Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) FORE! BY CHARLES E. VAN LOAN AUTHOR OF BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES, TAKING THE COUNT, SCORE BY INNINGS, ETC. GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Made in the United States of America COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY Copyright, 1914, 1916, by P. F. Collier & Son Copyright, 1917, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA My dear Ed. Tufts:-- Once, when a mere child, I strayed as far away from home as Pico Street, and followed that thoroughfare westward until the houses gave way to open country, hedged by a dense forest of real estate signs. In the midst of that wilderness I chanced upon a somewhat chubby gentleman engaged in the pursuit of a small white ball, which, when he came within striking distance, he beat savagely with weapons of wood and iron. That, sir, was my first sight of you, and my earliest acquaintance with the game of golf. I remember scanning the horizon for your keeper. Times have changed since then. The old Pico Street course is covered with bungalows and mortgages. Golf clubs are everywhere. The hills are dotted with middle-aged gentlemen who use the same weapons of wood and iron and the same red-hot adjectives. A man may now admit that he commits golf and the statement will not be used against him. Everybody is doing it. The pastime has become popular. But it took courage to be a pioneer, to listen to the sneers about "Cow-pasture pool" and to remain cool, calm and collected when putting within sight of the country road and within hearing of the comments of the Great Unenlightened. That courage entitles you to this small recognition, and also entitles you to purchase as many copies of this book as you can afford. Yours as usual, CHARLES E. VAN LOAN To Mr. Edward B. Tufts of the Los Angeles Country Club. Los Angeles, Cal., January 17, 1918. CONTENTS GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH LITTLE POISON IVY THE MAJOR, D.O.S. A MIXED FOURSOME "SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR" A CURE FOR LUMBAGO THE MAN WHO QUIT THE OOLEY-COW ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH! I There has been considerable argument about it--even a mention of ethics--though where ethics figures in this case is more than I know. I'd like to take a flat-footed stance as claiming that the end justified the means. Saint George killed the Dragon, and Hercules mopped up the Augean stables, but little Wally Wallace--one hundred and forty-two pounds in his summer underwear--did a bigger job and a better job when the betting was odds-on-and-write-your-own-ticket that it couldn't be done. I wouldn't mind heading a subscription to present him with a gold medal about the size of a soup plate, inscribed as follows, to wit and viz.: _W. W. Wallace--He Put the Fore in Foursome._ Every golfer who ever conceded himself a two-foot putt because he was afraid he might miss it has sweated and suffered and blasphemed in the wake of a slow foursome. All the clubs that I have ever seen--and I've travelled a bit--are cursed with at least one of these Creeping Pestilences which you observe mostly from the rear. You're a golfer, of course, and you know the make-up of a slow foursome as well as I do: Four nice old gentlemen, prominent in business circles, church members, who remember it even when they top a tee shot, pillars of society, rich enough to be carried over the course in palanquins, but too proud to ride, too dignified to hurry, too meek to argue except among themselves, and too infernally selfish to stand aside and let the younger men go through. They take nine practice swings before hitting a shot, and then flub it disgracefully; they hold a prayer meeting on every putting green and a _post-mortem_ on every tee, and a rheumatic snail could give them a flying start and beat them out in a fifty-yard dash. Know 'em? What golfer doesn't? But nobody knows why it is that the four slowest players in every club always manage to hook up in a sort of permanent alliance. Nobody knows why they never stage their creeping contests on the off days when the course is clear. Nobody knows why they always pick the sunniest afternoons, when the locker room is full of young men dressing in a hurry. Nobody knows why they bolt their luncheons and scuttle out to the first tee, nor where that speed goes as soon as they drive and start down the course. Nobody knows why they refuse to walk any faster than a bogged mooley cow. Nobody knows why they never look behind them. Nobody knows why they never hear any one yell "Fore!" Nobody knows why they are so dead set against letting any one through. Everybody knows the fatal effect of standing too long over the ball, all dressed up with nowhere to go. Everybody knows of the tee shots that are slopped and sliced and hooked; of the indecision caused by the long wait before playing the second; of the change of clubs when the first choice was the correct one; of the inevitable penalty exacted by loss of temper and mental poise. Everybody knows that a slow foursome gives the Recording Angel a busy afternoon, and leaves a sulphurous haze over an entire course. But the aged reprobates who are responsible for all this trouble--do they care how much grief and rage and bitterness simmers in their wake? You think they do? Think again. Golf and Business are the only games they have ever had time to learn, and one set of rules does for both. The rest of the world may go hang! Golf is a serious matter with these hoary offenders, and they manage to make