“You’re sure?” he cried. “You’re positive it’s genuine?”
“I have a written guarantee from Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones, and the nurse.”
“How much, Bott, old man?” stammered Bradbury. “How much do you want for it, Gladstone, old top? I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Ha!”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“Ha, ha!”
“A million.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Two million.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Bradbury Fisher’s strong face twisted like that of a tortured fiend. He registered in quick succession rage, despair, hate, fury, anguish, pique, and resentment. But when he spoke again his voice was soft and gentle.
“Gladdy, old socks,” he said, “we have been friends for years.”
“No, we haven’t,” said Gladstone Bott.
“Yes, we have.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Well, anyway, what about two million five hundred?”
“Nothing doing. Say, listen. Do you really want that baffy?”
“I do, Botty, old egg, I do indeed.”
“Then listen. I’ll exchange it for Blizzard.”
“For Blizzard?” quavered Fisher.
“For Blizzard.”
It occurs to me that, when describing the closeness of the rivalry between these two men, I may have conveyed the impression that in no department of life could either claim a definite advantage over the other. If that is so, I erred. It is true that in a general way, whatever one had, the other had something equally good to counterbalance it; but in just one matter Bradbury Fisher had triumphed completely over Gladstone Bott. Bradbury Fisher had the finest English butler on Long Island.
From the first, Bradbury had been perfectly aware that Bott coveted Blizzard, and the knowledge had sweetened his life. But this was the first time he had come out into the open and admitted it.
“Blizzard?” whispered Fisher.
“Blizzard,” said Bott, firmly. “It’s my wife’s birthday next week, and I’ve been wondering what to give her.”
Bradbury Fisher shuddered from head to foot, and his legs wobbled like asparagus stalks. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The serpent was tempting him—tempting him grievously.
“You’re sure you won’t take three million—or four—or something like that?”
“No; I want Blizzard.”
Bradbury Fisher passed his handkerchief over his streaming brow.
“So be it,” he said in a low voice.
The Jones baffy arrived that night, and for some hours Bradbury Fisher gloated over it with the unmixed joy of a collector who has secured the prize of a lifetime. Then, stealing gradually over him, came the realization of what he had done.
He was thinking of his wife and what she would say when she heard of this. Blizzard was Mrs. Fisher’s pride and joy. She had never, like the poet, nursed a dear gazelle, but, had she done so, her attitude towards it would have been identical with her attitude towards Blizzard. Although so far away, it was plain that her thoughts still lingered with the treasure she had left at home, for on his arrival Bradbury had found three cables awaiting him.
The first ran:—
“How is Blizzard? Reply.”
The second:—
“How is Blizzard’s sciatica? Reply.”
The third:—
“Blizzard’s hiccups. How are they? Suggest Doctor Murphy’s Tonic Swamp-Juice. Highly spoken of. Three times a day after meals. Try for week and cable result.”
It did not require a clairvoyant to tell Bradbury that, if on her return she found that he had disposed of Blizzard in exchange for a child’s cut-down baffy, she would certainly sue him for divorce. And there was not a jury in America that would not give their verdict in her favour without a dissentient voice. His first wife, he recalled, had divorced him on far flimsier grounds. So had his second, third, and fourth. And Bradbury loved his wife. There had been a time in his life when, if he lost a wife, he had felt philosophically that there would be another along in a minute; but, as a man grows older, he tends to become set in his habits, and he could not contemplate existence without the company of the present incumbent.
What, therefore, to do? What, when you came right down to it, to do?
There seemed no way out of the dilemma. If he kept the Jones baffy, no other price would satisfy Bott’s jealous greed. And to part with the baffy, now that it was actually in his possession, was unthinkable.
And then, in the small hours of the morning, as he tossed sleeplessly on his Louis Quinze bed, his giant brain conceived a plan.
On the following afternoon he made his way to the clubhouse, and was informed that Bott was out playing a round with another millionaire of his acquaintance. Bradbury waited, and presently his rival appeared.
“Hey!” said Gladstone Bott, in his abrupt, uncouth way. “When are you going to deliver that butler?”
“I will make the shipment at the earliest date,” said Bradbury.
“I was expecting him last night.”
“You shall have him shortly.”
“What do you feed him on?” asked Gladstone Bott.
“Oh, anything you have yourselves. Put sulphur in his port in the hot weather. Tell me, how did your match go?”
“He beat me. I had rotten luck.”
Bradbury Fisher’s eyes gleamed. His moment had come.
“Luck?” he said. “What do you mean, luck? Luck has nothing to do with it. You’re always beefing about your luck. The trouble with you is that you play rottenly.
“What?”
“It is no use trying to play golf unless you learn the first principles and do it properly. Look at the way you drive.”
“What’s wrong with my driving?”
“Nothing, except that you don’t do anything right. In driving, as the club comes back in the swing, the weight should be shifted by degrees, quietly and gradually, until, when the club has reached its topmost point, the whole weight of the body is supported by the right leg, the left foot being turned at the time and the left knee bent in toward the right leg. But, regardless of how much you perfect your style, you cannot develop any method which will not require you to keep your head still so that you can see your ball clearly.”
“Hey!”
“It is obvious that it is impossible to introduce a jerk or a sudden violent effort into any part of the swing without disturbing the balance or moving the head. I want to drive home the
