Nor had James and Peter. The girl seemed to like them both equally. They never saw her except in each other’s company. And it was not until one day when Grace Forrester was knitting a sweater that there seemed a chance of getting a clue to her hidden feelings.
When the news began to spread through the place that Grace was knitting this sweater there was a big sensation. The thing seemed to us practically to amount to a declaration.
That was the view that James Todd and Peter Willard took of it, and they used to call on Grace, watch her knitting, and come away with their heads full of complicated calculations. The whole thing hung on one point—to wit, what size the sweater was going to be. If it was large, then it must be for Peter; if small, then James was the lucky man. Neither dared to make open inquiries, but it began to seem almost impossible to find out the truth without them. No masculine eye can reckon up purls and plains and estimate the size of chest which the garment is destined to cover. Moreover, with amateur knitters there must always be allowed a margin for involuntary error. There were many cases during the war where our girls sent sweaters to their sweethearts which would have induced strangulation in their young brothers. The amateur sweater of those days was, in fact, practically tantamount to German propaganda.
Peter and James were accordingly baffled. One evening the sweater would look small, and James would come away jubilant; the next it would have swollen over a vast area, and Peter would walk home singing. The suspense of the two men can readily be imagined. On the one hand, they wanted to know their fate; on the other, they fully realized that whoever the sweater was for would have to wear it. And, as it was a vivid pink and would probably not fit by a mile, their hearts quailed at the prospect.
In all affairs of human tension there must come a breaking point. It came one night as the two men were walking home.
“Peter,” said James, stopping in mid-stride. He mopped his forehead. His manner had been feverish all the evening.
“Yes?” said Peter.
“I can’t stand this any longer. I haven’t had a good night’s rest for weeks. We must find out definitely which of us is to have that sweater.”
“Let’s go back and ask her,” said Peter.
So they turned back and rang the bell and went into the house and presented themselves before Miss Forrester.
“Lovely evening,” said James, to break the ice.
“Superb,” said Peter.
“Delightful,” said Miss Forrester, looking a little surprised at finding the troupe playing a return date without having booked it in advance.
“To settle a bet,” said James, “will you please tell us who—I should say, whom—you are knitting that sweater for?”
“It is not a sweater,” replied Miss Forrester, with a womanly candour that well became her. “It is a sock. And it is for my cousin Juliet’s youngest son, Willie.”
“Good night,” said James.
“Good night,” said Peter.
“Good night,” said Grace Forrester.
It was during the long hours of the night, when ideas so often come to wakeful men, that James was struck by an admirable solution of his and Peter’s difficulty. It seemed to him that, were one or the other to leave Woodhaven, the survivor would find himself in a position to conduct his wooing as wooing should be conducted. Hitherto, as I have indicated, neither had allowed the other to be more than a few minutes alone with the girl. They watched each other like hawks. When James called, Peter called. When Peter dropped in, James invariably popped round. The thing had resolved itself into a stalemate.
The idea which now came to James was that he and Peter should settle their rivalry by an eighteen-hole match on the links. He thought very highly of the idea before he finally went to sleep, and in the morning the scheme looked just as good to him as it had done overnight.
James was breakfasting next morning, preparatory to going round to disclose his plan to Peter, when Peter walked in, looking happier than he had done for days.
“ ’Morning,” said James.
“ ’Morning,” said Peter.
Peter sat down and toyed absently with a slice of bacon.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
“One isn’t many,” said James, bringing his knife down with a jerk-shot on a fried egg. “What is your idea?”
“Got it last night as I was lying awake. It struck me that, if either of us was to clear out of this place, the other would have a fair chance. You know what I mean—with Her. At present we’ve got each other stymied. Now, how would it be,” said Peter, abstractedly spreading marmalade on his bacon, “if we were to play an eighteen-hole match, the loser to leg out of the neighbourhood and stay away long enough to give the winner the chance to find out exactly how things stood?”
James started so violently that he struck himself in the left eye with his fork.
“That’s exactly the idea I got last night, too.”
“Then it’s a go?”
“It’s the only thing to do.”
There
