transcriber's note the punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully preserved. a golfing idyll [illustration] a golfing idyll or the skipper's round with the deil on the links of st andrews third edition w.c. henderson & son, st andrews geo. stewart & co., edinburgh and london simpkin, marshall, kent & co. ld., london mdcccxcvii. the illustrations are by a. islay bannerman (bannerman & steel, edinburgh) preface as some prefatory explanation may reasonably be expected as to how i became acquainted with the subject of the following narrative,--'a golfing idyll,' i have had the presumption to call it,--i may inform the reader that circumstances induced me, a lady medical student, at present studying in london, to take my autumn holiday in st andrews. i know the old place well, and have many acquaintances there. as to golf i can, i think, hold my own with most of the golfing sisterhood, and am well up in the jargon of the links and game. one day found me, sketch-book in hand, sitting on the brae side by the butts, behind the club. as i sat, listlessly toying with my pencil, and quietly enjoying the scene before me, i remarked a man, whom i had not previously observed, also sitting, a few yards off, on the slope towards the sea. on closer inspection i recognised him to be an old caddie, well known to most frequenters of the links, but not very creditably, i am sorry to say, as he was one of the sad victims of the vice that has cut off so many poor fellows of his class. i noticed at the same time that he now looked very decent and respectable, was neatly dressed in blue serge, a bit of blue ribbon apparent on the lapel of his coat, and that altogether he had the appearance of a person well cared for. he seemed to be engaged in an agreeable conversation with himself. as he sat, smiling and muttering, he was shortly joined by another man, a stranger to me, a ruddy-faced jolly-looking personage, with a free and easy manner, who proved also to be a caddie. as to how the latter accosted his old friend, and what followed, is all described in the 'idyll.' as i was only a few yards distant from them, i could hear distinctly every word they uttered. the old man did not seem to mind my presence in the least. before commencing his tale he looked round, saw me, and, with a back toss of his head which seemed to say to his friend, 'oh, it is only a lassie,' proceeded with his story. throughout the narrative he was exceedingly animated--rising, sitting down, and gesticulating, as if under the influence of considerable excitement and emotion, evidently earnestly intent on impressing on the listener the truth of what he was relating. the latter listened open-eyed and open-mouthed, uttering occasional ejaculations, such as, oh lord! gude sake! ay man! etc. the skipper delivered himself of what he had to say in pure scotch doric, more or less, but occasionally broke out into good english, showing himself to be a man of better education than i believed him to be. this idea was strengthened by his reference to bunyan; and the extravagant vision at the 'end hole,' with all its bathos and absurdity, suggested some acquaintance with milton. i listened most attentively. i have a good memory, and when i got home i committed to paper all that i remembered, most carefully. moreover, i had several interviews with the old gentleman, and have done my best to convey to the reader, as accurately as i could, his version of his extraordinary adventure. as to my reason for weaving the story into rhyming doggerel, i hold myself excused in that i did it for my own amusement, influenced also by a belief that it might possibly prove more readable and attractive in that shape to the persons i chiefly wished to peruse it, viz., my friends of the caddie fraternity. violet flint. torrington mansions, london. preface to third edition since i penned the first prefatory lines to this trifling work, i regret to inform my readers non-resident in st andrews, that my interesting old friend the skipper is no more. he died at the ripe age of 75. peace to his memory! some time before his death, i had what proved to be a final interview with him, when he rehearsed his queer weird story, adding some curious reminiscences of his early days in connection with the links of st andrews and his favourite pastime. as they may be interesting to some of my older golfing friends, i have interpolated them into the rugged doggerel of the text from the notes i took at the time. he also at the same time pathetically deplored the unreasoning and obstinate incredulity of friends who persisted in disbelieving his story, and suggested, with a view to convincing and converting them, that i should have some of the more striking incidents in the story illustrated. i have done so, but alas! his old eyes will never look upon them and acknowledge the credit due to mr bannerman, the clever draughtsman. at the close of our interview, he also alluded to his precious breeks with which, in his opinion, rest the _onus probandi_ of his adventure. it was his intention, he told me, to have them framed and glazed, with the fateful mark prominently displayed--the date, incident, etc., carefully printed--to be made over at his death to the local museum, and safe custody of mr couttes. it was not every man, he proudly asserted, who could receive and survive a skelp o' the deil's tail! v.f. torrington mansions, london. a golfing idyll now skipper frien', come tell me true what garred ye mount the ribbon blue? gude sake! to think the like o' you should e'er hae joined the templar crew! how you accomplished your conversion it bangs poor me past comprehension. no six months gane, a drucken deevil, you led the ball in waste and revel; were staggerin' on destruction's brink, selling your very duds for drink. now, there you sit, you grim auld sinner, and tell's the smell o't mak's you scunner, as mim as howdie at a christening, or tinker to a sermon listening; weel washed, weel clad, your blue beard shaved like dr byd's, and weel behaved as toun-kirk elder 'fore the session- speak out, auld man, and mak' confession. the speaker was ane jock pitbladdie, a golfer good, and decent caddie, who, drunk or sober, in 's vocation had aye the grace o' moderation. a souter to his trade, he'd left the toun sax months before to work in troon, to carry clubs or mend auld shoon, at ilka t' ade a handy loon. skipper and jock were cronies thrang, had kent and liked each other lang; mony a gill they'd drunk thegither, and friendly treated ane anither. jockie was like a bed of sand, the more he drank, the more he'd stand; but skipper, wud, and wilder grew, and never stopped till roarin' fou. what wonder, then, at jock's surprise to find his frien' in sic-like guise, or jock's ill-mannered exclamation and rough demand for explanation. the skipper lookit sair offended, and muttering growled, his hand extended.- queer manners you hae brocht frae troon; come here, you jawing gowk, sit doon. instead of coorse and ill reflections on my past life, and ways, and actions, your greetin' might hae been more ceevil, you ill-condeetioned gabbin' deevil. hoot, skipper, nae offence was meant, for you and i are weel acquaint. now dicht your mou', and tell me true how cam' ye by that bit o' blue? the skipper gazed as wise and solemn as if he felt his hand on helm his cutter o'er the green waves guiding, close hauled, through kittle channel gliding. oh, jock! i doot i'm rash to tell ye what strange and awfu' things befell me, unless like me you'd warning tak', ere sorrow lay you on your back. sae, to avert sic dismal fate, my woful tale i'll now relate.- he sighed and spat, then sighed again, and thus his simple tale began: 'twas on a summer's afternoon, just after you had gane to troon, i foregather'd wi' ane tammas trail, auld mate o' mine who bides in crail. a man o' means, wi' nets and boat, a fisher keen, and much afloat; a very decent chappie tam, who, like me, dearly lo'ed his dram. he kent my weakness, nocht would serve him, but i maun tak' my supper wi' him. the supper was baith het and good- no that i'm nice about my food; we'd rizzared haddies, if you please, tripe and ingans, toasted cheese, and whiskey grand frae cameron brig, better was never 'stilled by haig. and, oh! a jolly time we had, for my pairt i was skirlin' mad, and tammie, he was in his glory, just ripplin' o'er wi' joke and story. but a' things good maun hae an end, baith joys and pains o' human kind, and time, the thief, wi' spitefu' stroke, snecket our fun 'fore ten o'clock- that nicht--the thocht o't gars me grue, ahint the joy there cam' sic rue. now, jocky, i must here explain i wasna drunk, just fou ye ken; just fresh and free and swaggerin' canty, and bauld as wallace wight and vaunty. my hairt was licht, my feet were dancin' like struttin' cock, or stallion prancin'. bethought me, as i steered alang, i'll get my clubs, to the links i'll gang. should a' the folk to roost hae gane, i car'd na if i played alane. the nicht was fine, the moon was shinin', the time between the mirk and gloamin'; as far as i could view the green, no living soul could there be seen. [illustration] nigh the brig i drove a bonny shot, my second was the marrow o't, the third gaed in--i holed in three, as proud as punch, i skirled wi' glee; and swaggerin' fou, and fit and fettle, was wild to back my skill and mettle; and, madlike, shouted out aloud, you might hae heard me doon the road, 'od! i'd play the very deil himsel', auld nickey ben, red wud frae h--l.' i heard a laugh! was i mistaen? i thocht i was my lief alane, but turnin', near me stood a man, a strappin' chiel, wi' clubs in han',- lean-shankit, extra tall and spare, wi' goatee beard and jet-black hair. 