it serious for everybody behind them--the fast-walking, quick-swinging fellows who are out for a sweat and a good time and lose both because the slow foursome blocks the way. Yes, you recognise the thumb-nail sketch--it is the slow foursome which infests your course; the one which you find in front of you when you go visiting. You think that four men who are inconsiderate enough to ruin your day's sport and ruffle your temper ought to be disciplined, called up on the carpet, taken in hand by the Greens Committee. You think they are the worst ever--but wait! You are about to hear of the golfing renegades known as the Big Four, who used to sew us up twice a week as regularly as the days came round; you are about to hear of Elsberry J. Watlington, and Colonel Jim Peck, and Samuel Alexander Peebles, and W. Cotton Hamilton--world's champions in the Snail Stakes, undisputed holders of the Challenge Belt for Practice Swinging, and undefeated catch-as-catch-can loiterers on the Putting Green. Six months ago we would have backed Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton against the wide world, bet dollars against your dimes and allowed you to select your own stakeholders, timekeepers and judges. That's how much confidence we had in the Big Four. They were without doubt and beyond argument the slowest and most exasperating quartette of obstructionists that ever laid their middle-aged stomachs behind the line of a putt. Do I hear a faint murmur of dissent? Going a little strong, am I? All right, glad you mentioned it, because we may as well settle this question of supremacy here and now. To save time, I will admit that your foursome is slower than Congress and more irritating than the Senate. Permit me to ask you one question: Going back over the years, can you recall a single instance when your slow foursome allowed you to play through?... A lost ball, was it?... Well, anyway, you got through them.... Thank you, and your answer puts you against the ropes. I will now knock you clear out of the ring with one well-directed statement of fact. Tie on your bonnet good and tight and listen to this: The Big Four held up our course for seven long and painful years, and during that period of time they never allowed any one to pass them, lost ball or no lost ball. That stops you, eh? I rather thought it would. It stopped us twice a week. II Visitors used to play our course on Wednesdays and Saturdays--our big days--and then sit in the lounging room and try hard to remember that they were our guests. There were two questions which they never failed to ask: "Don't they ever let anybody through?" And then: "How long has this been going on?" When we answered them truthfully they shook their heads, looked out of the windows, and told us how much better their clubs were handled. Our course was all right--they had to say that much in fairness. It was well trapped and bunkered, and laid out with an eye to the average player; the fair greens were the best in the state; the putting greens were like velvet; the holes were sporty enough to suit anybody; but----And then they looked out of the window again. You see, the trouble was that the Big Four practically ran the club as they liked. They had financed it in its early days, and as a reward had been elected to almost everything in sight. We used to say that they shook dice to see who should be president and so forth, and probably they did. They might as well have settled it that way as any other, for the annual election and open meeting was a joke. It usually took place in the lounging room on a wet Saturday afternoon. Somebody would get up and begin to drone through a report of the year's activities. Then somebody else would make a motion and everybody would say "Ay!" After that the result of the annual election of officers would be announced. The voting members always handed in the printed slips which they found on the tables, and the ticket was never scratched--it would be Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton all the way. The only real question would be whether or not the incoming president of the club would buy a drink for all hands. If it was Peck's turn the motion was lost. As a natural result of this sort of thing the Big Four never left the saddle for an instant. Talk about perpetuation in office--they had it down to a fine point. They were always on the Board of Directors; they saw to it that control of the Greens Committee never slipped out of their hands; they had two of the three votes on the House Committee, and no outsider was even considered for treasurer. They were dictators with a large D, and nobody could do a thing about it. If a mild kick was ever made or new blood suggested, the kicker was made to feel like an ingrate. Who started the club anyway? Who dug up the money? Who swung the deal that put the property in our hands? Why, Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton, to be sure! Could any one blame them for wanting to keep an eye on the organisation? Cer-tain-ly not. The Big Four had us bluffed, bulldozed, buffaloed, licked to a whisper. Peck, Peebles and Hamilton were the active heads of the Midland Manufacturing Company, and it was pretty well known that the bulk of Watlington's fortune was invested in the same enterprise. Those who knew said they were just as ruthless in business as they were in golf--quite a strong statement. They seemed to regard the Sundown Golf and Country Club as their private property, and we were welcome to pay dues and amuse ourselves five days a week, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays we were not to infringe on the sovereign rights of the Big Four. They never entered any of the club tournaments, for that would have necessitated breaking up their foursome. They always turned up in a body, on the tick of noon, and there was an immediate scramble to beat them to Number One tee. Those who lost out stampeded over to Number Ten and played the second nine first. Nobody wanted to follow them; but a blind man, playing without a caddie, couldn't have helped but catch up with them somewhere on the course. If you wonder why the club held together, you have only to recall the story of the cow-puncher whose friend beckoned him away from the faro layout to inform him that the game was crooked. "Hell!" said the cow-puncher. "I know that; but--it's the only game in town, ain't it?" The S.G. & C.C. was the only golf club within fifty miles. III When Wally Wallace came home from college he blossomed out as a regular member of the club. He had been a junior member before, one of the tennis squad. Wally is the son of old Hardpan Wallace, of the Trans-Pacific outfit--you may have heard of him--and the sole heir to more millions than he will ever be able to spend; but we didn't hold this against the boy. He isn't the sort that money can spoil, with nothing about him to remind you of old Hardpan, unless it might be a little more chin than he really needs. Wally's first act as a full-fledged member of the club was to qualify for the James Peck Annual Trophy--a pretty fair sort of cup, considering the donor. He turned in a nice snappy eighty-one, which showed us that a college education had not been wasted on him, and also caused several of the Class-A men to sit up a bit and take notice. He came booming through to the semi-finals with his head up and his tail over the dash-board. It was there that he ran into me. Now I am no Jerry Travers, but there are times when I play to my handicap, which is ten, and I had been going fairly well. I had won four matches--one of them by default. Wally had also won four matches, but the best showing made against him was five down and four to go. His handicap was six, so he would have to start me two up; but I had seen enough of his game to know that I was up against the real thing, and would need a lot of luck to give the boy anything like a close battle. He was a strong, heady match player, and if he had a weakness the men whom he had defeated hadn't been able to spot it. Altogether it wasn't a very brilliant outlook for me; but, as a matter of fact, I suppose no ten-handicap man ever ought to have a brilliant outlook. It isn't coming to him. If he has one it is because the handicapper has been careless. Under our rules a competitor in a club tournament has a week in which to play his man, and it so happened that we agreed on Wednesday for our meeting. Wally called for me in his new runabout, and we had lunch together--I shook him and stuck him for it, and he grinned and remarked that a man couldn't be lucky at everything. While we were dressing he chattered like a magpie, talking about everything in the world but golf, which was a sign that he wasn't worrying much. He expected easy picking, and under normal conditions he would have had it. We left the first tee promptly at one-forty-five P.M., our caddies carrying the little red flags which demand the right of way over everything. I might have suggested starting at Number Ten if I had thought of it, but to tell the truth I was a wee mite nervous and was wondering whether I had my drive with me or not. You know how the confounded thing comes and goes. So we started at Number One, and my troubles began. Wally opened up on me with a four-four-three, making the third hole in a stroke under par, and when we reached the fourth tee we were all square and my handicap was gone. It was on the fourth tee that we first began to notice signs of congestion ahead of us. One foursome had just driven off and beckoned us to come through, another was waiting to go, and the fair green on the way to the fifth looked like the advance of the Mexican standing army. "Somebody has lost the transmission out of his wheel chair," said Wally. "Well, we should worry--we've got the red flags and the right of way. Fore!" And he proceeded to smack a perfect screamer down the middle of the course--two hundred and fifty yards if it was an inch. I staggered into one and laid my ball some distance behind his, but on the direct line to the pin. Then we had to wait a bit while another foursome putted out. "There oughtn't to be any congestion on a day like this," said Wally. "Must be a bunch of old men ahead." "It's the Big Four," said I. "Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. They always take their time." From where we were we could see the seventh and eighth fair greens. There wasn't a player in sight on either one. "Good Lord!" said Wally. "They've got the whole United States wide open ahead of 'em. They're not holding their place on the course." "They never do," said I, and just then the foursome moved off the putting green. "Give her a ride, old top!" said Wally. I claim that my second shot wasn't half bad--for a ten-handicap man. I used a brassy and reached the green about thirty feet from the pin, but the demon Wally pulled a mid-iron out of his bag, waggled it once or twice, and then made my brassy look sick. When we reached the top of the hill, there was his ball ten feet from the cup. I ran up, playing it safe for a par four, but Wally studied the roll of the green for about ten seconds--and dropped a very fat three. He was decent enough