It wasn't the most pleasant of our games. The spirit of the cup hung over it and depressed us. At the third hole I had an eighteen–inch putt for a half. "That's all right," said Smith forgetfully; and then added, "Perhaps you'd better put it in, though." Of course I missed. On the fifth green he was about to brush away a leaf. "That's illegal," I said sharply, "you must pick it up; you mayn't brush it away," and after a fierce argument on the point he putted hastily—and badly. At the eighteenth tee we were all square and hardly on speaking terms. The fate of the Mother Country depended upon the result of this hole.
I drove a long one, the longest of the day, slightly hooked.
"Good shot," said Smith with an effort. He pressed and foozled badly. I tried not to look pleased.
We found his ball in a thick clump of heather. With a grim look on his face, he took out his niblick….
I stayed by him and helped him count up to eight.
"Where's your ball?" he growled.
"A long way on," I said reproachfully. "I wish you'd hurry up. The poor thing will be getting cold."
He got to work again. We had another count together up to fifteen. Sometimes there would be a gleam of white at the top of the heather for a moment and then it would fade away.
"How many?" I asked some minutes later.
"About thirty. But I don't care, I'm going to get the little beast into the hole if it takes me all night." He went on hacking.
I had lost interest in the performance, for the cup was mine, but I did admire his Colonial grit.
"Got it," he cried suddenly, and the ball sailed out on to the pretty. Another shot put him level with me.
"Thirty–two?" I asked.
"About," he said coldly.
I began to look for my ball. It had got tired of waiting and had hidden itself. Smith joined gloomily in the search.
"This is absurd," I said, after three or four minutes.
"By jove!" said Smith, suddenly brightening up. "If your ball's lost I win after all."
"Nonsense; you've given the hole up," I protested. "You don't know how many you've played. According to the rules, if I ask you how many, and you give wrong information—"
"It's thirty–five," he said promptly.
"I don't believe you counted."
"Call it forty–five then. There's nothing to prevent my calling it more than it really is. If it was really only forty, then I'm counting five occasions when the ball rolled over as I was addressing it. That's very generous of me. Actually I'm doubtful if the ball did roll over five times, but I say it did in order to be on the safe side." He looked at his watch. "And if you don't find your ball in thirty seconds, you lose the hole."
It was ingenious, but the Mother Country can be ingenious too.
"How many have you played exactly?" I asked. "Be careful."
"Forty–five," he said. "Exactly."
"Right." I took my niblick and swung at the heather. "Bother," I said. "Missed it. Two."
"Hallo! Have you found it?"
"I have. It's somewhere in this field. There's no rule which insists that you shall hit the ball, or even that you shall hit near the ball, or even that you shall see the ball when you hit at it. Lots of old gentlemen shut their eyes and miss the sphere. I've missed. In five minutes I shall miss again."
"But what's the point?"
"The point, dear friend," I smiled, "is that after each stroke one is allowed five minutes in which to find the ball. I have forty–three strokes in hand; that gives me three hours and thirty–five minutes in which to look for it. At regular intervals of five minutes I shall swing my club and probably miss. It's four–thirty now; at eight o'clock, unless I find my ball before, I shall be playing the like. And if you are a sportsman," I added, "you will bring me out some tea in half an hour."
At six–thirty I was still looking—and swinging. Smith then came to terms and agreed to share the cup with me for the first year. He goes back to Canada to–morrow, and will spread the good news there that the Old Country can still hold its own in resource, determination and staying power. But next year we are going to play friendly golf again.
The First Tee
(Mullion)
It is the place, it is the place, my soul! (Blow, bugle, blow; sing, triangle; toot, fife!) Down to the sea the close–cropped pastures roll, Couches behind yon sandy hill the goal Whereat, it may be, after ceaseless strife The "Colonel" shall find peace, and Henry say, "Your hole" …
Caddie, give me my driver, caddie, The sun shines hot, but there's half a breeze, Enough to rustle the tree–tops, laddie, Only supposing there were some trees; The year's at the full and the morn's at eleven, It's a wonderful day just straight from Heaven, And this is a hole I can do in seven— Caddie, my driver, please.
Three times a day from now till Monday week (Ten peerless days in all) I take my stand Vested in some dégagé mode of breek (The chess–board touch, with squares that almost speak), And lightly sketch my Slice into the Sand, As based on bigger men, but much of it unique….
Caddie, give me my driver, caddie, Note my style on the first few tees; Duncan fashioned my wrist–work, laddie, Taylor taught me to twist my knees; I've a beautiful swing that I learnt from Vardon (I practise it sometimes down the garden— "My fault! Sorry! I beg your pardon!")— Caddie, my driver, please.
Only ten little days, in which to do So much! e.g., the twelfth: ah, it was there The Secretary met his Waterloo, But perished gamely, playing twenty–two; His clubs (ten little days!) lie bleaching where Sea–poppies blow (ten days) and wheeling sea–birds mew….
Caddie, give me my driver, caddie, Let us away with thoughts like these; A week and a half is a lifetime, laddie, The day that's here is the day to seize; Carpe diem—yes, that's the motto, "Work be jiggered!" and likewise "What ho!" I'M NOT GOING BACK TILL I'VE JOLLY WELL GOT TO! Caddie, my driver, please.
The Enchanted Castle
There are warm days in London when even a window–box fails to charm, and one longs for the more open spaces of the country. Besides, one wants to see how the other flowers are getting on. It is on these days that we travel to our Castle of Stopes; as the crow flies, fifteen miles away. Indeed, that is the way we get to it, for it is a castle in the air. And when we are come to it, Celia is always in a pink sunbonnet gathering roses lovingly, and I, not very far off, am speaking strongly to somebody or other about something I want done. By–and–by I shall go into the library and work … with an occasional glance through the open window at Celia.
To think that a month ago we were quite happy with a few pink geraniums!
Sunday, a month ago, was hot. "Let's take train somewhere," said Celia, "and have lunch under a hedge."
"I know a lovely place for hedges," I said.
"I know a lovely tin of potted grouse," said Celia, and she went off to cut some sandwiches. By twelve o'clock we were getting out of the train.
The first thing we came to was a golf course, and Celia had to drag me past it. Then we came to a wood, and I had to drag her through it. Another mile along a lane, and then we both stopped together.
"Oh!" we said.
It was a cottage, the cottage of a dream. And by a cottage I mean, not four plain rooms and a kitchen, but one surprising room opening into another; rooms all on different levels and of different shapes, with delightful places to bump your head on; open fireplaces; a large square hall, oak–beamed, where your guests can hang about after breakfast, while deciding whether to play golf or sit in the garden. Yet all so cunningly disposed that from outside it looks only a cottage or, at most, two cottages persuaded into one.