'good evening, skipper,' says he sprightly, liftin' his cap to me politely. 'you want a match, i'll gladly play you for a hundred pounds, what say you?' 'you do me proud,' says i, astounded, my wits had left me quite confounded. 'man, a hundred pounds, i hae nae got, i'm but a caddie, poor my lot; to play you i am proud and willin', but i ne'er gang beyond a shillin'.' 'oh, d--m your shilling!' says he so fine, 'why, don't you see, your sure to win- you are a strong, well-known professional, and play a game that's quite sensational; while my performance is but poor, that of a first-class amateur. but player good, i stand confessed, who plays 'gainst me must play his best. but if you're shy, why odds i'll give you, a stroke a hole, will that not tempt you? and should i have the luck to win (he said this with a leering grin), why what so simple, you engage to serve me faithful without wage, and as my caddie with me stay until your little debt you pay. service with me will never tire you, besides i like you and admire you.' softly he spoke, while sweetly smilin' like lover simple lass beguilin'; then from his pooch a purse he pulled, a purse with golden guineas filled; the meshes thro' i saw them bright glitterin' in the gloamin' light. 'look, skipper see these yellow boys, the source and fount of human joys; with them you grasp the dear delights of festive days and glorious nights.' dazed, dazzled, fou, and half-demented, oh, jocky! i was sairly tempted. no wonder that i soon consented, and muckle less that i repented. but to my tale--'all right,' says i, 'a bargain be it, i comply; a stroke a hole--i tak' your offer, altho' you treat me like a duffer.' for troth i felt no little nettled to find my good game so belittled. but, skipper, you have yet to tell what he was like, this bloomin' swell. i said he was a strappin' chiel, six feet and mair frae head to heel; on's head he wore a hieland bannet, a blackcock's feather stickin' in it. on either side his lugs i noted were large and high and sharply nookit; a nose like mine, and fine black een, a big moustache and pointed chin; in troth a very handsome felley, though black-a-vized and somewhat yelley, like they foreign chaps that gang wi' puggies, and play on pipes and hurdy-gurdies. his dress was black, good velveteen, his stockin's red and cravit green, and on his feet were yellow boots,- _i little dreamed they covered cloots_! i kent na wha i was to play wi', the truth it never dawned upon me; i thocht he was some glasgow billy, or chap frae sooth, golf-mad and silly, wi' little wit and siller plenty, the country's rife wi' sic like gentry. 'and what's your honour's name,' quoth i? i felt no whit abashed or shy- 'my name is dr nicholas ben clootie, hades my home, a place of radiant beauty; a region warm, perhaps a trifle sooty, still an alluring and delicious place is hades, frequented much by lords and ladies. so charming and so pleasant is it that multitudes to paradise prefer it.' 'hades, ne'er heard o't, is't in the hielands?' 'no, skipper friend, 'tis in the netherlands.' 'but come, our game, i'm eager to begin; strike off,' said i, 'i long those yellow boys to win. tak' you the honour noo, for ne'er again you'll hae the chance, or i'm sair mistaen.' he grinned, and said, 'you hold me very cheap; believe me, i intend those yellow boys to keep.' he drove a rattlin' shot from off the tee; i followed with as good, as far as he. our next we dropped upon the green. twa bonny strokes as e'er were seen. stane dead i lay, he ten feet aff, he missed his putt--wi' careless laugh, 'first blood,' cried i, 'the hole is mine.' 'yes,' quo' he, 'the devil's luck is thine.' so cocky was i with this fine beginnin', i offered straight to play him even. 'no, no,' he said, 'to that i can't agree, you'll need your odds before you've done wi' me.' he looked and said this with a wicked leer, i felt my flesh to creep with sudden fear. such confidence and pluck, i could not understand, and funkit something strange, uncanny, underhand. but spite of funk and fancy, all the same i played weel up a rattlin' game; holes three and four they fell to me, the taen at four, the tither at three. his highness meanwhile skipped alang, whiles he whistled and whiles he sang; but whenever i turned, his leerin' e'e was glarin', glowerin', lookin' at me! [illustration] at 'hole across,' the bunker of h--l, to my surprise he kent it well; he girned and cackled and looked excited as if wi' secret thoughts delighted. i drove weel o'er, wi' grand precision, and lay serene on sod elysian. clootie on purpose missed his ba', and landed slap intil its maw. then, jock, a sicht i saw, so strange and awfie, unseen, unheard o', and unlawfie! loud laughter rose from h--l within, wild shouts and cries o' welcomin'; while over the edge, peepin' and peerin' through the long grass, and disappearin', were seen strange forms, like horned apes, and other brutes wi' fearsome shapes, goblins grinning wi' blazing een, bogles or ghaists, or a cross between. but strange, when we the bunker neared, they'd vanished all and disappeared. and nocht remained but an infernal smell of brimstone reek, true stink o' h--l. clootie gaed smilin' in, rejoiced to be at hame, his bonny bairns to see; his ball he found, both safe and playable. 'play quick,' cried i, 'this smell is d--able.' 'pause, skipper, 'tis my favourite scent,' says he, 'bouquet d'enfer, a perfume sweet to me. you lack good taste, you drunken sot, to me this is a charming spot; but play i must,' and, as he spoke, he drove forthwith a splendid stroke; but of little good it proved to be, for again i took the hole in three. 'four up,' i said, 'my gallant foe; if this goes on you'll come to woe.' 'all right,' says he, 'my chance will come, i'll show you play when we turn home. to see your game was such a treat, great was my luck with you to meet; you are indeed a beauty without paint, the picture of a drouthy saint.' and thus he sneered and scoffed and chaffed, while at my speech he mocked and laughed; from fearing i began to hate him, and vow'd i'd do my best to beat him. but man is frail, and human vows aye come to nocht, when they oppose the powers that rule for good or evil, and my opponent was the deevil. blind, stupid, and wi' drink demented, i couldna see nor comprehend it; but soon, alas! i learned the truth, wi' mental pain and muckle ruth. the moon still shed its blessed light and calm and lovely was the night. oh, daavid! had you but been there, wi' your leemonade and your ginger-beer, you might have saved me from despair, and a' the horrors that befell me, which, jockie, i am now to tell ye. my game, i told you had been good, nine holes to play, eight up i stood. sick o' the game, and sicker far o' clootie, i'd ceased to care about the booty. i thocht i'd bounce him wi' my swagger, and get the better o' the beggar. 'doctor,' says i, 'i've licked you into fits, throw up the sponge, play double or quits!' 'what!' shouted he, 'such cheek, you sot, dost think me daft, you silly scot? that wise old saw hast thou forgot, "that he who suppers wi' the deil, lang spoon maun hae to sup his kail!"' here, jockie, i my temper lost, i'd hae my say whate'er the cost. 