to apologise. "I'm playing over my head," said he. I couldn't dispute it--two threes on par fours might well be over anybody's head. One down and fourteen to go; it had all the earmarks of a massacre. We had quite an audience at the fifth tee--two foursomes were piled up there, cursing. "What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Wally. "Can't you get through?" "Nobody can get through," said Billy Williams. "It's the Big Four." "But they'll respect the red flags, won't they?" It was a perfectly natural question for a stranger to ask--and Wally was practically a stranger, though most of the men knew who he was. It brought all sorts of answers. "You think they will? I'll bet you a little two to one, no limit, that they're all colour-blind!" "Oh, yes, they'll let you through!" "They'll _ask_ you to come through--won't they, Billy? They'll insist on it, what?" "They're full of such tricks!" Wally was puzzled. He didn't quite know what to make of it. "But a red flag," said he, "gives you the right of way." "Everywhere but here," said Billy Williams. "But in this case it's a rule!" argued Wally. "Those fellows in front make their own rules." "But the Greens Committee----" And this was where everybody laughed. Wally stooped and teed his ball. "Look here," said he, "I'll bet you anything you like that they let us through. Why, they can't help themselves!" "You bet that they'll let you through of their own accord?" asked Ben Ashley, who never has been known to pass up a plain cinch. "On our request to be allowed to pass," said Wally. "If you drive into 'em without their permission you lose," stipulated Ben. "Right!" said Wally. "Got you for a dozen balls!" said Ben. "Anybody else want some of it?" asked Wally. Before he got off the tee he stood to lose six dozen balls; but his nerve was unshaken and he slammed out another tremendous drive. I sliced into a ditch and away we went, leaving a great deal of promiscuous kidding behind us. It took me two shots to get out at all, and Wally picked up another hole on me. Two down--murder! On the sixth tee we ran into another mass meeting of malcontents. Old Man Martin, our prize grouch, grumbled a bit when we called attention to our red flags. "What's the use?" said he. "You're on your way, but you ain't going anywhere. Might just as well sit down and take it easy. Watlington has got a lost ball, and the others have gone on to the green so's nobody can get through. Won't do you a bit of good to drive, Wally. There's two foursomes hung up over the hill now, and they'll be right there till Watlington finds that ball. Sit down and be sociable." "What'll you bet that we don't get through?" demanded Wally, who was beginning to show signs of irritation. "Whatever you got the most of, sonny--provided you make the bet this way: they got to _let_ you through. Of course you might drive into 'em or walk through 'em, but that ain't being done--much." "Right! The bet is that they let us through. One hundred fish." Old Martin cackled and turned his cigar round and round in the corner of his mouth--a wolf when it comes to a cinch bet. "Gosh! Listen to our banty rooster crow! Want another hundred, sonny?" "Yes--grandpa!" said Wally, and sent another perfect drive soaring up over the hill. Number Six is a long hole, and the ordinary player never attempts to carry the cross-bunker on his second. I followed with a middling-to-good shot, and we bade the congregation farewell. "It's ridiculous!" said Wally as we climbed the hill. "I never saw a foursome yet that wouldn't yield to a red flag, or one that wouldn't let a twosome through--if properly approached. And we have the right of way over everything on the course. The Greens Committee----" "Is composed," said I, "of Watlington, Peck and Peebles--three members of the Big Four. They built the club, they run the club, and they have never been known to let anybody through. I'm sorry, Wally, but I'm afraid you're up against it." The boy stopped and looked at me. "Then those fellows behind us," said he, "were betting on a cinch, eh?" "It was your proposition," I reminded him. "So it was," and he grinned like the good game kid he is. "The Greens Committee, eh? 'Hast thou appealed unto Cæsar? unto Cæsar shalt thou go.' I'm a firm believer in the right method of approach. They wouldn't have the nerve----" "They have nerve enough for anything," said I, and dropped the subject. I didn't want him to get the idea that I was trying to argue with him and upset his game. One foursome was lying down just over the hill; the other was piled up short of the bunker. Watlington had finally found his ball and played onto the green. The others, of course, had been standing round the pin and holding things up for him. I took an iron on my second and played short, intending to pitch over the bunker on my third. Wally used a spoon and got tremendous height and distance. His ball carried the bunker, kicked to the right and stopped behind a sandtrap. It was a phenomenal shot, and with luck on the kick would have gone straight to the pin. I thought the Big Four would surely be off the green by the time I got up to my ball, but no, Peck was preparing to hole a three-foot putt. Any ordinary dub would have walked up to that pill and tapped it in, but that wasn't Peck's style. He got down on all fours and sighted along the line to the hole. Then he rose, took out his handkerchief, wiped his hands carefully, called for his putter and took an experimental stance, tramping about like a cat "making bread" on a woollen rug. "Look at him!" grunted Wally. "You don't mind if