7 to play."
7. Given that the regulation charge for a round is a shilling, would you consider yourself justified in attempting to exact an extra half-crown for club-cleaning from a player in spectacles, with a handicap of 27 and a wistful expression? (Candidates are advised to say "No" to this question.)
(illustration)
STIMIED.--Golfer. "Fore!"
Tinker. "What?"
Golfer. "Get out of the way!"
Tinker. "What for?"
Golfer. "I might hit you."
Tinker. "Thee'd best not, young man!"]
(illustration)
Licensed Caddy. "Carry your clubs, sir?"
Jones (who has chartered a small boy at a cheap rate).
"No, I've got a caddy."
Licensed Caddy. "Carry your caddy, sir?"]
"AS SHE IS SPOKE."--(In the train from Nice.) Enthusiastic Golfer (to friend, as train stops at Golfe-Juan): "Oh, here we are! This must be the place. 'Golfe,' golf. 'Juan,' jeu, play, you know. Yes, this is evidently the station for the links!"
THE NATURAL CREST OF EVERY GOLF CLUB.--The lynx.
FIVE-O'CLOCK "TEES."--Suburban golf.
(illustration)
THE RULING PASSION.--Laden and perspiring stranger. "Could you kindly tell me how far it is to the station?"
Sportsome Native. "About a full drive, two brassies and a putt."]
THE GOLF WIDOWS
(After E.B. Browning)
Do you hear the widows weeping, O my brothers,
Wedded but a few brief years?
They are writing home complaining to their mothers,
And their ink's suffused with tears.
The young lads are playing in the meadows,
The young babes are sleeping in the nest;
The young men are flirting in the shadows,
The young maids are helping them, with zest.
But the young golf widows, O my brothers,
Are weeping bitterly,
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
While you're swiping from the tee.
Do you ask their grazing widows in their sorrow
Why their tears are falling so?
"Oh--yesterday--to-day again--to-morrow--
To the links you ALWAYS go!
Your golf 'shop,'" they say, "is very dreary,
You speak of nothing else from week to week;
A really patient wife will grow a-weary
Of talk about a concentrated cleek."
Yes, the young golf widows, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they weep?
They are longing to be back beside their mothers,
While you're playing in a sweep.
And well may the widows weep before you
When your nightly round is done;
They care nothing for a stymie, or the glory
Gained by holing out in one.
"How long," they say, "how long in careless fashion
Will you stand, to drive the Dyke, upon our hearts,
Trample down with nailed heel our early passion,
Turning homeward only when the light departs?
You can hear our lamentations many a mile hence,
Can you hearken without shame,
When our mourning curseth deeper in the silence
Than a strong man off his game?"
(illustration)
"---- HE WOULD HAVE SAID"
A beautiful stroke missed! A favourite club broken! No words to bring relief!
American Friend (in the background, after a long pause). "Wa'al, Brown, I guess that's the most profane silence I've ever listened to!"]
(illustration)
SUBTLE.--"Aren't you a little off your game this morning, Mr. Smythe?" "Oh, I'm not playing this morning, Miss Bertha. Only just amusing myself."
SHOULD MARRIED MEN BE ALLOWED TO PLAY GOLF?
(Extract from a Golfer's Diary)
July 21.--Played Robinson, who would never win a match if it wasn't for his wife. Think that I shall start a links for bachelors only. (Mem.--Suggest to the committee that no married man is allowed to play golf in the mornings or afternoons.)
Hole I. I played perfectly, holing beautiful long putt. Robinson hopeless. One up.
Hole II. R. bunkered. Entirely his own fault. Two up.
Hole III. Holed my approach, allowing for both wind and slope of green; really a grand shot. Caught sight of Mrs. R. as I walked to the next tee. Three up.
Hole IV. Thought that I might have to speak to Mrs. R. at any minute. Missed my drive in consequence. Disgusting! Two up.
Hole V. R. seemed to be looking for his wife instead of attending to what I was saying. My drive lay on a buttercup, and who the deuce can be expected to play off buttercups? One up.
Hole VI. Stymied R. quite perfectly. He pretended to think that we were not playing stymies. We were. Two up.
Hole VII. Saw Mrs. R. looking aimlessly out to sea. These loafing ladies are enough to put any man off his game. Why can't they do something? One up.
Hole VIII. R. may say what he likes, but he waved to his wife. I was also annoyed by his stockings, which I should think Mrs. R. knitted. The sort of useless thing she would do. All square.
Hole IX. Got well away from Mrs. R., and though my caddy coughed as I was approaching I laid my ball dead. Beautiful shot. One up at the turn.
Hole X. Had the hole in my pocket when R. laid his approach dead. Ridiculous luck. All square.
Hole XI. Just as I was driving I saw Mrs. R. still looking at the sea. I complained, but R. took no notice. At any rate she cost me the hole. One down.
Hole XII. Vardon couldn't have played better than I did, and even R. had to say "Good shot!" twice. All square.
Hole XIII. As I was putting I had a feeling in my back that Mrs. R. had arrived at last. Missed my putt and only halved the hole.
Hole XIV. Couldn't see Mrs. R. anywhere. Wondered where on earth she had got to, or whether she was drowned. Of course I lost the hole. One down.
Hole XV. A little dispute, as R. claimed that his ball--which was under a wheelbarrow--was on ground under repair. Absolutely foolish, and I told him so. All square.
Hole XVI. Made a perfect drive, approach and putt. Looked everywhere for Mrs. R. and couldn't see her. One up.
Hole XVII. Completely put off by wondering when I should see Mrs. R. Most unfair. Told my caddy I should report him to the committee. All square.
Hole XVIII. Saw Mrs. R. on a hill half a mile away. Got on my nerves. R. said, "Halloa, there's my wife! I thought she wasn't coming out this morning." Lost the hole and the match, and told the secretary that R.'s handicap ought to be reduced.
(illustration)
"SHE WAS NOT A GOLFER"
Husband. "What on earth has happened to my driver?"
Wife. "Oh, I couldn't find the hammer, so I used that thing. It wasn't much use, though."]
(illustration)
OUR VILLAGE
The Golf-Club in full swing.]
(illustration)
She. "Why, Mr. Smith, you don't mean to say you have taken up golf?"
Smith (age 78). "Yes. I found I was getting a bit too old for lawn tennis!"]
