Jake left his man and came over to us.
“Have you lost your ball?” he ast me.
So I said:
“No. We’re looking for mushrooms.”
“What kind of a ball was it?” Jake ast.
“A Black Walnut,” I told him.
Mr. Perkins kindly consented to join the party and we lined up and marched back and forth all over the property; but nothing doing. Jake called me to one side and said:
“Have you looked in his beard yet?”
Finally Mr. Perkins got impatient and ast Mr. Conklin why he didn’t drop another ball. “There’s no sense to losing this one,” he said. “If my boy would keep his eyes open he’d know right where it was.”
Just then Jake stepped on a ball. It was a Major, Number 28, and pretty near new. Jake picked it up and ast Mr. Conklin if it was his. Mr. Conklin said it was. Then Mr. Perkins said:
“I thought you never used anything but a Whizz.”
“I got this one by mistake,” said Mr. Conklin. “I ast the salesman for a Whizz and he gave me this one. I didn’t find it out till I got home.”
So he tees her up on a tuft of weeds and goes clear to the green with a brassy.
Well, Mr. Perkins did some more mowing with his mashie, and finally gave up.
“You can have this hole,” he said. “You got a six to my seven. We’re all even.”
Seven! Say, the way this guy figured he must of thought he was eating breakfast at noon!
The fourth hole they call the Railroad. It runs along parallel with the tracks. It’s only about two hundred and fifty yards, but a hundred yards from the tee there’s a bunker clear acrost the course. And there’s a ditch over to the left, just this side of the tracks. And the green’s just short of the river bank. The main thing to do is clear the first bunker and it don’t make much difference if you slice a little. But if you hook you’re liable to go into the ditch, and that’s out of bounds.
Both of our men had been hitting them high off the tee so far; but of course when they had that bunker staring them in the face they topped their drives a little and smashed right into it. Then they took their mashies and lofted over to the left, into the ditch. We’d had some rain and it was pretty wet down there; so Jake and I stood on the edge a minute, hoping they’d tell us to never mind. Fine chance! The balls were both in sight and we had to go after them. We brought them up, along with some of the richest soil in Illinois.
Mr. Perkins ast what the rules were about counting a shot out of bounds; so Jake told him it cost you one stroke. So Mr. Perkins said that as long as they’d both done it, what was the use of counting it at all? So they both shot three from the edge of the fairway. They were to the green in six and their first putt left them about ten feet each from the can.
“Well,” Mr. Perkins said, “I’ve had six. You’ve had seven, haven’t you?”
I butted in before Mr. Conklin could answer.
“You’ve both had the same number,” I said, “whether it’s six or two hundred.”
Mr. Perkins gave me a sour look and putted to the left of the hole, and about four feet away.
“I’m down in eight,” he said; and he picked up his ball.
I expected my man to yelp; but he’d done the same thing on the first hole, so he kept his clam closed. And his putt, starting way over to the right, bumped into a pebble or something, and darned if it didn’t twist round and drop in the cup!
“There!” said Mr. Conklin. “I’m one up.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Perkins; “but you got to admit it was luck, pure and simple. The groundkeeper won that hole for you.”
“Well,” said Mr. Conklin, “you can’t blame him for not being on your side.”
All I can remember about the fifth and sixth was that it took us an hour to play them and Mr. Perkins only got off of the fairway once. After that, he stayed off of it. But my man, though he managed to keep in the course mostly, couldn’t seem to do anything to the ball, only bunt it. Between the four of us, we decided that both holes were halved in eights. To get that figure, I and Mr. Conklin only cut two off each hole, and I suppose Jake and Mr. Perkins did that well at least.
On the way to the seventh tee I said to Jake—I said:
“Your fella’s got to cop one of these two next holes and the other one’s got to be halved, so’s we’ll be all even on the ninth. Then we’ll have a chance to blackmail them.”
Let me tell you, first, that these last three holes are some holes. The seventh is par three and a good player can usually make it in par. But it’s gosh-awful for a wild man! It’s only a hundred and thirty yards, but it’s right along the river bank; and if you pull the ball the least little bit, the fish get it. And to the right of the green there’s a clump of trees and a whole lot of long grass. Your tee shot’s got to be just about straight, or you’re in bad.
Most everybody drives with an iron here, and Jake and I handed them their cleeks. They were both scared not to take them; but, believe me, there ain’t a hole in the world that there’s any danger of either one of them over-driving it!
It was Mr. Conklin’s honor