I go ahead to my ball? It won't bother you?" "Not in the least," said I. "I want to play as soon as they get out of the way," he explained. The Colonel's first stance did not suit him, so he had to go all through the tramping process again. When he was finally satisfied, he began swinging his putter back and forth over the ball, like the pendulum of a grandfather's clock--ten swings, neither more nor less. Could any one blame Wally for boiling inside? After the three-footer dropped--he didn't miss it, for a wonder--they all gathered round the hole and pulled out their cards. Knowing each other as well as they did, nobody was trusted to keep the score. "Fore!" called Wally. They paid not the slightest attention to him, and it was fully half a minute before they ambled leisurely away in the direction of the seventh tee. I played my pitch shot, with plenty of back-spin on it, and stopped ten or twelve feet short of the hole. Wally played an instant later, a mashie shot intended to clear the trap, but he had been waiting too long and was burning up with impatience. He topped the ball, hit the far edge of the sandtrap and bounced back into a bad lie. Of course I knew why he had been in such a hurry--he wanted to catch the Big Four on the seventh tee. His niblick shot was too strong, but he laid his fifth dead to the hole, giving me two for a win. Just as a matter of record, let me state that I canned a nice rainbow putt for a four. A four on Number Six is rare. "Nice work!" said Wally. "You're only one down now. Come on, let's get through these miserable old men!" Watlington was just addressing his ball, the others had already driven. He fussed and he fooled and he waggled his old dreadnaught for fifteen or twenty seconds, and then shot straight into the bunker--a wretchedly topped ball. "Bless my heart!" said he. "Now why--why do I always miss my drive on this hole?" Peck started to tell him, being his partner, but Wally interrupted, politely but firmly. "Gentlemen," said he, "if you have no objection we will go through. We are playing a tournament match. Mr. Curtiss, your honour, I believe." Well, sir, for all the notice they took of him he might have been speaking to four graven images. Not one of them so much as turned his head. Colonel Peck had the floor. "I'll tell you, Wat," said he, "I think it's your stance. You're playing the ball too much off your right foot--coming down on it too much. Now if you want it to rise more----" They were moving away now, but very slowly. "_Fore!_" This time they had to notice the boy. He was mad clear through, and his voice showed it. They all turned, took one good look at him, and then toddled away, keeping well in the middle of the course. Peck was still explaining the theory of the perfect drive. Wally yelled again; this time they did not even look at him. "Well!" said he. "Of all the damned swine! I--I believe we should drive anyway!" "You'll lose a lot of bets if you do." Perhaps I shouldn't have said that. Goodness knows I didn't want to see his game go to pieces behind the Big Four--I didn't want to play behind them myself. I tried to explain. The kid came over and patted me on the back. "You're perfectly right," said he. "I forgot all about those fool bets, but I'd gladly lose all of 'em if I thought I could hit that long-nosed stiff in the back of the neck!" He meant the Colonel. "And so that's the Greens Committee, eh? Holy jumping Jemima! What a club!" I couldn't think of much of anything to say, so we sat still and watched Watlington dig his way out of the bunker, Peck offering advice after each failure. When Watlington disagreed with Peck's point of view he took issue with him, and all hands joined in the argument. Wally was simply sizzling with pent-up emotion, and after Watlington's fifth shot he began to lift the safety-valve a bit. The language which he used was wonderful, and a great tribute to higher education. Old Hardpan himself couldn't have beaten it, even in his mule-skinning days. At last the foursome was out of range and I got off a pretty fair tee shot. Wally was still telling me what he thought of the Greens Committee when he swung at the ball, and never have I seen a wider hook. It was still hooking when it disappeared in the woods, out of bounds. His next ball took a slice and rolled into long grass. "Serves me right for losing my temper," said he with a grin. "I can play this game all right, old top, but when I'm riled it sort of unsettles me. Something tells me that I'm going to be riled for the next half hour or so. Don't mind what I say. It's all meant for those hogs ahead of us." I helped him find his ball, and even then we had to wait on Peebles and Hamilton, who were churning along down the middle of the course in easy range. I lighted a cigarette and thought about something else--my income tax, I think it was. I had found this a good system when sewed up behind the Big Four. I don't know what poor Wally was thinking about--man's inhumanity to man, I suppose--for when it came time to shoot he failed to get down to his ball and hammered it still deeper into the grass. "If it wasn't for the bets," said he, "I'd pick up and we'd go over to Number Eight. I'm afraid that on a strict interpretation of the terms of agreement Martin could spear me for two hundred fish if we skipped a hole." "He could," said I, "and what's more to the point, he would. They were to let us through--on request." Wally sighed. "I've tried one method of approach," said he, "and now I'll try another one. I might tell 'em that I bet two hundred dollars on the suspicion that they