(illustration)
ERRATIC
Pedestrian (anxious for his safety). "Now, which way are you going to hit the ball?"
Worried Beginner. "Only wish to goodness I knew myself!"]
(illustration)
SWEET SIMPLICITY
Diffident Man (who does not know to how much of an ingenue he is talking). "Have you been out long, Miss Grace?"
Miss Grace (consulting her wrist-strap). "Oh, about three-quarters of an hour. You see we were asked to come punctually."]
LINES ON THE LINKS
Hard by the biggest hazard on the course,
Beneath the shelter of a clump of gorse,
Secure from shots from off the heel or toe,
I watch the golfers as they come and go.
I see the fat financier, whose "dunch"
Suggests too copious draughts of "fizz" at lunch;
While the lean usher, primed with ginger beer,
Surmounts the yawning bunker and lies clear.
I see a member of the House of Peers
Within an ace of bursting into tears,
When, after six stout niblick shots, his ball
Lies worse than if he had not struck at all.
But some in silent agony endure
Misfortunes no "recovery" can cure,
While others, even men who stand at plus,
Loudly ejaculate the frequent cuss.
An aged Anglo-Indian oft I see
Who waggles endlessly upon the tee,
Causing impatience of the fiercest kind
To speedy couples pressing from behind.
Familiar also is the red-haired Pat
Who plays in rain or shine without a hat,
And who, whenever things are out of joint,
"Sockets" his iron shots to cover point.
Before ten thirty, also after five,
The links with lady players are alive,
At other seasons, by the rules in force,
Restricted to their own inferior course.
One matron, patient in her way as Job,
I've seen who nine times running missed the globe;
But then her daughter, limber maid, can smite
Close on two hundred yards the bounding Kite.
Dusk falls upon the bracken, bents and whins;
The careful green-keeper removes the pins,
To-morrow being Sunday, and the sward
Is freed from gutty and from rubber-cored.
Homeward unchecked by cries of "Fore!" I stroll,
Revolving many problems in my soul,
And marvelling at the mania which bids
Sexagenarians caracole like kids;
Which causes grave and reverend signiors
To talk for hours of nothing but their scores,
And worse, when baffled by a little ball,
On the infernal deities to call;
Which brightens overworked officials' lives;
Which bores to tears their much-enduring wives;
Which fosters the consumption of white port,
And many other drinks, both long and short.
Who then, in face of functions so diverse,
Will call thee, golf, a blessing or a curse?
Or choose between the Premier's predilection
And Rosebery's deliberate rejection?
Not mine to judge: I merely watch and note
Thy votaries as they grieve or as they gloat,
Uncertain whether envy or amaze
Or pity most is prompted by the craze.
(illustration)
Foreigner (who has "pulled" badly, and hit his partner in a tender spot), "Mille pardons, monsieur! My clob--he deceived me!"
(illustration)
Tommy. "I say, do you know who's winning?"
Ethel. "I think uncle must be--I heard him offer to carry auntie's clubs."]
THE HOLE CONCERN
SCENE--Any golf-club where an alteration of the course is in prospect. TIME--Any time, from dawn to dusk. CHARACTERS--Any number of Members, plus (on this occasion) an Inoffensive Stranger.
First Member. (catching sight of Inoffensive Stranger). Look here, Nobbs, you're an impartial judge, we'll have your opinion. What I say is this. If you take the present 4th hole and make it the 13th, putting the tee back ten yards behind the 12th, and carry the lower green fifteen yards to the right, and play the 2nd, 5th and 16th holes in reverse order, keeping clear of the ditch outside the 4th green, you'll bring----
Second Member. Oh, that's rubbish. Anybody with a grain of sense would see that you'd utterly ruin the course that way. My plan is to take the first three, the 11th, and the 14th--you understand, Nobbs?--(slowly and emphatically) the first three, the 11th, and the 14th.
Inoffensive Stranger. Yes?
Second M. (quickly). And leave 'em as they are. Leave 'em just exactly as they are. Then you do away with the next, make the 3rd into the 7th, and----
I.S. (horribly confused). But----
Third M. Yes, I know--you're thinking of the crossing from the 14th. And you're perfectly right. Simply fatal, that would be; too dangerous altogether. What we really want is a 2nd hole, and my plan would make a splendid one--really sporting, and giving these gentlemen who fancy their play a bit to do.
Second M. Don't know about that. Tried that patent 2nd hole of yours this morning out of curiosity. Holed it with my third, and might have done it in two, with a bit of luck.
Third M. (whistles expressively). Oh, come! Splendid player you are, and all that--handicap's fifteen, isn't it?--but there aren't many of us who would stand here and say calmly that we'd done a hole of 420 yards in three! Really, you know----
Second M. 420 yards? 130, you mean.
Third M. (defiantly). 420, if an inch.
Second M. But look here, you told me yourself only yesterday----
Third M. (slightly taken aback). Oh, ah, yes. I understand now. I did think, at one time, of making the 2nd a short hole. But this is quite a different idea. Miles better, in fact. It flashed across me quite suddenly at dinner-time last night. Sort of inspiration--kind of thing you can't account for--but there it is, you see.
Fourth M. Well, what you fellows can argue about like this beats me altogether. There's only one possible way of improving the course, and I showed you the plan of it last week. It won't be adopted--not likely. So good, and simple, and inexpensive that the committee won't look at it. Couldn't expect anything else. Anyhow (with an air of unappreciated heroism)--I've done my best for the club!
(Sighs heavily, and picks up a newspaper.)
Fifth M. (brutally). Oh, we know all about that blessed plan of yours. Now, I'm open to conviction. Mind you, I don't condemn anybody else's scheme. All that I say is, that if a man doesn't see that my plan is the best, he's a dunder-headed jackass, and that's all about it. What do you think, Mr. Nobbs?
First M. (compassionately). Ah, it's those whins below the 17th that are bothering you. But if you exchange the 8th and the 10th----
Second M. (abruptly). Rot!
(The battle continues. The Inoffensive Stranger stealthily withdraws. (Curtain.))
(illustration)
A TOWN MOUSE
Jones. "Well, my little man, what are you thinking about?"
London Boy (who has never been out of Whitechapel before). "I'm thinkin' it's time yer mother put yer into trousers!"]