'd--n you,' says i, 'you ca' yoursel' the deil, you are na blate my bonnie chiel. the deil's a saunt compared wi' you, you yelley-livered, bandy-leggã¨d jew; quack doctor, purse-proud swaggerin' jack, i'faith i'll lay you on your back.' he listened, looked, and gravely smiled to hear his majesty reviled by simple clay so easily beguiled. thoughtful he stood, and stroked his beard, then, presto, vanished--disappeared! gone like a flash, i looked and wondered, and as i gaped and gazed and pondered, beneath my feet the ground began to tremble, with earthquake shock to rock and rumble; and o'er the scene thick darkness crept, deep gloom prevailed, the soft wind slept, then lightning flared with vivid sheen, blinding and dazzling my bewildered een! and thunder bellowed forth with awful roar, echoing from shore to sea, from sea to shore. from lucklaw to drumcarrow, from drumcarrow to kinkell, roaring and rattling with resounding swell, peal followed peal, and flash on flash, hissing and rumbling with terrific crash; the wind subdued burst forth anew, and howling, whistling, wilder blew; deep groans and wailing filled the air, of souls in anguish and despair! loud shouts of 'fore,' and clash of cleeks, and demon golfers' yells and shrieks, commingling with the mournful wail of sea-birds swept before the gale! [illustration] at last the thunder ceased and all was still, deep silence reigned o'er dale and hill; then forth a lurid radiance glowed, fan-like from earth to heaven it flowed, deep ruby red, the hue of blood, and in the midst an awful presence stood- majestic, pale, towering in aspect grand, hell's chieftain, prince of the rebel band, who fell defying heaven's command. o'er lofty brow tossed his dishevelled hair, a front deep lined with thought and care, and eyes with shaggy eyebrows pent, which fierceness to their glances lent; those eyes which blazed with hate and sadness, strangers alike to hope, to love, and gladness. with lips of scorn, whence insults leap, and lies and calumnies and curses deep; scoffings, revilings, blasphemies malign against omnipotence and laws divine! with awe and terror struck, i trembling gazed, spell-bound, bewildered, and amazed to think that i should hap to contemplate the lineaments of h--l's great potentate! with shuddering dread, i feared his eagle eye should wretch like me by cruel chance espy. alas, my fate! the hated glance it fell, nought could escape the blighting eye of h--l; staggering, i fell like riven oak struck to the earth by lightning stroke! jockie, my lad, i swooned away; of sense bereft, how long, i cannot say. hard by where old daa drives his trade o' ginger-beer and leemonade. i felt the cool, soft morning air to fan my cheek and raise my hair; conscious at last, i raised my eyes, conceive my horror and surprise, to see friend clootie stand before me, leering and grinning, bending o'er me! my heart was well-nigh like to burst with fear and hatred and disgust. i cried, beseeched him to forgive me, and begged him on my knees to leave me. he laughed, and told me hold my jargon, to stir my stumps, make good my bargain. 'the match you know,' he said, 'ain't ended, and luck may turn, and mine be mended, the remaining holes may fall to me, then skipper dear, where will you be? i've not had one, and eight you've taken, you need one more to save your bacon- _one little hole, to save your soul!_ i stand to lose name, fame, and purse, not that i care a tinker's curse; but you, should fortune now forsake you, your freedom gone, my slave i make you. play up, and man-like save your skin, strike for your name and native green.' [illustration] i heard, and as i gazed upon him, transformed he seemed, some change come o'er him; he caught my eye, divined my thought, and gave the explanation sought.- 'to honour you i've changed my suit, my taste and style none can dispute; i now assume my sporting dress, the garb i wear when i mean business; i've donned my tail, and doffed my boots, you see me in my native cloots.' man's fond, familiar, friendly devil aye gracious, debonair and civil; smiling he stood, his arms akimbo, the deil himself, the prince o' limbo. oh, jockie, crushed wi' grief and shame, a prey to fear, remorse and blame, like vessel storm-stressed in the bay, her rudder gone, her masts away; left to the mercy of the waves, and tossed a helpless hulk and well-nigh lost. belief in succour still remained, the distant life-boat hope sustained. so, stranded in this awful hole, i turned to heaven to save my soul. i prayed, beseeched the powers on high, to help me in my agony. i prayed, as ne'er i prayed before; in anguish keen i vowed and swore, this trouble gone, this sorrow ended, my wicked life should be amended; this struggle o'er, this combat passed, this drucken bout should be my last. then hope, sweet hope, began to flow, and swell my breast with genial glow; self-trust and courage that had gane wi' fiery rush, cam' back again. my native pride, love o' the game, blazed in my heart like altar flame. i felt that tho' a fool i'd been, i still could battle for the green. resolved, restored, i rose defiant, o'er doubts and fears i sprang triumphant. 'clootie,' says i, as cool and cheeky as lawyer lad frae gude auld reekie, 'i'm willin' to resume the game, a stroke a hole, and terms the same. but had i kent what i ken noo, and sober been, instead o' fou, i'd seen you fried in your ain brimstane ere i had linked to sic a bargain. a bargain ca' it, wi' changed condeetions that won't admit of defineetions. the man i bargained wi', in boots, is now a beast wi' tail and cloots, and----' 'confound your cheek, you old transgressor, you phrase and jaw like a professor. enough of all this d--d palaver, your blasted bletherin' and haver. my tail, it is a thing of beauty, by jove, you'll find it do its duty. between us you will see such golf, ere long you'll cry "i've had enough." then tee your ball, resume your game, strike off once more for purse and fame.' but skipper, pause and kindly tell us about that tail, it is so curious. why, jock, the thocht o't gars me scunner, with it he dealt me sic dishonour. albeit, it was indeed a stunner, i canna think o't without wunner. it was at least a fathom lang, and tapered, at the end a stang like harpoon dart or arrow head, glittering and gleaming fiery red. 'twas nae doot gey thick at the root, but that was covered by his coat. so soople, he could gi'e a skelp wi't, could licht his pipe, or pick his teeth wi't; and at his pleasure, short or lang, it telescoped up to the stang. besides it was a choice dumb caddie, and quite as helpful as a laddie, by his left side he made it swirl around his clubs, like snake to twirl. they stood erect quite near and handy as 'neath the arm o' jock or sandy. to see him like a puddock squattin', his tail stiff oot, the sod pat, pattin', viewing his putt to find the line, 'twas enough to mak' a cuddy grin. there was little grin in me that mornin', i wasna in a mood for scornin'. [illustration] the game i was about to witness, it wasna in my power to compass. my fears they soon were realised, and my poor play that i so prized i saw eclipsed and beaten hollow- a bitter pill for me to swallow. hole after hole he stole away, with masterly and brilliant play. and ever and anon he jeered me, and with his cursed tail he skeered me. that tail! it curled and squirmed and gleamed, the stang it glowed, red-hot it seemed; whate'er it touched it brunt and bristled, the very sod it scorched and frizzled. i played my best, i strove and swat; wha could contend 'gainst foe like that? a stroke a hole, what use to me against a deil who averaged three? gude three-score years i'd kent the green, and many a gallant match i'd seen, lang, lang before i was a caddie, when golfin' daft a fisher laddie. wi' keen delight i still remember the glorious gatherin's o' september, when eager golfers came to seek, and share the joys o' 'medal week.' they mustered strong, a manly band. the wale o' gentry o' the land; among them golfers known to fame, old hands, scratch players o' the game, the woods, sir hope, the gallant grant; that swiper grand, r. oliphant; pattullo, stirling, messieux, condie, holcroft, playfair, haig, and fairlie; sir david baird, sir ralph anstruther, all players stout, and many another; forby of course, a wheen o' duffers, second fiddles, middlin' golfers, most worthy men, but poor performers, like mr patton, puddle mudie, or cheery small, the laird o' foodie; the rattlin' red-nosed craigie halket; flash jim, the swell, for slang and racket; clanranald, spruce, the tartan dandy, and, 'dem it,' sweet as sugar candy; mount melville's laird, aye debonair, true gentleman beyond compare; dundas, gillespie, wemyss, and craigie, pitarro's bard, the wag carnegie, and stalwart saddle, big and burly, tho' grim his look, he ne'er was surly, 'twas he that swore or e'en pretended that nature's laws were clean suspended (save us, mortals, sic a shame!) to 'spite and spoil _his_ little game!!' of handsome men a grand display, as rarely seen on summer's day. kilgraston's sons, sir frank the chief, falkland, charlton, and moncrieff; and mony mair o' birth and name that came to view the royal game. blythe allan then was in his prime, the finest player o' his time. tom morris, too, a lad of twenty, ere long renowned for honours plenty, good player still, an honest man, as ever lifted club in han', long may he live the green to guard, and at his pleasure sand the sward, and when at last 'neath sod he's landed, wi' blessings may his grave be sanded. and ither lads, professionals o' mark, kirks, straths, and pirie, herds, and park; besides a lot i canna' mind, all clever players o their kind. but ne'er a one a club could handle, play sic a game, or haud the candle, to that auld limb o' sin, the rip, who had me in his ugly grip. frae the 'hole across' in 'hell' he landed, that i foresaw it was intended. as i gaed by i heard him laughin', and with the little deils a-daffin'. i fondly hoped he'd come to grief, and with hole or half i'd get relief; but no such luck, alas for me, for again he nailed the hole in three! the next three holes he did in seven, and, heaven preserve me, we were even! my eight holes gane, the game a' square, oh, jock, i shuddered in despair. what skill o' mortal could prevail against a foe wi' cloots and tail! the tail it now was blazin' red, and from the point bright sparks it shed, and squirmed and curled as if wi' glee, possessed wi' joy at leatherin' me. tremblin', abashed, depressed, i stood; my threatened fate, it chilled my blood, cold swat bedewed me, froze my marrow, i felt like puddock 'neath a harrow, or thief that views the rope a danglin' prepared and ready for his stranglin'. the morning breeze blew cool and free, sweet, fresh, and caller frae the sea; the sun, with ruddy cheek, had risen not long from forth his watery prison; the strand was bathed with golden light, and all was beautiful and bright. as for auld sin, he stood serene, he little cared to view the scene. his arms were crossed, one hand on chin, and on his face sardonic grin. with keen and glittering eye he viewed me, and seemed to look right thro' and thro' me, my poor heart throbbing with affright, full well he gauged my sorry plight. 