It made a line of white fire against the green distance and with his far-sighted vision he saw it bound and roll, fading off to the left slightly, coming at last to rest beyond the border of pine.
He looked back, saw Jeryde give him a strange, unbelieving glance as he teed up his own ball, waggled his arms to loosen up. This could be the payoff hole, or it could mean extra holes. Jock was afraid of extra holes. He even dreaded the five hundred yard march ahead of him. But Molly had heard the radio. Molly had heard the announcer describe the drive. She would know what it meant, and what was behind it. She knew his limitations as well as he did.
Jeryde’s drive was a money ball. He had that look on his face as he hit it. Jock knew that the hole and the tournament depended on his taking the heart out of Jock Drew. Jock watched the drive. Jeryde cut it dangerously close to the trees, and with his greater power, he could afford the roll limitations of a slice. The ball disappeared around the corner, rolling slowly; but Jock knew that it was going fast enough to catch the slope, to be carried well down toward the green, shortening Jeryde’s second shot appreciably.
At last he arrived, spent and weary, at his own ball, and he could see the green at the foot of the slope, the creek glowing behind it where the sun sparkled off the cool water.
The perfect shot would land on the green, an iron shot with sufficient back-spin to enable it to cling. And yet the distance was so great that backspin would be largely spent by the time the ball arrived.
He stood so long inspecting the terrain that he heard somebody behind him mutter, “What’s the matter with him?”
The caddie was biting his underlip. Jock called for a four iron. One more swing with all his heart in it. Just one more. Magic on the green, Molly had said. And magic was what he would need. Magic and strength.
He dug at the ball with a full swing, and the pain that ran up his arm was like a blazing knife. It clouded his vision so that he couldn’t follow the flight of the ball. He bent over and tried to still the pain in his wrist by holding it clenched in the fingers of his right hand.
The great cheer that went up made him look up and he saw his ball, clean and true on the green about ten feet from the pin.
He held his wrist and looked at it, saw the puffiness coming, knew that he had pulled tendons loose.
“What’s the matter?” the caddie asked breathlessly.
“A small hurt. Nothing. I can putt.”
He watched Jeryde. The blonde man settled his feet firmly. Jock saw the deep pitch on the club, guessed that it was a seven, or even an eight. All the breaks had gone against Jeryde. He was the better golfer, Jock knew.
So it was without a great deal of surprise, with a feeling almost of inevitability that he saw the ball drop, hit the green a foot short of the hole, bounce almost straight up, land, and trickle in for an eagle two. An eagle two, the tournament and the failure of Jock Drew.
He walked stiffly down the slope, and he knew that no man could better the scores that he and Don Jeryde had hung up on that day.
So with warmth in his blue eyes, he caught up with Jeryde, put this thin brown hand out and said, “Ah, you did well, lad. Well.”
“I lucked out on you, Mr. Drew. You should have had it,” Jeryde said quietly, but behind the calm of his gray eyes, his glee was huge and bright.
Jock took a long time over his putt. The fingers of his left hand felt numb, and the slighest pressure was like a vise on his wrist. But he putted straight and true and well for the birdie three.
The congratulations were surprisingly warm for a second place winner. He felt them press close behind him to pat his shoulders, and he kept an empty smile on his lips. The group around Jeryde was only a bit larger, and Jock, his heart heavy, gradually forced his way through to the clubhouse, gave the caddie the five wrinkled ten-dollar bills that were his just share, and carried his clubs into the elevator to take them up to his room with him. He was too sick at heart to brave the tumult of the locker room.
The doctor came within a few minutes, pronounced it a torn tendon and strapped his wrist tightly.
Jock sat on the bed, his face in his hands. He was treasuring his last few minutes of pride. Soon, before it was too late, he would tell the story of Molly to the newspaper men, of how she was listening, and why the money was needed.
Oh, the American public would love it. There would be vicarious tears and the money would come in. But it was for Molly.
When the knock came at the door, he called, “Come in.”
The man who came in was vaguely familiar. He was a tanned and stocky man with streaks of grey at his temples.
“Jock Drew? I’m Tony Brayton. The Jordon Company.”
Jock knew the company. Years before he had used their line, had given his name to their products.
“Come in, Mr. Brayton. Sit down. I know your company.”
Brayton sat by the window. His brown eyes were shining. “Jock, I watched you all day. I’ve never seen better golf.”
“It’s kind of you to say it.”
Brayton shook his head. “What I can’t understand, and forgive me for asking, is why you should come out of retirement and take on a whole smear of the best pros in the country.”
Jock held a match to his pipe. “I... I had a great need for the money.”
“I suppose you signed up with somebody?”
“No, lad. They offered me pennies. I knew that if I failed, all I would have would be the pennies, and if I won, they would have to offer much more.”
Brayton jumped up, began to pace back and forth, his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Who buys the expensive clubs in this country? Men in your age bracket. Men from forty to seventy. For years they have been plugging tournament golf as a young man’s game. And along you come and almost take one of the fattest tournaments of the year. Why, every duffer in the country was identifying himself with you. He was saying to himself that if Jock Drew can do it, so can he.”
“You’re building it up, lad.”
“Nonsense! Don Jeryde won the tournament, but you won the hearts of the people.” He stopped suddenly, smiled.
“I noticed you used Jordon clubs.”
“I’ve used Jordon dubs for twenty years. They have honest workmanship. At our little — I mean, at the little club I used to work for up in Vermont, I sold your products, changed a little.”
Jock walked over and took a club out of his bag. He held it out to Brayton. “See? I took the factory grip off. I cut the handle thinner, coated it with putty, held it properly for a moment and then let the putty set. Afterwards I cut it off, and a little plastics company in Montpelier makes the finished grips which I fasten to the clubs. With that grip, you can’t hold a club wrong. I did it for the customers up there. Showed them how to hold the club properly while the putty was on the handle, then had their own handles made.”
Brayton said softly, “Let Jock Drew personalize your new Jordon clubs! Jock Drew and the Jordon workshop will be at your golf club next Saturday. A limited number of customers can be served. With a personalized set of Jordon clubs, your hand can’t slip, your grip will always be right! Take strokes off your score!”
“Are you dreaming, lad?” Jock asked gently.
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s up to the big shots in the company to tell me if I am. Can I phone right here? Good. First, what’s your minimum for a three year contract?”
Jock thought of his second place winnings. He thought of the grave, unsmiling man who had examined Molly.
“This may seem a shade stiff, lad. Ten thousand flat to use the method. And ten thousand a year to me.”