were gentlemen, but likely they'd want me to split the winnings. They look like that sort." Number Seven was a gift on a golden platter. I won it with a frightful eight, getting into all sorts of grief along the way, but Wally was entirely up in the air and blew the short putt which should have given him a half. "All square!" said he. "Fair enough! Now we shall see what we shall see!" His chin was very much in evidence as he hiked to Number Eight tee, and he lost no time getting into action. Colonel Peck was preparing to drive as Wally hove alongside. The Colonel is very fussy about his drive. He has been known to send a caddie to the clubhouse for whispering on the bench. Wally walked up behind him. "Stand still, young man! Can't you see I'm driving?" It was in the nature of a royal command. "Oh!" said Wally. "Meaning me, I presume. Do you know, it strikes me that for a golfer with absolutely no consideration for others, you're quite considerate--of yourself!" Now I had always sized up the Colonel for a bluffer. He proved himself one by turning a rich maroon colour and trying to swallow his Adam's apple. Not a word came from him. "Quiet," murmured old Peebles, who looks exactly like a sheep. "Absolute quiet, please." Wally rounded on him like a flash. "Another considerate golfer, eh?" he snapped. "Now, gentlemen, under the rules governing tournament play I demand for my opponent and myself the right to go through. There are open holes ahead; you are not holding your place on the course----" "Drive, Jim," interposed Watlington in that quiet way of his. "Don't pay any attention to him. Drive." "But how can I drive while he's hopping up and down behind me? He puts me all off my swing!" "I'm glad my protest has some effect on you," said Wally. "Now I understand that some of you are members of the Greens Committee of this club. As a member of the said club, I wish to make a formal request that we be allowed to pass." "Denied," said Watlington. "Drive, Jim." "Do you mean to say that you refuse us our rights--that you won't let us through?" "Absolutely," murmured old Peebles. "Absolutely." "But why--why? On what grounds?" "On the grounds that you're too fresh," said Colonel Peck. "On the grounds that we don't want you to go through. Sit down and cool off." "Drive, Jim," said Watlington. "You talk too much, young man." "Wait a second," said Wally. "I want to get you all on record. I have made a courteous request----" "And it has been refused," said old Peebles, blinking at both of us. "Gentlemen, you can't go through!" "Is that final?" "It is--absolutely." And Watlington and Peck nodded. "Drive, Jim!" This time it was Hamilton who spoke. "Pardon me," said Wally. He skipped out in front of the tee, lifted his cap and made a low bow. "Members of the Greens Committee," said he, "and one other hog as yet unclassified, you are witnesses that I default my match to Mr. Curtiss. I do this rather than be forced to play behind four such pitiable dubs as you are. Golf is a gentleman's game, which doubtless accounts for your playing it so poorly. They tell me that you never let any one through. God giving me strength, the day will come when you will not only allow people to pass you, but you will _beg_ them to do it. Make a note of that. Come along, Curtiss. We'll play the last nine--for the fun of the thing." "Oh, Curtiss!" It was Watlington speaking. "How many did you have him down when he quit?" The insult would have made a saint angry, but no saint on the calendar could have summoned the vocabulary with which Wally replied. It was a wonderful exhibition of blistering invective. Watlington's thick hide stood him in good stead. He did not turn a hair or bat an eye, but waited for Wally to run out of breath. Then: "Drive, Jim," said he. Now I did not care to win that match by default, and I did everything in my power to arrange the matter otherwise. I offered to play the remaining holes later in the day, or skip the eighth and begin all square on the ninth tee. "Nothing doing," said Wally. "You're a good sport, but there are other men still in the tournament, and we're not allowed to concede anything. The default goes, but tell me one thing--why didn't you back me up on that kick?" I was afraid he had noticed that I had been pretty much in the background throughout, so when he asked me I told him the truth. "Just a matter of bread and butter," said I. "My uncle's law firm handles all the Midland's business. I'm only the junior member, but I can't afford----" "The Midland?" asked Wally. "Yes, the Midland Manufacturing Company--Peck, Peebles and Hamilton. Watlington's money is invested in the concern too." "Why," said Wally, "that's the entire gang, isn't it--Greens Committee and all?" "The Big Four," said I. "You can see how it is. They're rather important--as clients. There has been no end of litigation over the site for that new plant of theirs down on Third Avenue, and we've handled all of it." But Wally hadn't been listening to me. "So all the eggs are in one basket!" he exclaimed. "That simplifies matters. Now, if one of 'em had been a doctor and one of 'em a lawyer and one of 'em----" "What are you talking about?" I demanded. "Blest if I know!" said Wally. So far as I could learn no official action was taken by the Big Four because of conduct and language unbecoming a gentleman and a golfer. Before I left the clubhouse I had a word or two with Peebles. He was sitting at a table in the corner of the lounging room, nibbling at a piece of cheese and looking as meek as Moses. "We--ah--considered the source," said he. "The boy is