'skipper,' quoth he, 'how dost thou feel? you've had your tussle with the deil; hast got a lesson, eh, in golf? just one hole more and then--enough! i've seen your swagger, heard your boast, methinks i've got you now--on toast.' oh, jock, so horrible his smile, just like a loathsome crocodile, wi' sea-green een, and dreadfu' snigger, about to supper on a nigger! cool and composed i tried to look, as calm as might an aged rook on tree top perched, or giddy mast exposed to wild and stormy blast; but still a shadowy hope remained by my late fervent vow sustained, that should the powers aboon preserve me, good play or fickle fortune save me, to mend my life i would endeavour, and cursed drink forswear for ever. 'satan, you say, i'm yours to roast; but you prefer me served on toast, like a fat kidney fried wi' bacon, you'll find me teugh or i'm mistaken. the honour's great, the compliment i feel, to be a chosen tit-bit for the deil. but michty strange it seems to be, sic honour should be kept for me, when you might have made selection from swells and sinners o' distinction: ginerals, cornels, and sodger gentry; gude kens! there's wale o' them and plenty! 'mong clairgy, lawyers, and professors, poor folk in trade, and sma' transgressors. save us man! you micht hae grippet a provost wi' an ermine tippet, or eke a consequential bailie, or councillor fu' wise and wily. instead, to nab a poor auld caddie, 'twas _mean_,' i tell't him, jock pitbladdie. 'cocksure you hae me in your grip- there's mony a slip 'tween cup and lip. eneugh! i'm weary and half dead, lost or saved, i maun win hame to bed.' at my free speech old sooty growled, and at me glared malevolent and scowled; then tee'd wi' care, his ball addressed, and stood a golfer grand confessed. oh, jock, i think i see him yet; that scene i never can forget, broad-shouthered, slight o' powerful bield, long-armed, lean-shankit, strapping chield; his fearfu' tail, red, stiff, and stark, and at the end the gleamin' spark! gudesake, to think the prince o' h--l, at oor grand game should bear the bell! he drove a long, low ripping shot, o'er brig and road to the green he got. i followed true, for me right good, but, alas, i landed on the road! my heart it sank, but i lay clean, for muckle waur i might hae been. i took my cleek--oh, blessed happy lick! home went the ball fornent the stick, dead as a corp, or julius cã¦sar, baalam's ass, or nebuchenezzar. forward i ran, richt eager, to the green to see how good my luck had been. fortune indeed had smiled upon me, i lay a dead and perfect stymie! auld sin he looked as black as thunder to be so foiled, i dinna wonder. i sprang wi' glee, and gied a howl,- 'i've stymed the deil and saved my sowl!' 'villain!' he roared, 'you sot, you've done me, my malison and curse be on ye!' with that he struck me wi' his tail right on the stern, just like a flail, so cruel, strong, severe a lounder, in faith it felled me flat's a flounder. [illustration] i ken nae mair, all was confusion, how long i lay i have nae notion. my friends they tell me i was found senseless, and dead-like, on the ground; home to my bed they kindly bore me, made fruitless efforts to restore me, but all in vain, for fever seized me, and friendly death well-nigh released me. seven days and nights i raved and tossed, for ever screaming lost, lost, lost! the ravings of a fevered brain, as i went o'er and o'er again the scenes and horrors of that night, freezing my listeners with affright. a weary time; but, to be brief, kind heaven in mercy sent relief. at last, far gane, i found my head, and kent the folk about my bed; among them i was pleased to view my worthy friend nurse killiegrew, for she had with her presence blessed me, and thro' my illness watched and nursed me. i had their warm congratulations, and their demands for explanations about my ravings wild and furious (women are aye sae keen and curious). 'poor man,' quoth nurse, 'you've had a lesson, 'twill ease your mind to mak' confession.' abashed, ashamed, i hesitated, at last, with pain, my tale related. my yarn, of course, made great sensation; they groaned and grat at the narration, save nurse, who shook her head in sadness, incredulous, declared my story madness. said she, 'you fancy you have seen the deevil, and golfed and bargained wi' the prince o' evil; you've had the horrors, it would seem, and what you tell us was a drunkard's dream.' 'pardon,' said i,--i felt quite nettled,- 'i do not think you've fairly settled the nature of my strange distraction, at least not to my simple satisfaction. to clear myself, my honour tells me, a stern necessity compels me, against your most injurious explanations i have strong proof in bodily sensations. for obvious reasons, i would fain refrain from reference to the region of my pain. the cause i've in my story tell't ye, the skelp wi' tail auld hooky dealt me; further, my breeks, or i'm mistaen, will furnish proof both strong and plain. bring forth the breeks; as sure as leeks is leeks you'll find the proof upon the breeks.' the breeks they brought, o' good grey tweed, and laid them oot upon the bed. it was indeed a solemn moment, mysel', six worthy women present,- a wise, discreet, respectable sederunt. auld meg kilgour, a clever howdie; that virtuous woman, jenny braidie, as dink and braw as ony lady; the aged clack wife, nelly gourlay; good jeanie tosh, and stout bell lonie; and last, the wisest o' the crew, my worthy nurse, miss killiegrew. the carlines they put on their specs, six pair o' een bore on the breeks; awe-struck they saw upon the seat, brunt black and deep, the mark complete of clootie's tail, like the broad arrow, clear and distinct as tooth o' harrow! the sicht o't caused great consternation, hech sirs! gudesake! and sic-like exclamation. jean tosh she gat as white's a sheet; and nell and bell began to greet, but meg had nae sic trepidation, and wanted mair investigation. 'cummers,' says she, 'let's see his sark, aiblins it likewise bears the mark.' 'fie!' jenny cried, wi' blushing cheeks, 'eneugh! we've seen the skipper's breeks, sic zeal may weel become a howdie, i draw the line at breeks,' quo' jenny braidie. 'what!' meg rejoined, 'you pented jade, you dare to scorn my honest trade! 'tis ill for you to mak' reflection, your ain will scarcely stand inspection.' and snorting red, on mischief bent, she turned to me for my consent. i saw that things were getting serious, and feared they jauds so keen and curious. meg's birse was up and no mistake, her match she had in jean the rake. 'twas time to still the wordy clatter, and pour the ile on troubled water. 'leddies,' said i, 'your sympathy is precious, to me you've been most kind and gracious, with all your care i'm deeply gratified, and as to proof, completely satisfied.' [illustration] nurse heard me, saw the cummer's zeal, and looked as if diverted weel. she laughed, amused at the sensation, but flat refused the explanation, and chaffed and scoffed in huge derision, declaring they had lost their reason. 'you doited women, don't you see what is so evident,' says she, 'this good-for-nothing drunken wight has sat upon his pipe alight, no doubt the cause of mark and pain. to me it is as porridge plain.' 