“That’s the idear,” says Hawley: “a club made up o’ fellas from countries that ain’t got nothin’ to do with the war—Norwegians, Denmarks, Chinks, Mongrels and them fellas. A guy that had brains enough to sign up that kind of a club would make a barrel o’ money.”
“A guy’d have a whole lot o’ trouble findin’ that kind of a club,” I says.
“He’d have a whole lot more trouble,” says Carey, “findin’ a club they could beat.”
V
Smitty used to get the paper from his hometown where his folks lived at, somewheres near Lansing, Michigan. One day he seen in it where his kid brother was goin’ to enter for the state golf championship.
“He’ll just about cop it too,” says Smitty. “And he ain’t only seventeen years old. He’s been playin’ round that Wolverine Country Club, in Lansing, and makin’ all them birds like it.”
“The Wolverine Club, in Lansing?” says Hawley.
“That’s the one,” Smitty says.
“That’s my old stampin’ grounds,” says Hawley. “That’s where I learned the game at.”
“The kid holds the record for the course,” says Smitty.
“He don’t no such a thing!” says Hawley.
“How do you know?” says Smitty.
“I guess I’d ought to know,” Hawley says. “The guy that holds that record is talkin’ to you.”
“What’s your record?” says Smitty.
“What’d your brother make?” says Hawley.
“Plain seventy-one,” says Smitty; “and if you ever beat that you can have my share o’ the serious money.”
“You better make a check right now,” says Hawley. “The last time I played at that club I rolled up seventy-three.”
“That beats me,” Smitty says.
“If you’re that good,” says Carey, “I’d like to take you on sometime. I can score as high as the next one.”
“You might get as much as me now because I’m all out o’ practice,” says Hawley; “but you wouldn’t of stood no show when I was right.”
“What club was you best with?” ast Carey.
“A heavy one,” says Hawley. “I used to play with a club that they couldn’t hardly nobody else lift.”
“An iron club?” says Smitty.
“Well,” says Hawley, “it felt like they was iron in it.”
“Did you play all the wile with one club?” ast Carey.
“You bet I did,” Hawley says. “I paid a good price and got a good club. You couldn’t break it.”
“Was it a brassie?” says Smitty.
“No,” says Hawley. “It was made by some people right there in Lansing.”
“I’d like to get a hold of a club like that,” says Carey.
“You couldn’t lift it,” Hawley says; “and even if you could handle it I wouldn’t sell it for no price—not for twicet what it cost.”
“What did it cost?” Smitty ast him.
“Fifty bucks,” says Hawley; “and it’d of been more’n that only for the people knowin’ me so well. My old man used to do ’em a lot o’ good turns.”
“He must of stood in with ’em,” says Carey, “or they wouldn’t of never left go of a club like that for fifty.”
“They must of sold it to you by the pound,” I says—“about a dollar a pound.”
“Could you slice a ball with it?” says Carey.
“That was the trouble—the balls wouldn’t stand the gaff,” Hawley says. “I used to cut ’em in two with it.”
“How many holes did they have there when you was playin’?” Smitty ast.
“Oh, three or four,” he says; “but they didn’t feaze me.”
“They got eighteen now,” says Smitty.
“They must of left the course run down,” Hawley says. “You can bet they kept it up good when my old man was captain.”
“Has your brother ever been in a big tourney before?” I says to Smitty.
“He was in the city championship last summer,” says Smitty.
“How’d he come out?” Hawley ast.
“He was second highest,” says Smitty. “He’d of win, only he got stymied by a bumblebee.”
“Did they cauterize it?” says Carey.
“Where do you get that noise?” says Hawley. “They ain’t no danger in a bee sting if you know what to do. Just slip a piece o’ raw meat on it.”
“Was you ever stymied by a bee?” says Carey.
“Was I!” says Hawley. “Say, I wisht I had a base hit for every time them things got me. My old lady’s dad had a regular bee farm down in Kentucky, and we’d go down there summertimes and visit and help gather the honey. I used to run round barefooted and you couldn’t find a square inch on my legs that wasn’t all et up.”
“Must of kept your granddad broke buyin’ raw meat,” says Carey.
“Meat wasn’t so high in them days,” says Hawley. “Besides he didn’t have to buy none. He had his own cattle.”
“I should think the bees would of stymied the cattle,” says Carey.
“Cattle’s hide’s too tough; a bee won’t go near ’em,” says Hawley.
“Why didn’t you hire a cow to go round with you wile you collected honey?” says Carey.
“What’d you quit golf for?” ast Smitty.
“A fella can’t play golf and hit good,” says Hawley.
“I should think it’d help a man’s hittin’,” Carey says. “A golf ball’s a whole lot smaller than a baseball, and a baseball should ought to look as big as a balloon to a man that’s been playin’ golf.”
“Where do you get that noise?” says Hawley. “Golf’s bad for a man’s battin’; but it ain’t got nothin’ to do with your swing or your eye or the size o’ the ball.”
“What makes it bad, then?” I ast him.
“Wait a minute and I’ll tell you,” he says. “They’s two reasons: In the first place they’s genally almost always some people playin’ ahead o’ you on a golf course and you have to wait till they get out o’ reach. You get in the habit o’ waitin’ and when you go up to the plate in a ball game and see the pitcher right in front o’ you and the infielders and baserunners clost by, you’re liable to wait for ’em to get out o’ the way for the fear you’ll kill
