lost as
Mr. Frisbie remarked where have you been keeping yourself Junior that you never watched golf before. But luckily young Holt took the remark as a joke and made no reply. Right afterwards the storm clouds began to gather in the sky.
Mr. Frisbie sliced his tee shot.
“Mr. Frisbie,” said young Holt, “there was several things the matter with you then but the main trouble was that you stood too close to the ball and cut across it with your club head and besides that you swang back faster than Alex Smith and you were off your balance and you gripped too hard and you jerked instead of hitting with a smooth follow through.”
Well, Mr. Frisbie gave him a queer look and then made up his mind that Junior was trying to be humorous and he frowned at him so as he would not try it again but when we located the ball in the rough and Mr. Frisbie asked me for his spoon young Holt said Oh take your mashie Mr. Frisbie never use a wooden club in a place like that and Mr. Frisbie scowled and mumbled under his breath and missed the ball with his spoon and missed it again and then took a midiron and just dribbled it on to the fairway and finally got on the green in 7 and took 3 putts.
I suppose you might say that this was one of the quickest golf matches on record as it ended on the 2nd tee. Mr. Frisbie tried to drive and sliced again. Then young Holt took a ball from my pocket and a club from the bag and said here let me show you the swing and drove the ball 250 yards straight down the middle of the course.
I looked at Mr. Frisbie’s face and it was puffed out and a kind of a purple black color. Then he burst and I will only repeat a few of the more friendlier of his remarks.
“Get to hell and gone of my place. Do not never darken my doors again. Just show up around here one more time and I will blow out what you have got instead of brains. You lied to my girl and you tried to make a fool out of me. Get out before I sick my dogs on you and tear you to pieces.”
Junior most lightly wanted to offer some word of explanation or to demand one on his own account but saw at a glance how useless same would be. I heard later that he saw Miss Florence and that she just laughed at him.
“I made a mistake about Junior Holt,” said Mr. Frisbie that evening. “He is no good and must never come to this house again.”
“Oh Father and just when I was beginning to like him,” said Miss Florence.
Well like him or not like him she and the other young man Henry Craig were married soon afterwards which I suppose Mr. Frisbie permitted the bands in the hopes that same would rile Junior Holt.
Mr. Frisbie admitted he had made a mistake in regards to the last named but he certainly was not mistaken when he said that young Craig was a tramp and would never amount to anything.
Well I guess I have rambled on long enough about Mr. Frisbie.
Wedding Day
Ruth was sorry her sister was sick. But she was glad she was going to the wedding, and she wouldn’t have been going if Alice had not had this touch of flu. There were to be only six guests and Ruth was Alice’s last-minute substitute. She suspected that Ed, her brother-in-law, would rather have gone alone or with some girl who didn’t cramp his style (as if it mattered to her whether he took twelve drinks or twelve dozen; he must think her men friends in Detroit had all had their throats cut).
He had not exactly jumped for joy when Alice suggested her as proxy. However, he hadn’t said no and she was going and that was all that mattered. It would give her something to talk about for weeks, back home.
For the bride was Brownie Burt, musical comedy’s bright star. And the groom Jimmy Shane, considered, in New York as well as the provinces, one of the funniest men on stage or screen.
Ed was a publicity man for the Shuberts. He and Alice apparently knew everybody in the world and in the two weeks Ruth had been visiting them they had introduced her to celebrities by the carton. But Brownie Burt and Jimmy Shane were two she hadn’t met and was dying to meet; that she would be “in on” their wedding seemed an incredible piece of luck.
“What I can’t understand,” she told Ed as they taxied to the church, “is how he could ever be serious long enough to propose.”
“There’s nothing as serious as some comics off the stage,” said her brother-in-law. “If I wanted amusing companionship, I’d rather pal round with a ghoul or a moving-picture magnate.”
“Do you mean Mr. Shane isn’t funny at all?”
“Not deliberately.”
Ruth didn’t believe it and looked forward to a few giggles, though it was not likely that even a great comedian would be at his drollest on an occasion like this.
She intended to learn more about the romance and the leading characters in same, but Ed’s memoirs of tedious comics lasted till they reached their destination.
The other guests were all of the theatrical world—Ben Seaton, a juvenile; Wallie Roach, an eccentric dancer; Dorothy Drew, a soubrette, and Josie King, said to be the highest-salaried chorus girl in show business. Seaton, Roach and Miss King were waiting in front of the church and while Ruth was being presented, Brownie and her bridesmaid, Miss Drew, appeared.
Brownie, in a flowered chiffon dress and picture hat, was beautiful; more beautiful, Ruth thought, than she had ever been on the stage. She was nervous, but not more so than was natural in a bride, and her unposed perturbation added to