'nurse!' i exclaimed, enraged, indignant, 'your explanation is repugnant to reason, sense, and proof, and feelin'; don't think that with a fool you're dealin', for though to drink a slave i've been, i say it, with contrition keen, i ne'er had horrors, what they ca' _d.t._ in latin tongue, whatever that may be; you hand your ain, and i keep my opinion, i ken my failin's, i'm but human.' ('twas nae use arguing wi' a woman.) now jock my story's told, my yarn is ended, some things there be that can't be mended; as broken hearts, and damaged reputation, like club-held gane past reparation, beyond the savin' powers o' glue, new leather face, or nails, or screw. not so, thank god, an evil habit, heaven spare me that i live to prove it. i've tottered on destruction's brink, have wallowed in the slough o' drink, have good despised and lived for evil, and golfed and bargained wi' the deevil. thank goodness, that's all gone and changed, by other hands my life's arranged. i'm like the chield in bunyan's story, that pilgrim on his road to glory, sair hudden doon wi' muckle sack chokefu' o' sins upon his back, warstlin' and pechin' on his weary way, the burden heavier growin' every day. heaven heard his prayer, the burden fell, and rolled behind him to the jaws o' h--l. joyous and free, gone all his sadness, grateful he sang, and danced in gladness. i, grim auld pilgrim, in like manner, compared wi' him a hardened sinner, thro' forty years i've burden borne, by self despised, of men the scorn. now, safe forever from the curse that starved my body, toomed my purse, i've anchored in a peacefu' haven, no more for drink the cruel cravin'. no more the 'public' haunts for me, the drunkard's shout, the maddening glee, the ribald jokes, and songs, and laughter, the sickening pangs that follow after. gone, gone forever, all the filth and folly, the aches, the woes, the melancholy; i've cast the old, put on the new, three cheers then for the ribbon blue, and blessings on nurse killiegrew! [illustration] [illustration: poems on golf] poems on golf [decoration] edinburgh printed for private circulation 1867 [illustration: j.m. corner] some members of the edinburgh burgess golfing society having resolved to collect and print a few fugitive pieces in verse relating to the game of golf, the following poems and songs have been after some labour procured, and are now printed (some for the first time) for private circulation among the subscribers whose names are appended. edinburgh, _april 1867_. contents. page the goff, an heroi-comical poem 1 golfiana--address to st. andrews 20 " the golfiad 22 " the first hole at st. andrews on a crowded day 29 " another peep at the links 36 the nine holes of st. andrews links 48 scrap--"the following scrap" &c. 56 song--the golfers' garland 57 " the links o' innerleven 60 " in praise of gutta percha 63 " "far and sure" 66 " "gae bring my guid auld clubs" 68 " "come, leave your dingy desks" 73 " "when tom and me were laddies" 77 list of subscribers. bannatyne, adam b., advocate. barclay, jas., writer. bayley, geo., w.s. bell, w. h., a.c.s. beveridge, will. t. r., a.c.s. brodie, wm., r.s.a. brown, w. a., advocate. brown, thomas, writer. burn, george, w.s. calder, a., insurance manager. chisholm, john k., dentist. clark, and. r., advocate. clark, r., printer. curror, d., s.s.c. drummond, james, r.s.a. drysdale, william, d.c.s. fraser, wm. n., of tornaveen. gough, owen, holyrood palace. hay, james, esq., leith. henderson, andrew, writer. henderson, david, writer. hutchison, h., writer. hutton, wm., writer. jack, jno., writer. jamieson, james t., s.s.c. johnston, rob., solicitor. kinnear, jas., writer. kirkwood, james, merchant. landale, tho., s.s.c. lee, robert, advocate. leggat, james, coal master. leishman, john, w.s. mackenzie, john, w.s. macmillan, h., writer. m'ewen, j., writer. mann, w., writer. melville, f. suther, a.c.s. millar, wm., board of supervision. mitchell, a., banker. moncreiff, james, m.p., dean of the faculty of advocates. moncrieff, a., advocate. morrison, ad., s.s.c. murray, andw., jun., w.s. pattison, g. h., advocate. reid, william, writer. shaw, robert b., assistant clerk of the bills. smith, daniel, corn factor. steven, robert, writer. stevenson, peter, philosophical instrument maker. thoms, geo. h., advocate. thompson, j. gibson. thomson, john, s.s.c. thomson, w. m., advocate. waddell, alex. peddie, w.s. welch, c., writer, cupar. williamson, james, traveller. wilson, geo. b., accountant. young, j. wm., 22 royal circus. * * * * * [decoration] the goff. by thomas mathison, originally a writer in edinburgh, and afterwards minister of brechin. reprinted from the second edition of the poem.--1763. canto i. goff, and the _man_, i sing, who, em'lous, plies the jointed club, whose balls invade the skies, who from _edina's_ tow'rs, his peaceful home, in quest of fame o'er _letha's_ plains did roam. long toil'd the hero, on the verdant field, strain'd his stout arm the weighty club to wield; such toils it cost, such labours to obtain the bays of conquest, and the bowl to gain. o thou golfinia, goddess of these plains! great patroness of goff! indulge my strains; whether beneath the _thorn-tree_ shade you lie, or from _mercerian_ tow'rs the game survey, or round the green the flying ball you chase, or make your bed in some hot sandy _face_: leave your much-lov'd abode, inspire his lays who sings of goff, and sings thy fav'rite's praise. north from _edina_ eight furlongs and more, lies that fam'd field, on _fortha's_ sounding shore. here _caledonian_ chiefs for health resort, confirm their sinews by the manly sport. _macdonald_ and unmatch'd _dalrymple_ ply their pond'rous weapons, and the green defy; _rattray_ for skill, and _corse_ for strength renown'd, _stewart_ and _lesly_ beat the sandy ground, and _brown_ and _alston_, chiefs well known to fame, and numbers more the muse forbears to name. gigantic _biggar_ here full oft is seen, like huge behemoth on an _indian_ green; his bulk enormous scarce can 'scape the eyes, amaz'd spectators wonder how he plies. yea, here great _forbes_,[1] patron of the just, the dread of villains and the good man's trust, when spent with toils in serving human kind, his body recreates, and unbends his mind. bright _phoebus_ now had measur'd half the day, and warm'd the earth with genial noon-tide ray; forth rush'd _castalio_ and his daring foe, both arm'd with clubs, and eager for the blow. of finest ash castalio's shaft was made, pond'rous with lead, and fenc'd with horn the head (the work of _dickson_, who in _letha_ dwells, and in the art of making clubs excels), which late beneath great _claro's_ arm did bend, but now is wielded by his greater friend. not with more fury _norris_ cleav'd the main, to pour his thund'ring arms on guilty _spain_; nor with more haste brave _haddock_ bent his course to guard _minorca_ from _iberian_ force,- than thou, intrepid hero, urg'd thy way o'er roads and sands, impatient for the fray. with equal warmth _pygmalion_ fast pursu'd (with courage oft are little wights endued), 'till to golfinia's downs the heroes came, the scene of combat and the field of fame. upon a verdant bank by _flora_ grac'd, two sister fairies found the goddess plac'd; propp'd by her snowy hand her head reclin'd, her curling locks hung waving in the wind. she eyes intent the consecrated green, crowded with waving clubs and vot'ries keen, and hears the prayers of youths to her address'd, and from the hollow face relieves the ball distress'd. on either side the sprightly dryads sat, and entertained the goddess with their chat. first verdurilla, thus: o rural queen! what chiefs are those that drive along the green? with brandish'd clubs the mighty heroes threat, their eager looks foretell a keen debate. to whom golfinia: nymph, your eyes behold _pygmalion_ stout, _castalio_ brave and bold. from silver _ierna's_ banks _castalio_ came, but first on _andrean_ plains he courted fame. his sire, a druid, taught (one day of seven) the paths of virtue, the sure road to heaven. in _pictish_ capital the good man passed his virtuous life, and there he breath'd his last. the son now dwells in fair _edina's_ town, and on our sandy plains pursues renown. see low _pygmalion_, skilled in goffing art, small is his size, but dauntless is his heart: fast by a desk in _edin's_ domes he sits, with _saids_ and _sicklikes_ length'ning out the writs. for no mean prize the rival chiefs contend, but full rewards the victor's toils attend. the vanquish'd hero for the victor fills a mighty bowl containing thirty gills; with noblest liquor is the bowl replete; here sweets and acids, strength and weakness meet. from _indian_ isles the strength and sweetness flow, and _tagus'_ banks their golden fruits bestow; cold _caledonia's_ lucid streams controul the fiery spirits, and fulfil the bowl; for _albion's_ peace and _albion's_ friends they pray, and drown in _punch_ the labours of the day. the goddess spoke, and thus gambolia pray'd: permit to join in brave _pygmalion's_ aid, o'er each deep road the hero to sustain, and guide his ball to the desired plain. to this the goddess of the manly sport: go, and be thou that daring chief's support. let verdurilla be _castalio's_ stay; i from this flow'ry seat will view the fray. she said: the nymphs trip nimbly o'er the green, and to the combatants approach unseen. end of canto i. [footnote 1: duncan forbes, lord president of the court of session in scotland.] [decoration] [decoration] canto ii. ye rural powers that on these plains preside, ye nymphs that dance on fortha's flow'ry side, assist the muse that in your fields delights, and guide her course in these uncommon