When he opened his eyes, they fell upon a horrid spectacle. Either he had closed those eyes too soon or else he had breathed too precipitately—whatever the cause, the ball, which should have gone due south, was travelling with great speed sou’-sou’-east. And, even as he gazed, it curved to earth and fell into as uninviting a bit of rough as he had ever penetrated. And he was a man who had spent much time in many roughs.
Leaving Gladstone Bott to continue his imitation of a spavined octogenarian rolling peanuts with a toothpick, Bradbury Fisher, followed by his caddie, set out on the long trail into the jungle.
Hope did not altogether desert him as he walked. In spite of its erratic direction, the ball had been so shrewdly smitten that it was not far from the green. Provided luck was with him and the lie not too desperate, a mashie would put him on the carpet. It was only when he reached the rough and saw what had happened that his heart sank. There the ball lay, half hidden in the grass, while above it waved the straggling tentacle of some tough-looking shrub. Behind it was a stone, and behind the stone, at just the elevation required to catch the backswing of the club, was a tree. And, by an ironical stroke of fate which drew from Bradbury a hollow, bitter laugh, only a few feet to the right was a beautiful, smooth piece of turf from which it would have been a pleasure to play one’s second.
Dully Bradbury looked round to see how Bott was getting on. And then suddenly, as he found that Bott was completely invisible behind the belt of bushes through which he had just passed, a voice seemed to whisper to him, “Why not?”
Bradbury Fisher, remember, had spent thirty years in Wall Street.
It was at this moment that he realized that he was not alone. His caddie was standing at his side.
Bradbury Fisher gazed upon the caddie, whom until now he had not had any occasion to observe with any closeness.
The caddie was not a boy. He was a man, apparently in the middle forties, with bushy eyebrows and a walrus moustache; and there was something about his appearance which suggested to Bradbury that here was a kindred spirit. He reminded Bradbury a little of Spike Huggins, the safe-blower, who had been a member of his frat at Sing-Sing. It seemed to him that this caddie could be trusted in a delicate matter involving secrecy and silence. Had he been some babbling urchin, the risk might have been too great.
“Caddie,” said Bradbury.
“Sir?” said the caddie.
“Yours is an ill-paid job,” said Bradbury.
“It is, indeed, sir,” said the caddie.
“Would you like to earn fifty dollars?”
“I would prefer to earn a hundred.”
“I meant a hundred,” said Bradbury.
He produced a roll of bills from his pocket, and peeled off one of that value. Then, stooping, he picked up his ball and placed it on the little oasis of turf. The caddie bowed intelligently.
“You mean to say,” cried Gladstone Bott a few moments later, “that you were out with your second? With your second!”
“I had a stroke of luck.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t about six strokes of luck?”
“My ball was right out in the open in an excellent lie.”
“Oh!” said Gladstone Bott, shortly.
“I have four for it, I think.”
“One down,” said Gladstone Bott.
“And two to play,” trilled Bradbury.
It was with a light heart that Bradbury Fisher teed up on the seventeenth. The match, he felt, was as good as over. The whole essence of golf is to discover a way of getting out of rough without losing strokes; and with this sensible, broad-minded man of the world caddying for him he seemed to have discovered the ideal way. It cost him scarcely a pang when he saw his drive slice away into a tangle of long grass, but for the sake of appearances he affected a little chagrin.
“Tut, tut!” he said.
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Gladstone Bott. “You will probably find it sitting up on an india rubber tee which someone has dropped there.”
He spoke sardonically, and Bradbury did not like his manner. But then he never had liked Gladstone Bott’s manner, so what of that? He made his way to where the ball had fallen. It was lying under a bush.
“Caddie,” said Bradbury.
“Sir?” said the caddie.
“A hundred?”
“And fifty.”
“And fifty,” said Bradbury Fisher.
Gladstone Bott was still toiling along the fairway when Bradbury reached the green.
“How many?” he asked, eventually winning to the goal.
“On in two,” said Bradbury. “And you?”
“Playing seven.”
“Then let me see. If you take two putts, which is most unlikely, I shall have six for the hole and match.”
A minute later Bradbury had picked his ball out of the cup. He stood there, basking in the sunshine, his heart glowing with quiet happiness. It seemed to him that he had never seen the countryside looking so beautiful. The birds appeared to be singing as they had never sung before. The trees and the rolling turf had taken on a charm beyond anything he had ever encountered. Even Gladstone Bott looked almost bearable.
“A very pleasant match,” he said, cordially, “conducted throughout in the most sporting spirit. At one time I thought you were going to pull it off, old man, but there—class will tell.”
“I will now make my report,” said the caddie with the walrus moustache.
“Do so,” said Gladstone Bott, briefly.
Bradbury Fisher stared at the man with blanched cheeks. The sun had ceased to shine, the birds had stopped singing. The trees and the rolling turf looked pretty rotten, and Gladstone Bott perfectly foul. His heart was leaden with a hideous dread.
“Your report? Your—your report? What do you mean?”
“You don’t suppose,” said Gladstone Bott, “that I would play you an important match unless
