Eyewitnesses of that great encounter will tell the story of the last hole to their dying day. It was one of those Titanic struggles which Time cannot efface from the memory. Archibald was fortunate in getting a good start. He only missed twice before he struck his ball on the tee. Gossett had four strokes ere he achieved the feat. Nor did Archibald’s luck desert him in the journey to the green. He was out of the bunker in eleven.
Gossett emerged only after sixteen. Finally, when Archibald’s twenty-first stroke sent the ball trickling into the hole, Gossett had played his thirtieth.
The ball had hardly rested on the bottom of the hole before Gossett had begun to tear the telegrams from their envelopes. As he read, his eyes bulged in their sockets.
“Not bad news, I hope,” said a sympathetic bystander.
Sigsbee took the sheaf of telegrams.
The first ran: “Good luck. Hope you win. McCay.” The second also ran: “Good luck. Hope you win. McCay.” So, singularly enough, did the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh.
“Great Scott!” said Sigsbee. “He seems to have been pretty anxious not to run any risk of missing you, Gossett.”
As he spoke, Archibald, close beside him, was looking at his watch. The hands stood at a quarter to two.
Margaret and her mother were seated in the parlour when Archibald arrived. Mrs. Milsom, who had elicited the fact that Archibald had not kept his appointment, had been saying “I told you so” for some time, and this had not improved Margaret’s temper. When, therefore, Archibald, damp and dishevelled, was shown in, the chill in the air nearly gave him frostbite. Mrs. Milsom did her celebrated imitation of the Gorgon, while Margaret, lightly humming an air, picked up a weekly paper and became absorbed in it.
“Margaret, let me explain,” panted Archibald. Mrs. Milsom was understood to remark that she dared say. Margaret’s attention was riveted by a fashion plate.
“Driving in a taximeter to the ferry this morning,” resumed Archibald, “I had an accident.”
This was the result of some rather feverish brain-work on the way from the links to the cottage.
The periodical flopped to the floor.
“Oh, Archie, are you hurt?”
“A few scratches, nothing more; but it made me miss my train.”
“What train did you catch?” asked Mrs. Milsom sepulchrally.
“The one o’clock. I came straight on here from the station.”
“Why,” said Margaret, “Stuyvesant was coming home on the one o’clock train. Did you see him?”
Archibald’s jaw dropped slightly.
“Er—no,” he said.
“How curious,” said Margaret.
“Very curious,” said Archibald.
“Most curious,” said Mrs. Milsom.
They were still reflecting on the singularity of this fact when the door opened, and the son of the house entered in person.
“Thought I should find you here, Mealing,” he said. “They gave me this at the station to give to you; you dropped it this morning when you got out of the train.”
He handed Archibald the missing pouch.
“Thanks,” said the latter huskily. “When you say this morning, of course you mean this afternoon, but thanks all the same—thanks—thanks.”
“No, Archibald Mealing, he does not mean this afternoon,” said Mrs. Milsom. “Stuyvesant, speak! From what train did that guf—did Mr. Mealing alight when he dropped the tobacco-pouch?”
“The ten o’clock, the fellow told me. Said he would have given it back to him then only he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry.”
Six eyes focused themselves upon Archibald.
“Margaret,” he said, “I will not try to deceive you—”
“You may try,” observed Mrs. Milsom, “but you will not succeed.”
“Well, Archibald?”
Archibald fingered his collar.
“There was no taximeter accident.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Milsom.
“The fact is, I have been playing in a golf tournament.”
Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Playing golf!”
Archibald bowed his head with manly resignation.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you arrange for us to meet on the links? I should have loved it.”
Archibald was amazed.
“You take an interest in golf, Margaret? You! I thought you scorned it, considered it an unintellectual game. I thought you considered all games unintellectual.”
“Why, I play golf myself. Not very well.”
“Margaret! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. I feared you would despise me.”
Archibald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling.
“Margaret,” he said, “this is no time for misunderstandings. We must be open with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, do you like poetry really?”
Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:
“No, Archibald,” she said, “it is as you suspect. I am not worthy of you. I do not like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away! Your face grows hard and scornful!”
“I don’t!” yelled Archibald. “It doesn’t! It doesn’t do anything of the sort! You’ve made me another man!”
She stared, wild-eyed, astonished.
“What! Do you mean that you, too—”
“I should just say I do. I tell you I hate the beastly stuff. I only pretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I’ve spent learning it up! I wonder I’ve not got brain fever.”
“Archie! Used you to read it up, too? Oh, if I’d only known!”
“And you forgive me—this morning, I mean?”
“Of course. You couldn’t leave a golf tournament. By the way, how did you get on?”
Archibald coughed.
“Rather well,” he said modestly. “Pretty decently. In fact, not badly. As a matter of fact, I won the championship.”
“The championship!” whispered Margaret. “Of America?”
“Well, not absolutely of America,” said Archibald. “But all the same, a championship.”
“My hero.”
“You won’t be wanting me for a while, I guess?” said Stuyvesant nonchalantly. “Think I’ll smoke a cigarette on the porch.”
And sobs from the stairs told that Mrs. Milsom was already on her way to her room.
The young man came into the smoking-room of the clubhouse, and flung his bag with a clatter on the floor. He sank moodily into an armchair and pressed the bell.
“Waiter!”
“Sir?”
The young man pointed at the bag with every evidence of distaste.
“You may have these clubs,” he said. “Take them away. If you don’t want them yourself, give them to one of the