flights. but chief, thee, o golfinia! i implore, high as thy balls instruct my muse to soar: so may thy green for ever crowded be, and balls on balls invade the azure sky. now at that hole the chiefs begin the game, which from the neighb'ring _thorn-tree_ takes its name; ardent they grasp the ball-compelling clubs, and stretch their arms t' attack the little globes; not as our warriors brandish'd dreadful arms, when fierce _bellona_ sounded war's alarms; when conqu'ring _cromwell_ stain'd fair _eska's_ flood, and soak'd her banks with _caledonian_ blood; or when our bold ancestors madly fought, and clans engaged for trifles or for nought. that _fury_ now from our bless'd fields is driv'n, to scourge unhappy nations doom'd by heav'n. let _kouli kan_ destroy the fertile east, victorious _vernon_ thunder in the west; let horrid war involve perfidious _spain_, and george assert his empire o'er the main: but on our plains _britannia's_ sons engage, and void of ire the sportive war they wage. lo, tatter'd _irus_, who their armour bears, upon the green two little pyr'mids rears; on these they place two balls with careful eye, that with _clarinda's_ breasts for colour vie,- the work of _bobson_, who, with matchless art, shapes the firm hide, connecting ev'ry part,- then in a socket sets the well-stitched void, and thro' the eyelet drives the downy tide; crowds urging crowds the forceful brogue impels, the feathers harden and the leather swells; he crams and sweats, yet crams and urges more, till scarce the turgid globe contains its store; the dreadful falcon's pride here blended lies with pigeons' glossy down of various dyes; the lark's small pinions join the common stock, and yellow glory of the martial cock. soon as _hyperion_ gilds old _andrea's_ spires, from bed the artist to his cell retires, with bended back, there plies his steely awls, and shapes, and stuffs, and finishes the balls. but when the glorious god of day has driv'n his flaming chariot down the steep of heav'n, he ends his labour, and with rural strains enchants the lovely maids and weary swains: as thro' the streets the blythsome piper plays, in antic dance they answer to his lays; at ev'ry pause the ravish'd crowd acclaim, and rends the skies with tuneful _bobson's_ name. not more rewarded was old _amphion's_ song, that reared a town, and this drags one along. such is fam'd _bobson_, who in _andrea_ thrives, and such the balls each vig'rous hero drives. first, bold _castalio_, ere he struck the blow, lean'd on his club, and thus address'd his foe: dares weak _pygmalion_ this stout arm defy, which brave _matthias_ doth with terror try? strong as he is, _moravio_ owns my might, distrusts his vigour, and declines the fight. renown'd _clephanio_ i constrain'd to yield, and drove the haughty vet'ran from the field. weak is thine arm, rash youth! thy courage vain; vanquish'd, with shame you'll curse the fatal plain. the half-struck balls your weak endeavours mock, slowly proceed, and soon forget the stroke. not so the orb eludes my thund'ring force, thro' fields of air it holds its rapid course; swift as the balls from martial engines driv'n, streams like a comet thro' the arch of heav'n. vaunter, go on! (_pygmalion_ thus replies); thine empty boasts with justice i despise! hadst thou the strength goliah's spear to wield, like its great master thunder on the field, and with that strength _culloden's_ matchless art, not one unmanly thought should daunt my heart. he said: and sign'd to _irus_, who before with frequent warnings fill'd the sounding shore. then great _castalio_ his whole strength collects, and on the orb a noble blow directs; swift as a thought the ball obedient flies, sings high in air, and seems to cleave the skies; then on the level plain its fury spends; and _irus_ to the chief the welcome tidings sends. next in his turn _pygmalion_ strikes the globe; on the upper half descends the erring club; along the green the ball confounded scours; no lofty flight the ill-sped stroke impow'rs. thus, when the trembling hare descries the hounds, she from her whinny mansion swiftly bounds; o'er hills and fields she scours, outstrips the wind; the hounds and huntsmen follow far behind. _gambolia_ now afforded timely aid, she o'er the sand the fainting ball convey'd; renew'd its force, and urg'd it on its way, till on the summit of the hill it lay. now all on fire the chiefs their orbs pursue, with the next stroke the orbs their flight renew; thrice round the green they urge the whizzing ball, and thrice three holes to great _castalio_ fall: the other six _pygmalion_ bore away, and saved a while the honours of the day. had some brave champion of the sandy field the chiefs attended, and the game beheld, with ev'ry stroke his wonder had increas'd, and em'lous fires had kindled in his breast. end of canto ii. [decoration] [decoration] canto iii. harmonious nine, that from _parnassus_ view the subject world, and all that's done below; who from oblivion snatch the patriot's name, and to the stars extol the hero's fame; bring each your lyre, and to my song repair, nor think _golfinia's_ train below the muses' care. declining _sol_ with milder beams invades the _scotian_ fields, and lengthens out the shades; hastes to survey the conquered golden plains, where captive _indians_ mourn in _spanish_ chains, to gild the waves where hapless _hosier_ dy'd, where _vernon_ late proud _bourbon's_ force defied, triumphant rode along the wat'ry plain, _britannia's_ glory and the scourge of _spain_. still from her seat the _power_ of goff beheld th' unwearied heroes toiling on the field: the light-foot fairies in their labours share, each nymph her hero seconds in the war; pygmalion and _gambolia_ there appear, and verdurilla with _castalio_ here. the goddess saw, and op'd the book of fate, to search the issue of the grand debate. bright silver plates the sacred leaves enfold, bound with twelve shining clasps of solid gold. the wond'rous book contains the fate of all that lift the club, and strike the missive ball; mysterious rhymes, that thro' the pages flow, the past, the present, and the future show. golfinia reads the fate-foretelling lines, and soon the sequel of the war divines; sees conquest doom'd _castalio's_ toils to crown, _pygmalion_ doom'd superior might to own. then at her side victoria straight appears, her sister goddess, arbitress of wars; upon her head a wreath of bays she wore, and in her hand a laurel sceptre bore; anxious to know the will of fate, she stands, and waits obsequious on the queen's commands. to whom golfinia: fate-fulfilling maid, hear the fates' will, and be their will obey'd: straight to the field of fight thyself convey, where brave _castalio_ and _pygmalion_ stray; there bid the long-protracted combat cease, and with thy bays _castalio's_ temples grace.- she said; and swift, as _hermes_ from above shoots to perform the high behests of _jove_, victoria from her sister's presence flies, pleased to bestow the long-disputed prize. meanwhile the chiefs for the last hole contend, the last great hole, which should their labours end; for this the chiefs exert their skill and might, to drive the balls, and to direct their flight. thus two fleet coursers for the royal plate (the others distanc'd) run the final heat; with all his might each gen'rous racer flies, and all his art each panting rider tries, while show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast, and gen'rous emulation fires the beast. his trusty club _pygmalion_ dauntless plies: the ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies; but soon, ah! soon, descends upon the field, the adverse winds the lab'ring orb repell'd. thus when a fowl, whom wand'ring sportsmen scare, leaves the sown land, and mounts the fields of air, short is his flight; the fiery _furies_ wound, and bring him tumbling headlong to the ground. not so _castalio_ lifts th' unerring club, but with superior art attacks the globe; the well-struck ball the stormy wind beguil'd, and like a swallow skimm'd along the field. an harmless sheep, by fate decreed to fall, feels the dire fury of the rapid ball; full on her front the raging bullet flew, and sudden anguish seiz'd the silent ewe; stagg'ring, she falls upon the verdant plain, convulsive pangs distract her wounded brain. great pan beheld her stretch'd upon the grass, nor unreveng'd permits the crime to pass: th' _arcadian_ god, with grief and fury stung, snatch'd his stout crook, and fierce to vengeance sprung; his faithful dogs their master's steps pursue; the fleecy flocks before their father bow,- with bleatings hoarse salute him as he strode; and frisking lambkins dance around the god. the sire of sheep then lifted from the ground the panting dam, and piss'd upon the wound: the stream divine soon eas'd the mother's pain; the wise immortals never piss in vain. then to the ball his horny foot applies, before his foot the kick'd offender flies. the hapless orb a gaping face detain'd; deep sunk in sand the hapless orb