And once more she sent the birds shooting out of the treetops with that hearty laugh of hers. John Gooch, coming slowly to after the shattering impact of it, found that he was clutching Frederick Pilcher’s arm. He flung it from him as if it had been a loathsome snake.
A grimmer struggle than that which took place over the next six holes has probably never been seen on any links. First one, then the other seemed to be about to lose the hole, but always a well-judged slice or a timely top enabled his opponent to rally. At the eighteenth tee the game was still square; and John Gooch, taking advantage of the fact that Agnes had stopped to tie her shoelace, endeavoured to appeal to his onetime friend’s better nature.
“Frederick,” he said, “this is not like you.”
“What isn’t like me?”
“Playing this low-down game. It is not like the old Frederick Pilcher.”
“Well, what sort of a game do you think you are playing?”
“A little below my usual, it is true,” admitted John Gooch. “But that is due to nervousness. You are deliberately trying to foozle, which is not only painting the lily but very dishonest. And I can’t see what motive you have, either.”
“You can’t, can’t you?”
John Gooch laid a hand persuasively on the other’s shoulder.
“Agnes Flack is a most delightful girl.”
“Who is?”
“Agnes Flack.”
“A delightful girl?”
“Most delightful.”
“Agnes Flack is a delightful girl?”
“Yes.”
“Oh?”
“She would make you very happy.”
“Who would?”
“Agnes Flack.”
“Make me happy?”
“Very happy.”
“Agnes Flack would make me happy?”
“Yes.”
“Oh?”
John Gooch was conscious of a slight discouragement. He did not seem to be making headway.
“Well, then, look here,” he said, “what we had better do is to have a gentleman’s agreement.”
“Who are the gentlemen?”
“You and I.”
“Oh?”
John Gooch did not like the other’s manner, nor did he like the tone of voice in which he had just spoken. But then there were so many things about Frederick Pilcher that he did not like that it seemed useless to try to do anything about it. Moreover, Agnes Flack had finished tying her shoelace, and was making for them across the turf like a mastodon striding over some prehistoric plain. It was no time for wasting words.
“A gentleman’s agreement to halve the match,” he said hurriedly.
“What’s the good of that? She would only make us play extra holes.”
“We would halve those, too.”
“Then we should have to play it off another day.”
“But before that we could leave the neighbourhood.”
“Sidney McMurdo would follow us to the ends of the earth.”
“Ah, but suppose we didn’t go there? Suppose we simply lay low in the city and grew beards?”
“There’s something in it,” said Frederick Pilcher, reflectively.
“You agree?”
“Very well.”
“Splendid!”
“What’s splendid?” asked Agnes Flack, thudding up.
“Oh—er—the match,” said John Gooch. “I was saying to Pilcher that this was a splendid match.”
Agnes Flack sniffed. She seemed quieter than she had been at the outset, as though something were on her mind.
“I’m glad you think so,” she said. “Do you two always play like this?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. This is about our usual form.”
“H’m! Well, push on.”
It was with a light heart that John Gooch addressed his ball for the last drive of the match. A great weight had been lifted from his mind, and he told himself that now there was no objection to bringing off a real sweet one. He swung lustily; and the ball, struck on its extreme left side, shot off at right angles, hit the ladies’ tee-box, and, whizzing back at a high rate of speed, would have mown Agnes Flack’s ankles from under her, had she not at the psychological moment skipped in a manner extraordinarily reminiscent of the high hills mentioned in Sacred Writ.
“Sorry, old man,” said John Gooch, hastily, flushing as he encountered Frederick Pilcher’s cold look of suspicion. “Frightfully sorry, Frederick, old man. Absolutely unintentional.”
“What are you apologizing to him for?” demanded Agnes Flack with a good deal of heat. It had been a near thing, and the girl was ruffled.
Frederick Pilcher’s suspicions had plainly not been allayed by John Gooch’s words. He drove a cautious thirty yards, and waited with the air of one suspending judgment for his opponent to play his second. It was with a feeling of relief that John Gooch, smiting vigorously with his brassie, was enabled to establish his bona fides with a shot that rolled to within mashie-niblick distance of the green.
Frederick Pilcher seemed satisfied that all was well. He played his second to the edge of the green. John Gooch ran his third up into the neighbourhood of the pin.
Frederick Pilcher stooped and picked his ball up.
“Here!” cried Agnes Flack.
“Hey!” ejaculated John Gooch.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” said Agnes Flack.
Frederick Pilcher looked at them with mild surprise.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “There’s a blob of mud on my ball. I just wanted to brush it off.”
“Oh, my heavens!” thundered Agnes Flack. “Haven’t you ever read the rules? You’re disqualified.”
“Disqualified?”
“Dis-jolly-well-qualified,” said Agnes Flack, her eyes flashing scorn. “This cripple here wins the match.”
Frederick Pilcher heaved a sigh.
“So be it,” he said. “So be it.”
“What do you mean, so be it? Of course it is.”
“Exactly. Exactly. I quite understand. I have lost the match. So be it.”
And, with drooping shoulders, Frederick Pilcher shuffled off in the direction of the bar.
John Gooch watched him go with a seething fury which for the moment robbed him of speech. He might, he told himself, have expected something like this. Frederick Pilcher, lost to every sense of good feeling and fair play, had double-crossed him. He shuddered as he realized how inky must be the hue of Frederick Pilcher’s soul; and he wished in a frenzy of regret that he had thought of picking his own ball up. Too late! Too late!
For an instant the world had been blotted out for John Gooch by a sort of red mist. This mist clearing, he now saw Agnes Flack standing looking at him in a speculative sort of way, an odd expression in her eyes. And beyond her, leaning darkly