(illustration)
A MARTYR TO APPEARANCES
Young Lady. "I say, caddie, what does Mr. McFadjock do with all these clubs?"
Caddie (wofully preparing to follow his tyrant). "He makes me carry them!"]
(illustration)
LINK(S)ED SWEETNESS
The Real Caddie (audibly). "This club is going to ruin--allowing all these ladies to join!"
Miss Sharp. "They evidently can't get gentlemen!"]
(illustration)
Sanguine Golfer. "Is that on the 'carpet,' caddie?"
Caddie (as the ball swerves into cottage window). "Yus, sir; front parlour, sir!"]
(illustration)
THE OLD TYPE OF LINK MAN.
Supper time.]
(illustration)
THE NEW TYPE OF LINK MAN.
Tee time.]
"A THREE-CARD LAY"
Long ago in Sweet September,
Oh! the day I well remember,
I was playing on the Links against the winsomest of maids;
In a "cup" my ball was lying,
And the "divots" round were flying,
And with eyes-a-dance she said to me, "Your iron's the King
of Spades!"
Now a foe, on such occasion,
Of the feminine persuasion,
Fair and twenty to the game a sort of subtlety imparts;
And I felt its potent glamour,
And I answered with a stammer
Shy and nervous, "It was rash of me to play the Queen of Hearts!"
Any further explanation
Of my inward admiration
Very likely had exposed me to the deadliest of snubs!
But a snigger from behind me
Just in time came to remind me
Of the presence of my caddie--and I blessed the Knave of Clubs!
(illustration)
GLORIOUS UNCERTAINTY
SCENE--At the Golf Club.
She. "Good-bye, Major. What's the programme for to-morrow?"
The Major. "Oh, either skating or punting, according to the weather."]
GOLF AND GOOD FORM
(By the Expert Wrinkler)
Is it good form to golf? That is a question I have been so repeatedly asked of late by correspondents that I can no longer postpone my answer. Now to begin with, I fear there is no doubt that golf is a little on the down grade--socially. Golf is no longer the monopoly of the best set, and I am told that artisans' clubs have actually been started in certain districts. The other day, as I was travelling in Lancashire, a man in the same compartment--with the most shockingly ill-cut trousers I ever saw--said to a friend, "I like 'Oylake, it's 'ealthy, and it's 'andy and within 'ail of 'ome." And it turned out that the chief attraction to him at Hoylake was the golf. Such an incident as this speaks volumes. But I always try to see both sides of every question, and there is unquestionably a great deal to be said in favour of golf. It was undoubtedly played by kings in the past, and at the present moment is patronised by grand dukes, dukes, peers and premiers.
(illustration)
BETWEEN FRIENDS.--Mr. Spooner, Q.C. (a Neophyte). "This is my ball, I think?" Colonel Bunting (an adept). "By Jove, that's a jolly good 'lie'!" Mr. Spooner. "Really, Bunting, we're very old friends, of course. But I do think you might find a pleasanter way of pointing out a perfectly unintentional mistake!"
GOLF AND DRESS.
But the real and abiding attraction of golf is that it mercifully gives more opportunities to the dressy man than any other pastime. Football and cricket reduce everyone to a dead level in dress, but in golf there is any amount of scope for individuality in costume. Take the case of colour alone. The other day at Finsbury Park station I met a friend on his way home from a day's golfing, and I noticed that he was sporting the colours of no fewer than five different clubs. On his cap was the badge of the Camberwell Crusaders; his tie proved his membership of the Bickley Authentics; his blazer was that of the Tulse Hill Nondescripts; his brass waistcoat buttons bore the monogram of the Gipsy Hill Zingari; the roll of his knickerbocker stockings was embroidered with the crest of the Kilburn Incogs. The effect of the whole was, if I may be allowed the word, spicy in the extreme. Of course it is not everyone who can carry off such a combination, or who can afford to belong to so many first-class clubs. But my friend is a very handsome man, and has a handicap of plus two at Tooting Bec.
KNICKERBOCKERS OR TROUSERS.
The burning question which divides golfers into two hostile camps is the choice between knickerbockers and trousers. Personally I favour the latter, but it is only right to explain that ever since I was gaffed in the leg by my friend Viscount ---- when out cub-sticking with the Cottesmore I have never donned knickers again. To a man with a really well-turned calf and neat ankles I should say, wear knickerbockers whenever you get a chance. The late Lord Septimus Boulger, who had very thick legs, and calves that seemed to begin just above the ankles, used to wear knickerbockers because he said it put his opponent off his play. If I may say so without offence, he was a real funny chap, though a careless dresser, and I am told that his father, old Lord Spalding, has never been the same man since his death.
STOCKINGS AND CALVES.
Another advantage of knickerbockers is the scope they afford for the display of stylish stockings. A very good effect is produced by having a little red tuft, which should appear under the roll which surmounts the calf. The roll itself, which should always have a smart pattern, is very useful in conveying the impression that the calf is more fully developed than it really is. I noticed the other day at Hanger Hill that Sir Arlington Ball was playing in a pair of very full knickers, almost of the Dutch cut, and that his stockings--of a plain brown colour--had no roll such as I have described. Then of course Sir Arlington has an exceptionally well-modelled calf, and when in addition a man has L30,000 a year he may be allowed a certain latitude in his dress and his conduct generally.
BOOTS AND SHOES.
The question of footwear at golf is one of considerable difficulty, but there is a general feeling in favour of shoes. My friend the Tooting Bec plusser affects a very showy sort of shoe with a wide welt and a sort of fringe of narrow strips of porpoise hide, which fall over the instep in a miniature cataract. As regards the rival merits of india rubber studs on the soles and of nails, I compromise by a judicious mixture of both. If a waistcoat be worn it should be of the brightest possible colour. I saw Lord Dunching the other day at Wimbledon Park in a charming waistcoat. The groundwork was a rich spinach green with discs of Pompeian red, and the buttons were of brass with his monogram in blue and white enamel in the centre. As it was a cold day he wore a mustard-coloured Harris tweed Norfolk jacket and a sealskin cap. Quite a large crowd followed him, and I heard afterwards that he had raised the record for the links to 193.
QUALIFICATIONS FOR A VALET.