young and--rash, quite rash. His father was a mule-skinner--it's in the blood--can't help it possibly. Yes, we considered the source. Absolutely!" I didn't see very much of Wally after that, but I understood that he played the course in the mornings and gave the club a wide berth on Wednesdays and Saturdays. His default didn't help me any. I was handsomely licked in the finals--four and three, I believe it was. About that time something happened which knocked golf completely out of my mind. IV I was sitting in my office one morning when Atkinson, of the C. G. & N., called me on the phone. The railroad offices are in the same building, on the floor above ours. "That you, Curtiss? I'll be right down. I want to see you." Now, our firm handles the legal end for the C. G. & N., and it struck me that Atkinson's voice had a nervous worried ring to it. I was wondering what could be the matter, when he came breezing in all out of breath. "You told me," said he, "that there wouldn't be any trouble about that spur track along Third Avenue." "For the Midland people, you mean? Oh, that's arranged for. All we have to do is appear before the City Council and make the request for a permit. To-morrow morning it comes off. What are you so excited about?" "This," said Atkinson. He pulled a big red handbill out of his pocket and unfolded it. "Possibly I'm no judge, Curtiss, but this seems to be enough to excite anybody." I spread the thing out on my desk and took a look at it. Across the top was one of those headlines that hit you right between the eyes: SHALL THE CITY COUNCIL LICENSE CHILD MURDER? Well, that was a fair start, you'll admit, but it went on from there. I don't remember ever reading anything quite so vitriolic. It was a bitter attack on the proposed spur track along Third Avenue, which is the habitat of the down-trodden workingman and the playground of his children. Judging solely by the handbill, any one would have thought that the main idea of the C. G. & N. was to kill and maim as many toddling infants as possible. The Council was made an accessory before the fact, and the thing wound up with an appeal to class prejudice and a ringing call to arms. "Men of Third Avenue, shall the City Council give to the bloated bondholders of an impudent monopoly the right to torture and murder your innocent babes? Shall your street be turned into a speedway for a modern car of Juggernaut? Let your answer be heard in the Council Chamber to-morrow morning--'No, a thousand times, no!'" I read it through to the end. Then I whistled. "This," said I, "is hot stuff--very hot stuff! Where did it come from?" "The whole south end of town is plastered with bills like it," said Atkinson glumly. "What have we done now, that they should be picking on us? When have we killed any children, I would like to know? What started this? Who started it? Why?" "That isn't the big question," said I. "The big question is: Will the City Council stand hitched in the face of this attack?" The door opened and the answer to that question appeared--Barney MacShane, officially of the rank and file of the City Council of our fair city, in reality the guiding spirit of that body of petty pirates. Barney was moist and nervous, and he held one of the bills in his right hand. His first words were not reassuring. "All hell is loose--loose for fair!" said he. "Take a look at this thing." "We have already been looking at it," said I with a laugh intended to be light and carefree. "What of it? You don't mean to tell me that you are going to let a mere scrap of paper bother you?" Barney mopped his forehead and sat down heavily. "You can laugh," said he, "but there is more than paper behind this. The whole west end of town is up in arms overnight, and I don't know why. Nobody ever kicked up such a rumpus about a spur track before. That's my ward, you know, and I just made my escape from a deputation of women and children. They treed me at the City Hall--before all the newspaper men--and they held their babies up in their arms and they dared me--yes, dared me--to let this thing go through. And the election coming on and all. It's hell, that's what it is!" "But, Barney," I argued, "we are not asking for anything which the city should not be glad to grant. Think what it means to your ward to have this fine big manufacturing plant in it! Think of the men who will have work----" "I'm thinking of them," said Barney sorrowfully. "They're coming to the Council meeting to-morrow morning, and if this thing goes through I may as well clean out my desk. Yes, they're coming, and so are their wives and their children, and they'll bring transparencies and banners and God knows what all----" "But listen, Barney! This plant means prosperity to every one of your people----" "They're saying they'll make it an issue in the next campaign," mumbled MacShane. "They say that if that spur track goes down on Third Avenue it's me out of public life--and they mean it too. God knows what's got into them all at once--they're like a nest of hornets. And the women voting now too. That makes it bad--awful bad! You know as well as I do that any agitation with children mixed up in it is the toughest thing in the world to meet." He struck at the poster with a sudden spiteful gesture. "From beginning to end," he snarled, "it's just an appeal not to let the railroad kill the kids!" "But that's nonsense--bunk!" said Atkinson. "Every precaution will be taken to prevent accidents. You've got to think of the capital invested." Barney rolled a troubled eye in his direction. "You go down on Third Avenue," said he, "and