The young man shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Well, you know, I’ve had a pretty rotten time this afternoon already—”
“I will call my story,” said the Sage, tranquilly, “ ‘The Long Hole,’ for it involved the playing of what I am inclined to think must be the longest hole in the history of golf. In its beginnings the story may remind you of one I once told you about Peter Willard and James Todd, but you will find that it develops in quite a different manner. Ralph Bingham. …”
“I half promised to go and see a man—”
“But I will begin at the beginning,” said the Sage. “I see that you are all impatience to hear the full details.”
Ralph Bingham and Arthur Jukes (said the Oldest Member) had never been friends—their rivalry was too keen to admit of that—but it was not till Amanda Trivett came to stay here that a smouldering distaste for each other burst out into the flames of actual enmity. It is ever so. One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation. The gist of his remarks is that lovely woman rarely fails to start something. In the weeks that followed her arrival, being in the same room with the two men was like dropping in on a reunion of Capulets and Montagues.
You see, Ralph and Arthur were so exactly equal in their skill on the links that life for them had for some time past resolved itself into a silent, bitter struggle in which first one, then the other, gained some slight advantage. If Ralph won the May medal by a stroke, Arthur would be one ahead in the June competition, only to be nosed out again in July. It was a state of affairs which, had they been men of a more generous stamp, would have bred a mutual respect, esteem, and even love. But I am sorry to say that, apart from their golf, which was in a class of its own as far as this neighbourhood was concerned, Ralph Bingham and Arthur Jukes were a sorry pair—and yet, mark you, far from lacking in mere superficial good looks. They were handsome fellows, both of them, and well aware of the fact; and when Amanda Trivett came to stay they simply straightened their ties, twirled their moustaches, and expected her to do the rest.
But there they were disappointed. Perfectly friendly though she was to both of them, the lovelight was conspicuously absent from her beautiful eyes. And it was not long before each had come independently to a solution of this mystery. It was plain to them that the whole trouble lay in the fact that each neutralized the other’s attractions. Arthur felt that, if he could only have a clear field, all would be over except the sending out of the wedding invitations; and Ralph was of the opinion that, if he could just call on the girl one evening without finding the place all littered up with Arthur, his natural charms would swiftly bring home the bacon. And, indeed, it was true that they had no rivals except themselves. It happened at the moment that Woodhaven was very short of eligible bachelors. We marry young in this delightful spot, and all the likely men were already paired off. It seemed that, if Amanda Trivett intended to get married, she would have to select either Ralph Bingham or Arthur Jukes. A dreadful choice.
It had not occurred to me at the outset that my position in the affair would be anything closer than that of a detached and mildly interested spectator. Yet it was to me that Ralph came in his hour of need. When I returned home one evening, I found that my man had brought him in and laid him on the mat in my sitting-room.
I offered him a chair and a cigar, and he came to the point with commendable rapidity.
“Leigh,” he said, directly he had lighted his cigar, “is too small for Arthur Jukes and myself.”
“Ah, you have been talking it over and decided to move?” I said, delighted. “I think you are perfectly right. Leigh is over-built. Men like you and Jukes need a lot of space. Where do you think of going?”
“I’m not going.”
“But I thought you said—”
“What I meant was that the time has come when one of us must leave.”
“Oh, only one of you?” It was something, of course, but I confess I was disappointed, and I think my disappointment must have shown in my voice; for he looked at me, surprised.
“Surely you wouldn’t mind Jukes going?” he said.
“Why, certainly not. He really is going, is he?”
A look of saturnine determination came into Ralph’s face.
“He is. He thinks he isn’t, but he is.”
I failed to understand him, and said so. He looked cautiously about the room, as if to reassure himself that he could not be overheard.
“I suppose you’ve noticed,” he said, “the disgusting way that man Jukes has been hanging round Miss Trivett, boring her to death?”
“I have seen them together sometimes.”
“I love Amanda Trivett!” said Ralph.
“Poor girl!” I sighed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Poor girl!” I said. “I mean, to have Arthur Jukes hanging round her.”
“That’s just what I think,” said Ralph Bingham. “And that’s why we’re going to play this match.”
“What match?”
“This match we’ve decided to play. I want you to act as one of the judges, to go along with Jukes and see that he doesn’t play any of his tricks. You know what he is! And in a vital match like this—”
“How much are you playing for?”
“The whole world!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The whole world. It amounts to that. The loser is to leave Leigh for good, and the winner stays on and marries Amanda Trivett.