One thing is certain--and that is we cannot all be first-class players. Personally, owing to the accident I have already referred to, I hardly ever play at all, but I always make it a point, if I am going on a visit to any place in the country where I know there are no golf links, to take a few niblicks with me. A bag for clubs only costs a few shillings, and it looks well amongst your other paraphernalia on a journey. In engaging a valet again, always remember to ascertain whether he knows the rules of the "royal and ancient game." I shall never forget my humiliation when down at Lord Springvale's. As I was taking part in a foursome with the Hon. Agrippa Bramble, Lady Horace Hilton, and the second Mrs. Bunkeray, I got stuck in a furze-bush and my man handed me a putter. I could have cried with vexation.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
CAVENDISH, CHATSWORTH.--As to the treatment of divots, different methods are recommended by different authorities. My plan, and I am not aware of a better, is to put them in my pocket when the caddie is not looking. When thoroughly dried they form an excellent peat for burning, or can be used for bedding out rhododendrons.
"NIL DESPERANDUM," BECKENHAM.--The best stimulant during match play is a beaten-up egg in a claret glass of sloe gin. The eggs are best carried in the pocket of your club-bag.
A. FLUBB, WOKING.--No, it is not good form to pay your caddie in stamps.
ALCIBIADES, WEMBLEY PARK.--If you must play golf on Sunday, I call it nothing short of hypocritical to go down to the links in a tall hat.
(illustration)
A HERO "FIN DE SIECLE."--Podgers (of Sandboys Golf Club). "My dear Miss Robinson, golf's the only game nowadays for the men. Lawn-tennis is all very well for you girls, you know."
(illustration)
If you should find a stray bull in possession of the links, and who is fascinated by your little red landmarks, don't try and persuade poor Mr. Littleman to drive him away. He is very plucky--but it isn't golf.
(illustration)
HIS FIRST ROUND.--Caddie (pointing to direction flag). "You'd better play right on the flag, sir."
Curate. "Thank you very much. But I have very grave doubts as to my ability to hit such a very small mark at this distance!"]
(illustration)
EAR BLINKERS.--A suggestion for caddies of tender age in attendance on hot-tempered Anglo-Indian military gentlemen learning golf.
(illustration)
EVERY MAN TO HIS TRADE.--Exasperated Amateur (to fore-caddie, who will NOT go on ahead). "Go along, man. Do get on towards the next green."
Caddie. "Beg parding, Capting. You won't never get him to go no more than twenty yards ahead. 'E's been used to carrying a flag in front of a steam-roller."]
LAYS FROM THE LINKS
I.--THE HISTORY OF A MATCH.
Let A be the Links where I went down to stay,
And B the man whom I challenged to play:--
C was the Caddie no golfer's without,
D was the Driver I used going "out":
E was the Extra loud "Fore!" we both holloa-ed,
F was the Foozle which commonly followed:
G was the Green which I longed to approach,
H was the Hazard which upset the coach:
I was B's Iron-shot (he's good for a younker),
J was his Joy when I pitched in the bunker.
K was the Kodak, that mischief-contriver,
L was B's Likeness--on smashing his driver:
M was the Moment he found out 'twas taken.
N was his Niblick around my head shaken:
O was the Oil poured on waters so stormy,
P was the Putt which, next hole, made me dormy.
Q was the Quality--crowds came to look on:
R the Result they were making their book on:
S was the Stymie I managed to lay,
T was Two more, which it forced him to play;
U was the Usual bad work he let fly,
V was the Vengeance he took in the bye.
W the Whisky that night: I must own
X was its quantity--wholly unknown;
Y were the Yarns which hot whisky combine with,
Z was the Zest which we sang "Auld Lang Syne".
(illustration)
Short-sighted Lady Golfer. "Hi! have you seen a golf-ball fall anywhere here, please?" [Victim regards ball with remaining eye.]
]
II.--A TOAST.
Fill up your glasses! Bumpers round
Of Scotland's mountain dew!
With triple clink my toast you'll drink,
The Links I pledge with you:
The Links that bind a million hearts,
There's magic in their name,
The Links that lie 'neath every sky,
And the Royal and Ancient Game!
A health to all who "miss the globe,"
The special "stars" who don't;
May thousands thrive to tee and drive
As Jehu's self was wont!
No tee without a caddie--then
The caddies will acclaim!
A health, I say, to all who play
The Royal and Ancient Game!
Long life to all who face the foe,
And on the green "lie dead"!--
An envied lot, as all men wot,
For gallant "lads in red":
Where balls fly fast and iron-shots plough
Win medals, trophies, fame;
Your watchword "Fore!" One cheer--two more--
For the Royal and Ancient Game!
Then "toe and heel it" on the green
(You'll make your partner swear),
But I'll be bound your dance, a round,
With luck will end all square
Win, lose, or halve the match--what odds?
We love our round the same;
Though luck take wing, "the play's the thing,"
The Royal and Ancient Game!
Then, Royal and Ancient Game, accept
This tribute lay from me;
From me then take, for old sake's sake,
This toast--Long life to thee!
A long, long life to thee, old friend--
None worthier the name--
With three times three, long life to thee,
O Royal and Ancient Game!
(illustration)
Very mild Gentleman (who has failed to hit the ball five times in succession). "Well ----"
[Mild Gentleman DOES _allow him, and moreover presents him with a shilling for handling the subject in such a masterly manner._]
]
(illustration)
First Golfer (to Second Golfer, who is caught in a bunker). "Well, Jones told me this morning he did this hole yesterday in four."
Second Golfer (who stammers). "If Jones s-s-said he did it in four, he was a l-l-l-l----"
First Golfer. "Steady, friend, steady!"
Second Golfer. "----he was a l-lucky beggar!"]
GOLF-LAND--HOLE BY HOLE
Match for a suit of oil-skins between Sunny Jack and Dismal Jimmy.
"The rain has beaten all records."--Daily Papers.
"Play the game."--Modern motto.
Hole 1.--Halved in 28. D.J. gets into the current with his 16th (a beauty) and is rescued by life-boat.
Hole 2.--Abandoned. A green-finder with a divining-rod, which is convertible into an umbrella, states that Primitive Baptists are using the green for purposes of total immersion.
Hole 3.--Abandoned. A regatta is found to be taking place in the big bunker.
Hole 4.--Halved in 23. S.J. discovered with life-belt round him which he has stolen from the flag. Reported death of a green-keeper, lost in trying to rescue two caddies from the bunker going to the 11th hole.