remain'd. as verdurilla mark'd the ball's arrest, she with resentment fired _castalio's_ breast. the nymph assum'd _patrico's_ shape and mien, like great _patrico_ stalk'd along the green; so well his manner and his accent feign'd, _castalio_ deemed _patrico's_ self complain'd. ah, sad disgrace! see rustic herds invade golfinian plains, the angry fairy said: your ball abus'd, your hopes and projects cross'd, the game endanger'd, and the hole nigh lost. thus brutal pan resents his wounded ewe, tho' chance, not you, did guide the fatal blow. incens'd _castalio_ makes her no replies, t' attack the god, the furious mortal flies; his iron-headed club around he swings, and fierce at pan the pond'rous weapon flings. affrighted pan the dreadful missive shunn'd, but blameless _tray_ receiv'd a deadly wound: ill-fated _tray_ no more the flocks shall tend, in anguish doom'd his shorten'd life to end. nor could great pan afford a timely aid; great pan himself before the hero fled: even he--a god--a mortal's fury dreads, and far and fast from bold _castalio_ speeds. to free the ball the chief now turns his mind, flies to the bank where lay the orb confined; the pond'rous club upon the ball descends, involv'd in dust th' exulting orb ascends. their loud applause the pleas'd spectators raise; the hollow bank resounds _castalio's_ praise. a mighty blow _pygmalion_ then lets fall, straight from th' impulsive engine starts the ball, answ'ring its master's just design, it hastes, and from the hole scarce twice two clubs' length rests. ah! what avails thy skill, since fate decrees thy conqu'ring foe to bear away the prize? full fifteen clubs' length from the hole he lay a wide cart-road before him cross'd his way; the deep-cut tracks th' intrepid chief defies; high o'er the road the ball triumphing flies, lights on the green, and scours into the hole; down with it sinks depress'd _pygmalion's_ soul. seiz'd with surprise, th' affrighted hero stands, and feebly tips the ball with trembling hands. the creeping ball its want of force complains, a grassy tuft the loit'ring orb detains. surrounding crowds the victor's praise proclaim, the echoing shore resounds _castalio's_ name. for him _pygmalion_ must the bowl prepare, to him must yield the honours of the war; on fame's triumphant wings his name shall soar till time shall end, or goffing be no more. [decoration] [decoration] address to st. andrews. st. andrews! they say that thy glories are gone, that thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'erthrown: if thy glories _be_ gone, they are only, methinks, as it were, by enchantment, transferr'd to thy links. though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates, of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots, let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers, when we say that instead there are links full of goffers, with more of good heart and good feeling among them than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung them: we have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs; the green has its bunkers, its hazards, and _rubs_; at the long hole across we have biscuits and beer, and the hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer: if this make not up for the pomp and the splendour of mitres, and murders, and mass--we'll surrender; if goffers and caddies be not better neighbours than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres, let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks, while we toast old st. andrews, its goffers and links. [decoration] [decoration] the golfiad. _arma, virumq. cano._--virgil, _ã�n._ i. l. 1. balls, clubs, and men i sing, who first, methinks, made sport and bustle on north berwick links, brought coin and fashion, betting, and renown, champagne and claret, to a country town, and lords and ladies, knights and squires, to ground where washerwomen erst and snobs were found! had i the powers of him who sung of troy- gem of the learned, bore of every boy- or him, the bard of rome, who, later, told how great ã�neas roam'd and fought of old- i then might shake the gazing world like them; for who denies i have as grand a theme? time-honour'd golf!--i heard it whisper'd once that he who could not play was held a dunce on old olympus, when it teem'd with gods. o rare!--but it's a lie--i'll bet the odds! no doubt these heathen gods, the very minute they knew the game, would have delighted in it! wars, storms, and thunders--all would have been off! mars, jove, and neptune would have studied golf, and swiped--like oliphant and wood below- smack over hell[2] at one immortal go! had mecca's prophet known the noble game before he gave his paradise to fame, he would have promis'd, in the land of light, golf all the day--and houris all the night! but this is speculation: we must come, and work the subject rather nearer home; lest, in attempting all too high to soar, we fall, like icarus, to rise no more. the game is ancient--manly--and employs, in its departments, women, men, and boys: men play the game, the boys the clubs convey, and lovely woman gives the prize away, when august brings the great, the medal day! nay, more: tho' some may doubt, and sneer, and scoff, the female muse has sung the game of goff, and trac'd it down, with choicest skill and grace, thro' all its bearings, to the human race; the tee, the start of youth--the game, our life- the ball when fairly bunkered, man and wife. now, muse, assist me while i strive to name the varied skill and chances of the game. suppose we play a match: if all agree, let clan and saddell tackle baird and me. reader, attend! and learn to play at goff; the lord of saddell and myself strike off! he strikes--he's in the ditch--this hole is ours; bang goes my ball--it's bunker'd, by the pow'rs. but better play succeeds, these blunders past, and in six strokes the hole is halved at last. o hole! tho' small, and scarcely to be seen, till we are close upon thee, on the green; and tho' when seen, save golfers, few can prize, the value, the delight that in thee lies; yet, without thee, our tools were useless all- the club, the spoon, the putter, and the ball: for all is done--each ball arranged on tee, each stroke directed--but to enter thee! if--as each tree, and rock, and cave of old, had _its_ presiding nymph, as we are told- thou hast _thy_ nymph; i ask for nothing but her aid propitious when i come to putt. now for the second: and here baird and clan in turn must prove which is the better man: sir david swipes sublime!--into the quarry![3] whiz goes the chief--a sneezer,[4] by old harry! "now, lift the stones, but do not touch the ball, the hole is lost if it but move at all: well play'd, my cock! you could not have done more; 'tis bad, but still we may get home at four." now, near the hole sir david plays the odds; clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods! "a most disgusting _steal_;[5] well, come away, they're one ahead, but we have four to play. we'll win it yet, if i can cross the ditch: they're over, smack! come, there's another _sich_."[6] baird plays a trump--we hole at three--they stare, and miss their putt--so now the match is square. and here, who knows but, as old homer sung, the scales of fight on jove's own finger hung? here clan and saddell; there swing baird and i,- our merits, that's to say; for half an eye could tell, if _bodies_ in the scales were laid, which must descend, and which must rise ahead. if jove were thus engaged, we did not see him, but told our boys to clean the balls and tee 'em. in this next hole the turf is most uneven; we play like tailors--only in at seven, and they at six; most miserable play! but let them laugh who win. hear saddell say, "now, by the piper who the pibroch played before old moses, we are one ahead, and only two to play--a special _coup_! three five-pound notes to one!" "done, sir, with you." we start again; and in this dangerous hole[7] full many a stroke is played with heart and soul: "give me the iron!" either party cries, as in the quarry, track, or sand he lies. we reach the green at last, at even strokes; some caddy chatters, _that_ the chief provokes, and makes him miss his putt; baird holes the ball; thus, with but one to play, 'tis even all! 'tis strange, and yet there cannot be a doubt, that such a snob should put a chieftain out: the noble lion, thus, in all his pride, stung by the gadfly, roars and starts aside; clan did _not_ roar--_he_ never makes a noise- but said, "they're very troublesome, these boys." his partner muttered something not so civil, particularly, "scoundrels"--"at the devil!" now baird and clan in turn strike off and play[8] two strokes, the best that have been seen to-day. his spoon next saddell takes, and plays a trump- mine should have been as good but for a bump that turn'd it off. baird plays the odds--it's all but in!