Short Fiction

not,” Jake said. “But I heard him tell Mac that he’d been watching you, and he didn’t see how a man could keep on making the same mistakes without finding out what was the matter with him. He said somebody ought to tell you that you stood wrong and come back too fast, and he had half a notion to tell you about it himself, only he felt like you’d think he was fresh or something.”

So Mr. Perkins said:

“Well, if Conklin’s such a expert, how does it come he always plays alone?”

“He’d like to play with somebody,” said Jake, “but he don’t only get up here in the middle of the week, and you’re about the only fella on the course that ain’t hooked up with somebody else; and you always get an earlier start than him.”

So Mr. Perkins ast Jake what Mr. Conklin usually shot, and Jake told him he didn’t know for sure, but he thought he was round sixty for the nine holes.

The following afternoon Mr. Perkins showed up about one o’clock, like always; but he didn’t drive off till pretty near two.

You could see he was waiting for something. Finally he gave up and started out alone, with poor Davy carrying his bag.

But on Thursday Mr. Perkins hadn’t hardly more’n got into his playing clothes when Mr. Conklin’s big car showed up.

I said to Jake:

“Here’s where we’ve got them. You go out to the tee and help Mr. Perkins stall till Mr. Conklin’s ready.”

And I told Mac that Mr. Perkins and Mr. Conklin had ast specially for Jake and I to go round with them.

“Well, I’m willing,” Mac said. “It’s about time you two cinch bugs caddied for somebody besides the spendthrifts.”

“We’ll loosen them up,” I said.

“Yes,” said Mac; “you’ve got a sweet chance! They don’t think no more of a nickel than a caddy does.”

“Or a pro from Edinburgh,” I said.

And then I grabbed Mr. Conklin’s bag and went out to where Jake and Mr. Perkins was standing.

“Whose clubs?” Mr. Perkins ast me.

“Mr. Conklin’s,” I said. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Now, Mr. Perkins knew whose clubs I had, all right. He’d seen Mr. Conklin go in the clubhouse; and besides, his and Mr. Conklin’s bags looked just alike and was different from everybody else’s. You can buy a pretty fair bag for five or six dollars. These two must of cost pretty near a dollar and a quarter apiece, and was easily worth more’n half that much.

“Mr. Conklin going round with you?” I said to Mr. Perkins.

“He can if he wants to,” said Mr. Perkins. “I’d just as lief go round alone.”

But he kept on waiting, and didn’t even tee his ball till Mr. Conklin showed up.

First thing Mr. Conklin said was to ask where Davy was at.

“Home sick,” I told him. “He got tipped pretty good yesterday and I guess he blew himself to candy.”

Then Mr. Perkins said:

“Hello, Conklin! Have you got a pardner?”

“No,” said Mr. Conklin. “I usually go it alone.”

“Well, I’ll shoot and get out of your way,” said Mr. Perkins.

“If you’re alone, too, we might as well go round together,” said Mr. Conklin.

“That suits me,” said Mr. Perkins. “I’m not very good, but I’ll try and make it interesting.”

“What do you shoot?” Mr. Conklin ast him.

“About sixty for the nine,” said Mr. Perkins.

“I guess we’re pretty near even,” said Mr. Conklin.

“Well,” said Mr. Perkins, “I suppose I’ll get the worst of it; but let’s play for a ball-a-hole.”

“You’ll beat me,” Mr. Conklin said; “but I’m willing.”

I dug down in the pocket of the bag for a ball. There were three of them. They all looked like they’d slept in the coal bin. One of them was almost round. Somebody’d mistook the other two for blackberries and bit a hunk out of them. I gave the best one a good scrubbing and got it so’s it was about caramel color and you could see the name on it. It was a Whizz: three for a dollar, and not so cheap, at that.

Well, they decided Mr. Perkins should have the honor, and he started off with a twenty-yard drive, right down the middle. Mr. Conklin put his hand over his whiskers so’s Mr. Perkins couldn’t see him smile, and then teed his Whizz. He took his stance with his kneecaps kissing each other and stood there wiggling his toes and elbows till he had all four of us nervous. Finally he swang, and away she went. Two hundred yards⁠—a hundred up and a hundred down.

Mr. Perkins said to him:

“You better try it again. I think you tee your ball too high.”

Mr. Conklin acted like he hadn’t heard him, and ast me for his brassy. The Whizz laid about six feet off the tee. Mr. Conklin’s knees kissed again, but he was too sore this time to take it slow. He whanged away the minute he was set and sliced her over to the right, into a mud-hole. Well, looking for that ball there was about like trying to find a drop of ink in a coal mine. Mr. Joyce or Mr. Davis wouldn’t of wasted a minute on it. But I’ll bet our search party worked half an hour before Mr. Conklin’d give up. Then I dug out one of the two he had left. First, I showed it to Jake, and he said:

“Anyway, he won’t have to slice this one. It’s been done already.”

I handed it to Mr. Conklin and watched close to see if he’d give himself a bad lie. He didn’t.

“Better take a mashie,” said Mr. Perkins. “The best dope is to play safe and get out on the fairway.”

So Mr. Conklin used his brassy again and pulled the best shot he made all day, sending her down past the bunker, just a good mashie pitch from the green.

Then Mr. Perkins took his brassy and in two more shots his ball was about ten yards behind Mr. Conklin’s. If he could of only got the distance with his ball