Hole 5.--Abandoned out of sympathy with the green-keeper.
Hole 6.--Abandoned. S.J. gets his driver mixed in his life-belt, with the result that his braces burst. D.J. claims hole on the ground that no player may look for a button for more than two minutes. Mr. Vardon, umpiring from balloon, disallows claim. Both players take to canoes.
Hole 7.--D.J.'s canoe upset by body of drowned sheep as he is holing short put. Mr. Vardon decides that corpses are rubs on the green.
Hole 8.--Abandoned, owing to a fight for life-belt.
Hole 9.--Halved in 303, Mr. Vardon keeping the score.
Hole 10.--D.J. saves S.J.'s life. Hole awarded to S.J. by Mr. Vardon out of sympathy. S.J. one up.
Hole 11.--S.J. saves D.J.'s life and receives the Humane Society's monthly medal and the hole from Mr. Vardon as a reward of courage. S.J. two up.
Hole 12.--Abandoned. Collection made for the widows of drowned golfers, which realises ninepence. S.J. subsequently returns from a long, low dive.
Holes 13 and 14.--Won by D.J. in the absence of S.J., who attends funeral water-games in honour of the green-keeper. All square.
Holes 15 and 16.--Abandoned by mutual consent, whisky being given away by the Society of Free-drinkers. Instant reappearance of the green-keeper.
Holes 17 and 18.--Unrecorded. Mr. Vardon declares the match halved.
(illustration)
Short-sighted Golfer (having been signalled to come on by lady who has lost her ball). "Thanks very much. And would you mind driving that sheep away?"
(illustration)
Extract from the rules of a local golf club:--"RULE V.--The committee shall have the power at any time to fill any vacancy in their body."
A LESSON IN GOLF
"You won't dare!" said I.
"There is nothing else for it," said Amanda sternly. "You know perfectly well that we must practise every minute of the time, if we expect to have the least chance of winning. If she will come just now--well!" Amanda cocked her pretty chin in the air, and looked defiant.
"But--Aunt Susannah!" said I.
"It's quite time for you to go and meet her," said Amanda, cutting short my remonstrances; and she rose with an air of finality.
My wife, within her limitations, is a very clever woman. She is prompt: she is resolute: she has the utmost confidence in her own generalship. Yet, looking at Aunt Susannah, as she sat--gaunt, upright, and formidable--beside me in the dogcart, I did not believe even Amanda capable of the stupendous task which she had undertaken. She would never dare----
I misjudged her. Aunt Susannah had barely sat down--was, in fact, only just embarking on her first scone--when Amanda rushed incontinently in where I, for one, should have feared to tread.
"Dear Aunt Susannah," she said, beaming hospitably, "I'm sure you will never guess how we mean to amuse you while you are here!"
"Nothing very formidable, I hope?" said Aunt Susannah grimly.
"You'll never, never guess!" said Amanda; and her manner was so unnaturally sprightly that I knew she was inwardly quaking. "We want to teach you--what do you think?"
"I think that I'm a trifle old to learn anything new, my dear," said Aunt Susannah.
I should have been stricken dumb by such a snub. Not so, however, my courageous wife.
"Well--golf!" she cried, with overdone cheerfulness.
Aunt Susannah started. Recovering herself, she eyed us with a stony glare which froze me where I sat.
"There is really nothing else to do in these wilds, you know," Amanda pursued gallantly, though even she was beginning to look frightened. "And it is such a lovely game. You'll like it immensely."
"What do you say it is called?" asked Aunt Susannah in awful tones.
"Golf," Amanda repeated meekly; and for the first time her voice shook.
"Spell it!" commanded Aunt Susannah.
Amanda obeyed, with increasing meekness.
"Why do you call it 'goff' if there's an 'l' in it?" asked Aunt Susannah.
"I--I'm afraid I don't know," said Amanda faintly.
Aunt Susannah sniffed disparagingly. She condescended, however, to inquire into the nature of the game, and Amanda gave an elaborate explanation in faltering accents. She glanced imploringly at me; but I would not meet her eye.
"Then you just try to get a little ball into a little hole?" inquired my relative.
"And in the fewest possible strokes," Amanda reminded her, gasping.
"And--is that all?" asked Aunt Susannah.
"Y--yes," said Amanda.
"Oh!" said Aunt Susannah.
A game described in cold blood sounds singularly insignificant. We both fell into sudden silence and depression.
"Well, it doesn't sound difficult" said Aunt Susannah. "Oh, yes, I'll come and play at ball with you if you like, my dears."
"Dear Auntie!" said Amanda affectionately. She did not seem so much overjoyed at her success, however, as might have been expected. As for me, I saw a whole sea of breakers ahead; but then I had seen them all the time.
We drove out to the Links next day. We were both very silent. Aunt Susannah, however, was in good spirits, and deeply interested in our clubs.
"What in the world do you want so many sticks for, child?" she inquired of Amanda.
"Oh, they are for--for different sorts of ground," Amanda explained feebly; and she cast an agonised glance at our driver, who had obviously overheard, and was chuckling in an offensive manner.
We both looked hastily and furtively round us when we arrived. We were early, however, and fortune was kind to us; there was no one else there.
"Perhaps you would like to watch us a little first, just to see how the game goes?" Amanda suggested sweetly.
"Not at all!" was Aunt Susannah's brisk rejoinder. I've come here to play, not to look on. Which stick----?"
"Club--they are called clubs," said Amanda.
"Why?" inquired Aunt Susannah.
"I--I don't know," faltered Amanda. "Do you Laurence?"
I did not know, and said so.
"Then I shall certainly call them sticks," said Aunt Susannah decisively. "They are not in the least like clubs."
"Shall I drive off?" I inquired desperately of Amanda.
"Drive off? Where to? Why are you going away?" asked Aunt Susannah. "Besides, you can't go--the carriage is out of sight."
"The way you begin is called driving off," I explained laboriously. "Like this." I drove nervously, because I felt her eye upon me. The ball went some dozen yards.
"That seems easy enough," said Aunt Susannah. "Give me a stick, child."
"Not that end--the other end!" cried Amanda, as our relative prepared to make her stroke with the butt-end.