begin talking to them people about capital! Try it once. What the hell do they care about capital? They was brought up to hate the sound of the word! You know and I know that capital ain't near as black as it's painted, but can you tell them that? Huh! And a railroad ain't ever got any friends in a gang standing round on the street corners!" "But," said I, "this isn't a question of friends--it's a straight proposition of right and wrong. The Midland people have gone ahead and put up this big plant. They were given to understand that there would be no opposition to the spur track going down. They've got to have it! The success of their business depends on it! Surely you don't mean to tell me that the Council will refuse this permit?" "Well," said Barney slowly, "I've talked with the boys--Carter and Garvey and Dillon. They're all figuring on running again, and they're scared to death of it. Garvey says we'd be damned fools to go against an agitation like this--so close to election, anyhow." I argued the matter from every angle--the good of the city; the benefit to Barney's ward--but I couldn't budge him. "They say that the voice of the people is the voice of God," said he, "but we know that most of the time it's only noise. Sometimes the noise kind of dies out, and then's the time to step in and cut the melon. But any kind of noise so close to election? Huh! Safety first!" Before the meeting adjourned it was augmented by the appearance of the president and vice-president of the Midland Manufacturing Company, Colonel Jim Peck and old Peebles, and never had I seen those stiff-necked gentlemen so humanly agitated. "This is terrible!" stormed the Colonel. "Terrible! This is unheard of! It is an outrage--a crime--a crying shame to the city! Think of our investment! Other manufacturing plants got their spur tracks for the asking. There was no talk of killing children. Why--why have we been singled out for attack--for--for blackmail?" "You can cut out that kind of talk right now!" said Barney sternly. "There ain't a nickel in granting this permit, and you know it as well as I do. Nobody ain't trying to blackmail you! All the dough in town won't swing the boys into line behind this proposition while this rumpus is going on. And since you're taking that slant at it, here's the last word--sit tight and wait till after election!" "But the pl-plant!" bleated Peebles, tearing a blotter to shreds with shaking fingers. "The plant! Think of the loss of time--and we--we expected to open up next month!" "Go ahead and open up," said Barney. "You can truck your stuff to the depots, can't you? Yes, yes--I get you about the loss! Us boys in the Council--we got something to lose too. Now here it is, straight from the shoulder, and you can bet on it." Barney spoke slowly, wagging his forefinger at each word. "If that application comes up to-morrow morning, with the Council chamber jammed with folks from the south end of the town--good-a-by, John! Fare thee well! It ain't in human nature to commit political suicide when a second term is making eyes at you. Look at our end of it for a while. We got futures to think of, too, and Garvey--Garvey wants to run for mayor some day. You can't afford to have that application turned down, can you? Of course not. Have a little sense. Keep your shirts on. Get out and see who's behind this thing. Chances are somebody wants something. Find out what it is--rig up a compromise--get him to call off the dogs. Then talk to me again, and I'll promise you it'll go through as slick as a greased pig!" "I believe there's something in that," said I. "We've never run into such a hornets' nest as this before. There must be a reason. Atkinson, you've got a lot of gumshoe men on your staff. Why don't you turn 'em loose to locate this opposition?" "You're about two hours late with that suggestion," said the railroad representative. "Our sleuths are on the job now. If they find out anything I'll communicate with you P. D. Q." "Good!" ejaculated Colonel Peck. "And if it's money----" "Aw, you make me sick!" snapped Barney MacShane. "You think money can do everything, don't you? Well, it can't! For one thing, it couldn't get me to shake hands with a stiff like you!" * * * * * I was called away from the dinner table on the following Friday evening. Watlington was on the telephone. "That you, Curtiss? Well, we think we've got in touch with the bug under the chip. Can you arrange to meet us in Room 85 at the Hotel Brookmore at nine to-night?... No, I can't tell you a thing about it. We're asked to be there--you're asked to be there--and that's as far as my information goes. Don't be late." When I entered Room 85 four men were seated at a long table. They were Elsberry J. Watlington, Colonel Jim Peck, Samuel Alexander Peebles and W. Cotton Hamilton. They greeted me with a certain amount of nervous irritability. The Big Four had been through a cruel week and showed the marks of strain. "Where's Atkinson?" I asked. "It was stipulated, expressly stipulated," said old Peebles, "that only the five of us should be present. The whole thing is most mysterious. I--I don't like the looks of it." "Probably a hold-up!" grunted Colonel Peck. Watlington didn't say anything. He had aged ten years, his heavy smooth-shaven face was set in stern lines and his mouth looked as if it might have been made with a single slash of a razor. Hamilton mumbled to himself and kept trying to light the end of his thumb instead of his cigar. Peck had his watch in his
{'title': 'Fore! by Charles E. Van Loan', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}