"Dear me! Isn't that the handle?" she remarked cheerfully; and she reversed her club, swung it, and chopped a large piece out of the links. "Where is it gone? Where is it gone?" she exclaimed, looking wildly round.
"It--it isn't gone," said Amanda nervously, and pointed to the ball still lying at her feet.
"What an extraordinary thing!" cried Aunt Susannah; and she made another attempt, with a precisely similar result. "Give me another stick!" she demanded. "Here, let me choose for myself--this one doesn't suit me. I'll have that flat thing."
"But that's a putter," Amanda explained agonisedly.
"What's a putter? You said just now that they were all clubs," said Aunt Susannah, pausing.
"They are all clubs," I explained patiently. "But each has a different name."
"You don't mean to say you give them names like a little girl with her dolls?" cried Aunt Susannah. "Why, what a babyish game it is!" She laughed very heartily. "At any rate," she continued, with that determination which some of her friends call by another name, "I am sure that this will be easier to play with!" She grasped the putter, and in some miraculous way drove the ball to a considerable distance.
"Oh, splendid!" cried Amanda. Her troubled brow cleared a little, and she followed suit, with mediocre success. Aunt Susannah pointed out that her ball had gone farther than either of ours, and grasped her putter tenaciously.
"It's a better game than I expected from your description," she conceded. "Oh, I daresay I shall get to like it. I must come and practise every day." We glanced at each other in a silent horror of despair, and Aunt Susannah after a few quite decent strokes, triumphantly holed out. "What next?" said she.
I hastily arranged her ball on the second tee: but the luck of golf is proverbially capricious. She swung her club, and hit nothing. She swung it again, and hit the ground.
"Why can't I do it?" she demanded, turning fiercely upon me.
"You keep losing your feet," I explained deferentially.
"Spare me your detestable slang terms, Laurence, at least!" she cried, turning on me again like a whirlwind. "If you think I have lost my temper--which is absurd!--you might have the courage to say so in plain English!"
"Oh, no, Aunt Susannah!" I said. "You don't understand----"
"Or want to," she snapped. "Of all silly games----"
"I mean you misunderstood me," I pursued, trembling. "Your foot slipped, and that spoilt your stroke. You should have nails in your boots, as we have."
"Oh!" said Aunt Susannah, only half pacified. But she succeeded in dislodging her ball at last, and driving it into a bunker. At the same moment, Amanda suddenly clutched me by the arm. "Oh, Laurence!" she said in a bloodcurdling whisper. "What shall we do? Here is Colonel Bartlemy!"
The worst had happened. The hottest-tempered man in the club, the oldest member, the best player, the greatest stickler for etiquette, was hard upon our track; and Aunt Susannah, with a red and determined countenance, was urging her ball up the bunker, and watching it roll back again.
"Dear Auntie," said Amanda, in her sweetest voice, "you had much better take it out."
"Is that allowed?" inquired our relative suspiciously.
"Oh, you may always do that and lose a stroke!" I assured her eagerly.
"I shan't dream of losing a stroke!" said Aunt Susannah, with decision. "I'll get it out of this ditch by fair means, if I have to spend all day over it!"
"Then do you mind waiting one moment?" I said, with the calmness of despair. "There is a player behind us----"
"Let him stay behind us! I was here first," said Aunt Susannah; and she returned to her bunker.
The Links rose up in a hillock immediately behind us, so that our successor could not see us until he had reached the first hole. I stood with my eye glued to the spot where he might be expected to appear. I saw, as in a nightmare, the scathing remarks that would find their way into the Suggestion Book. I longed for a sudden and easy death.
At the moment when Colonel Bartlemy's rubicund face appeared over the horizon, Aunt Susannah, flushed but unconquered, drew herself up for a moment's rest from toil. He had seen her. Amanda shut her eyes. For myself, I would have run away shamelessly, if there had been any place to run to. The Colonel and Aunt Susannah looked hard at each other. Then he began to hurry down the slope, while she started briskly up it.
"Miss Cadwalader!" said the Colonel.
"Colonel Bartlemy!" cried Aunt Susannah; and they met with effusion.
I saw Amanda's eyes open, and grow round with amazed interest. I knew perfectly well that she had scented a bygone love affair, and was already planning the most suitable wedding-garb for Aunt Susannah. A frantic hope came to me that in that case the Colonel's affection might prove stronger than his zeal for golf. They were strolling down to us in a leisurely manner, and the subject of their conversation broke upon my astonished ears.
"I'm afraid you don't think much of these Links, after yours," Colonel Bartlemy was saying anxiously. "They are rather new----"
"Oh, I've played on many worse," said Aunt Susannah, looking round her with a critical eye. "Let me see--I haven't seen you since your victory at Craigmory. Congratulations!"
"Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley!" purred the Colonel, evidently much gratified. "You will be here for the twenty-seventh, I hope?"
"Exactly what I came for," said Aunt Susannah calmly.
"Though I don't know what our ladies will say to playing against the Cranford Champion!" chuckled the Colonel; and then they condescended to become aware of our existence. We had never known before how exceedingly small it is possible to feel.
"Aunt Susannah, what am I to say? What fools you must think us!" I murmured miserably to her, when the Colonel was out of earshot looking for his ball. "We are such raw players ourselves--and of course we never dreamt----"
Aunt Susannah twinkled at me in a friendly manner. "There's an ancient proverb about eggs and grandmothers," she remarked cheerfully.
"There should be a modern form for golf-balls and aunts--hey, Laurence?"
Amanda did not win the prize brooch; but Aunt Susannah did, in spite of an overwhelming handicap, and gave it to her. She does not often wear it--possibly because rubies are not becoming to her: possibly because its associations are too painful.
(illustration)
THE RETORT COURTEOUS.--(The Major-General waiting to drive, to girl carrying baby, who blocks the way). "Now then, hurry on please with that baby." Girl. "Garn! Baby yerself, playing at ball there in your knickerbockers an' all!"
(illustration)
A GOLF TOURNAMENT IN YE TIME OF YE ROMANS
From a rare old frieze (not) in ye British Museum.]
(illustration)
"Anyway, it's better to break one's ---- clubs than to lose one's ---- ---- temper!!"
(illustration)
A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING.--Obstructive Lady (in reply to the golfer's warning call). "The whole world wasn't made for golf, sir."
Youngster. "No; but the links wis. 'Fore!"]
(illustration)
Unenviable position of Mr. Pottles, whose record drive has just landed fairly in the ribs of irascible old Colonel Curry, out for his constitutional canter.
(illustration)
Aunt Jabisca (pointing to earnest golfer endeavouring to play out of quarry). "Dear me, Maud, what a respectably dressed man that is breaking stones!"
(illustration)
Suggestion for a rainy day. Spillikins on a grand scale.
(illustration)
Major Brummel (comparing the length of his and his opponent's "drives"). "I think I'm shorter than Mr. Simkins?"
Small Caddie (a new hand, greatly flattered at being asked, as he thinks, to judge of their personal appearance). "Yes, sir, and fatterer too, sir!"
[Delight of the gallant Major.]
]
(illustration)
Miss Dora (to Major Putter, who is playing an important match, and has just lost his ball). "Oh, Major, do come and take your horrid ball away from my little dog. He won't let me touch it, and I know he must be ruining his teeth!"
THE LOST GOLFER
[The sharp decline of ping-pong, whose attractions at its zenith seduced many golfers from the nobler sport, has left a marked void in the breasts of these renegades. Some of them from a natural sense of shame hesitate to return to their first love. The conclusion of the following lines should be an encouragement to this class of prodigal.]
Just for a celluloid pillule he left us,
Just for an imbecile batlet and ball,
These were the toys by which Fortune bereft us
Of Jennings, our captain, the pride of us all.
Shopmen with clubs to sell handed him rackets,
Rackets of sand-paper, rubber and felt,
Said to secure an unplayable service,
Pestilent screws and the death-dealing welt.
Oft had we played with him, partnered him, sworn by him,
Copied his pitches in height and in cut,
Hung on his words as he delved in a bunker,
Made him our pattern to drive and to putt.
Benedick's with us, the major is of us,
Swiper the county bat's still going strong;
He alone broke from the links and the clubhouse,
He alone sank in the slough of ping-pong.
We have "come on"--but not his the example;
Sloe-gin has quickened us--not his the cash;
Holes done in 6 where a 4 would be ample
Vexed him not, busy perfecting a smash.
Rased was his name as a decadent angel,
One more mind unhinged by a piffulent game,
One more parlour-hero, the worshipped of school-girls
Who once had a princely "plus 5" to his name.
Jennings is gone; yet perhaps he'll come back to us,
Healed of his hideous lesion of brain,
Back to the links in the daytime; at twilight
Back to his cosy club corner again.
Back for the medal day, back for our foursomes,
Back from the tables' diminishing throng,
Back from the infantile, ceaseless half-volley,
Back from the lunatic lure of ping-pong.
(illustration)
Tennis Player (from London). "Don't see the fun o' this game--knockin' a ball into a bush, and then 'untin' about for it!"
(illustration)
A TOO-FEEBLE EXPLETIVE
MacSymon. "I saw you were carrying for the professor yesterday, Sandy. How does he play?"
Sandy. "Eh, yon man'll never be a gowffer. Div ye ken what he says when he foozles a ba'?"
MacSymon. "No. What does he say?"
Sandy. "'Tut-tut!'"]
THE LINKS
'Tis a brilliant autumn day,
And the breeze has blown away
All the clouds that lowered gray;
So methinks,
As I've half an hour to spare,
I will go and take the air,
While the weather still is fair,
On the Links.
I admire the splendid view,
The delicious azure hue
Of the ocean and--when, whew!
With a crack,
Lo! there drops a little ball
Which elects to break its fall
By alighting on the small
Of my back.
In the distance someone cries
Some remark about my eyes,
None too pleasant, I surmise,
From the tone;
So away my steps I turn
Till a figure I discern,
Who is mouching by the burn
All alone.
He has lost a new "Eclipse,"
And a little word that slips
From his sulky-looking lips
Tells me true
That, besides the missing ball,
Which is gone beyond recall,
He has lost--what's worst of all--
Temper, too.
I conclude it will be best
If I leave him unaddressed,
Such a melancholy quest
To pursue;
And I pass to where I spy
Clouds of sand uprising high
Till they all but hide the sky
From the view.
They proceed, I understand,
From a bunker full of sand,
Where a golfer, club in hand,
Freely swears
As he hacks with all his might,
Till his countenance is quite
As vermilion as the bright
Coat he wears.
I observe him for a while
With a highly-tickled smile,
For it is the queerest style
Ever seen:
He is very short and stout,
And he knocks the ball about,
But he never gets it out
On the green.
Still I watch him chop and hack,
Till I hear a sudden crack,
And the club-head makes a track
In the light--
There's a startled cry of "FORE!"
As it flies, and all is o'er!--
I remember nothing more
Till to-night,
When I find myself in bed
With a lump upon my head
Like a penny loaf of bread;
And methinks,
For the future I'll take care
When I want a little air,
That I won't go anywhere
Near the Links.
(illustration)
THE MISERIES OF A VERY AMATEUR GOLFER
He is very shy, and unfortunately has to drive off in front of the lady champion and a large gallery. He makes a tremendous effort. The ball travels at least five yards!]
(illustration)
Golfer. "And what's your name?"
Caddie. "They ca' me 'breeks, but ma maiden name is Christy."]
(illustration)
DISTINCTION WITHOUT DIFFERENCE.--Sensitive Golfer (who has foozled). "Did you laugh at me, boy?"
Caddie. "No, sir; I wis laughin' at anither man."
Sensitive Golfer. "And what's funny about him?"
Caddie. "He plays gowf awfu' like you, sir!"]
(illustration)
Jones cannot see his ball anywhere, although he is positive it fell about there somewhere.
NEVER HAVE A CADDIE WITH A SQUINT!
(A Lay of the Links)
They told me he was skilful, and assiduous, and true, They told me he had "carried" for the bravest and the best. His hair was soldier-scarlet, and his eyes were saucer blue, And one seemed looking eastward, whilst the other fronted west. His strabismus was a startler, and it shook my nerve at once; It affected me with dizziness, like gazing from a height. I straddled like a duffer, and I wavered like a dunce, And my right hand felt a left one, and my left felt far from right. As I watched him place my ball with his visual axes crossed, The very sunshine glimmered, with a queer confusing glint, I felt like a sick lubber on Atlantic surges tossed-- Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
I'm an "irritable duffer"--so my enemies declare,-- That is I'm very sensitive, and play a modest game. A very little puts me off my stroke, and, standing there, With his boot-heels at right angles, and his optics much the same, He maddened me--no less, and I felt that all success Against bumptious young McBungo--was impossible that day. I'd have parted with a fiver to have beaten him. His dress Was so very very swagger, and his scarlet cap so gay. He eyed my cross-eyed caddie with a supercilious smirk, I tried to set my features, and my nerves, like any flint; But my "knicker'd" knees were knocking as I wildly set to work. Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
I tried to look away from the spoiler of my play, But for fiendish fascination he was like a squinting snake; All the muffings man can muff I contrived to muff that day; My eyes were all askew and my nerves were all ashake. I seemed to squint myself, and not only with my eyes, My knees, my hands, my elbows, with obliquity were rife. McBungo's sleek sham sympathy and sinister surprise Made almost insupportable the burden of my life. He was so beastly friendly, and he was so blazing fair, So fulsomely effusive with suggestion, tip, and hint! And all the while that caddie stood serenely cock-eyed there. Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
Miss Binks was looking on! On that maiden I was gone, Just as she was gone on golf, in perfervid Scottish style. On my merits with McBungo I should just about have won, But my shots to-day were such as made even Effie smile; Oh, the lumps of turf I lifted! Oh, the easy balls I missed! Oh, the bunkers I got bogged in! And at last a gentle scorn Curled the lips I would have given my pet "Putter" to have kissed. Such a bungler as myself her loved links had never borne; And all the while McBungo--the young crocodile!--bewailed What he called my "beastly luck," though his joy was plain as print, Whilst that squint grew worse and worse at each shot of mine which failed. Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
In "playing through the green" with my "brassie" I was seen At most dismal disadvantage on that miserable day; He pointed through the rushes with cock-eyed, sardonic spleen,-- I followed his squint guidance, and I struck a yard away; But, oh! 'twas worst of all, when I tried to hole the ball. Oh, the ogre! How he squinted at that crisis of the game! His hideous strabismus held me helpless, a blind thrall Shattered my nerves completely, put my skill to open shame. That squint would, I am sure, have upset the solar system-- Oho! the impish impudence, the gruesome goggle-glint! The low, malicious chuckle, as he softly muttered, "Missed 'im!" No, never have a caddie with a squint!
Yet all the same McBungo did not get that rich Miss Binks, Who was so sweet in every way, especially on golf. He fancied he had cut me out that day upon those links, But although he won the game--at golf, his love-game came not off. He and that demon caddie tried between them very hard To shame me in the eyes of that dear enthusiast, But--well, my clubs she carries, whilst McBungo, evil-starred, Was caught by a Scotch vixen with an obvious optic cast! That's Nemesis, I say! And she will not let him play At the game he so adores. True she's wealthy as the Mint. At golf, with Effie, I have passed many a happy day, But--we never have a caddie with a squint!
A caddie who's a duffer, or a caddie who gets drunk; A caddie who regards all other caddies as his foes; A caddie who will snigger when you fumble, fail or funk; A caddie who will whistle, or seems ever on the doze; A caddie who's too tiny, or too big and broad of bulk; A caddie who gets playing with your clubs upon the sly; A caddie who will chatter, or a caddie who will sulk; All these are calculated a golf devotee to try; All these are most vexatious to a golfer of repute; And still more so to a novice. But just take a friendly hint! Take a caddie who's a duffer, or a drunkard, or a brute, But never try a caddie with a squint!!!
(illustration)
ANOTHER LENTEN SACRIFICE.--Golf Caddie (to Curate). "High tee, sir?"
Curate. "No; put it on the ground. I give up sand during Lent."]
(illustration)
Voice from the Hill. "Now then, you young coward, don't stand about all day. Why don't you take it away from the dog?"
(illustration)
Boy (to young lady, who has been unfortunate enough to upset Colonel Bunker). "You'd better ride on before 'e gets 'is breath, miss!"
Young Lady. "Why?" Boy. "I've 'eard 'im play golf!!!"]
A GROWL FROM GOLFLAND
Bores there are of various species, of the platform, of the quill, Bores obsessed by Christian Science or the Education Bill, But the most exasperating and intolerable bore Is the man who talks of nothing but the latest "rubber core."
Place him in the Great Sahara, plant him on an Arctic floe, Or a desert island, fifteen thousand miles from Westward Ho! Pick him up a twelvemonth later, and I'll wager that you find Rubber filling versus gutty still and solely on his mind.
O American invaders, I accept your beef, your boots,
Your historical romances, and your Californian fruits;
But in tones of humble protest I am tempted to exclaim,
"Can't you draw the line at commerce, can't you spare one
British game?"
I am but a simple duffer; I am quite prepared to state
That my lowest round on record was a paltry 88;
That my partner in a foursome needs the patience of a Job,
That in moments of excitement I am apt to miss the globe.
With my brassy and my putter I am very far to seek, Generally slice to cover with my iron and my cleek; But I boast a single virtue: I can honestly maintain I've escaped the fatal fever known as Haskell on the brain.
(illustration)
A golf case was recently before the Court of Appeal. Why not a Golf Court on the links?
GOLF VICTOR!
Sir Golf and Sir Tennis are fighting like mad--
Now Sir Tennis is blown, and Sir Golf's right above him,
And his face has a look that is weary and sad,
As he hastily turns to the ladies who love him,
But the racket falls from him, he totters, and swirls,
As he hears them cry, "Golf is the game for the girls!"
The girls crave for freedom, they cannot endure
To be cramped up at tennis in courts that are poky
And they are all of them certainly, perfectly sure
That they'll never again touch "that horrible croquet,"
Where it's quite on the cards that they may play with papa,
And where all that goes on is surveyed by mamma,
To golf on the downs for the whole of the day
Is "so awfully jolly," they keep on asserting,
With a good-looking fellow to teach you the way,
And to fill up the time with some innocent flirting,
And it may be the maiden is woo'd and is won,
Ere the whole of the round is completed and done.
Henceforward, then, golf is the game for the fair--
At home, and abroad, or in pastures colonial,
And the shouts of the ladies will quite fill the air
For the links that will turn into bonds matrimonial,
And for husbands our daughters in future will seek
With the powerful aid of the putter and cleek!
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.