--at five yards, good, clan holes the ball! my partner, self, and song--all three are done! we lose the match, and all the bets thereon! perhaps you think that, tho' i'm not a winner, my muse should stay and celebrate the dinner; the ample joints that travel up the stair, to grace the table spread by mrs. blair; the wine, the ale, the toasts, the jokes, the songs, and all that to such revelry belongs;- it may not be! 'twere fearful falling off to sing such trifles after singing golf in most majestic strain; let others dwell on such, and rack their carnal brains to tell a tale of sensuality!--farewell! [footnote 2: hell is a range of broken ground on st. andrews links, bearing probably the same proportion to the _ordinary_ course of the links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these immortals.] [footnote 3: a place on north berwick links, so awkward, that in playing out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided the position of the ball is not altered.] [footnote 4: a long and scientific stroke at golf.] [footnote 5: _steal_, the act of holing the ball contrary to probability.] [footnote 6: a slang term for _such_.] [footnote 7: fifth hole.] [footnote 8: sixth hole.] [decoration] the first hole at st. andrews on a crowded day. _forsan et hã¦c olim meminisse juvabit._--ã�n. i. l. 208. 'tis morn! and man awakes, by sleep refresh'd, to do whate'er he has to do with zest; but at st. andrews, where my scene is laid, _one_ only thought can enter every head; the thought of golf, to wit--and that engages men of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages; the root--the _primum mobile_ of all, the epidemic of the club and ball; the work by day, the source of dreams by night, the never-failing fountain of delight! here, mr. philp, club-maker, is as great _as philip_--as any minister of state! and every caddy as profess'd a hero as captain cook, or wellington, or nero! for instance--davie, oldest of the cads, who gives _half-one_ to unsuspicious lads, when he _might_ give them _two_, or even _more_, and win, perhaps, three matches out of four, is just as politic in _his_ affairs as talleyrand or metternich in _theirs_. he has the statesman's elements, 'tis plain, cheat, flatter, humbug--_anything_ for gain; and had he trod the world's wide field, methinks, as long as he has trod st. andrews links, he might have been prime minister, or priest, my lord, or plain _sir david_ at the least! now, to the ground of golf my muse shall fly, the various men assembled to descry, nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year, at the first hole _unfailingly_ appear; where, "how d'ye do?" "fine morning," "rainy day," and, "what's the match?" are preludes to the play. so full the meeting that i scarcely can, in such a crowd, distinguish man from man. we'll take them as they come:--he next the wall, outside, upon the right, is mr. saddell; and well he plays, though, rising on his toes, whiz round his head his _supple_ club he throws. there, doctor moodie, turtle-like, displays his well-filled paunch, and swipes beyond all praise; while cuttlehill, of slang and chatter chief, provokes the bile of captain george moncrieffe. see colonel playfair, shaped in form _rotund_, parade, the unrivall'd falstaff of the ground; he laughs and jokes, plays, "what you like," and yet you'll rarely find him make a foolish bet. against the sky, display'd in high relief, i see the figure of clanranald's chief, dress'd most correctly in the _fancy_ style, well-whisker'd face, and radiant with a smile; he bows, shakes hands, and has a word for all- so did beau nash, as master of the ball! near him is saddell, dress'd in blue coat plain, with lots of gourlays,[9] free from spot or stain; he whirls his club to catch the proper _swing_, and freely bets round all the scarlet ring; and swears by _ammon_, he'll engage to drive as long a ball as any man alive! that's major playfair, a man of nerve unshaken- he knows a thing or two, or i'm mistaken; and when he's press'd, can play a tearing game, he works for _certainty_ and not for _fame_! there's none--i'll back the assertion with a wager- can play the _heavy iron_ like the major. next him is craigie halkett, one who can swipe out, for distance, against any man; but in what _course_ the ball so struck may go, no looker on--not he himself--can know. see major holcroft, he's a steady hand among the best of all the golfing band; he plays a winning game in every part, but near the hole displays the greatest art. there young patullo stands, and he, methinks, can drive the longest ball upon the links; and well he plays the spoon and iron, but he fails a _little_ when he comes to _putt_. near captain cheape, a sailor by profession (but not so good at golf as navigation), is mr. peter glass, who once could play a better game than he can do to-day. we cannot last for ever! and the _gout_, confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out. there, to the left, i see mount-melville stand erect, his _driving putter_ in his hand; it is a club he cannot leave behind, it works the balls so well against the wind. sir david erskine has come into play, he has not won the medal _yet_, but _may_. dost love the greatest laugher of the lot?- then play a round with little mr. scott: he is a merry cock, and seems to me to win or lose with equal ecstasy. here's mr. messieux, he's a noble player, but something _nervous_--that's a bad affair; it sadly spoils his putting, when he's _press'd_- but let him _win_, and he will beat the _best_. that little man that's seated on the ground in red, must be carnegie, i'll be bound! a most conceited dog, not slow to _go it_ at golf, or anything--a _sort_ of poet; he talks to wood--john wood--who ranks among the tip-top hands that to the club belong; and oliphant, the rival of the last, whose play, at times, can scarcely be surpass'd. who's he that's just arrived?--i know him well; it is the cupar provost, john dalzell: when he _does_ hit the ball, he swipes like blazes- it is but _seldom_, and _himself_ amazes; but when he winds his horn, and leads the chase, the laird of lingo's in his proper place. it has been _said_ that, at the _break of day_ his golf is better than his evening play: that must be scandal; for i am sure that none could think of golf before the rise of sun. he now is talking to his lady's brother, a man of politics, sir ralph anstruther: were he but once in parliament, methinks, and working _there_ as well as on the _links_, the burghs, i'll be bound, would not repent them that they had such a man to represent them: there's _one thing_ only--when he's _on the roll_, he must not lose his _nerve_, as when he's near the hole. upon his right is major bob anstruther; cobbet's _one_ radical--and he's _another_. but when we meet, as here, to play at golf, whig, radical, and tory--all are off- off the contested politics, i mean- and fun and harmony illume the scene. we make our matches from the love of playing, without one loathsome feeling but the _paying_, and that is lessened by the thought, we _borrow_ only to-day what we shall _win_ to-morrow. then, here's prosperity to golf! and long may those who play be cheerful, fresh, and strong; when _driving_ ceases, may we still be able to play the _shorts_, _putt_, and be comfortable! and to the latest may we fondly cherish the thoughts of golf--so let st. andrews flourish! [footnote 9: meaning plenty of balls, made by mr. gourlay of bruntsfield links, a famous artist. the gentleman alluded to generally has, at _least_, twelve dozen.] [decoration] another peep at the links. _alter erit tum typhys, et altera qu㦠vehat argo dilectos heroas--erunt etiam altera bella._ virg. georgic. awake, my slumb'ring muse, and plume thy wing, our former theme--the game of golf--to sing! for since the subject last inspired my pen, ten years have glided by, or nearly ten. still the old hands at golf delight to play- still new succeed them as they pass away; still ginger-beer and parliament are seen serv'd out by houris to the peopled green; and still the royal game maintains its place, and will maintain it through each rising race. still major playfair shines, a star at golf; and still the colonel--though a _little_ off; the former, skill'd in many a curious art, as chemist, mechanist, can play his part, and understands, besides the pow'r of swiping, _electro-talbot_ and daguerreotyping. still colonel holcroft steady walks the grass, and still his putting nothing can surpass- and still he drives, unless the weather's rough, not quite so far as _once_, but far enough. still saddell walks, superb, improved in play, though his blue jacket now is turn'd to grey; still are his balls as rife and clean as wont- still swears by ammon, and still bets the _blunt_- still plays all matches--still is often beat- and still in iced punch drowns each fresh defeat. still on the green clanranald's chief appears, as gay as ever, as untouch'd by years; he laughs at time, and time, perhaps through whim, respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him; just fans him with his wings, but spares his head, as loth to lose a subject so well bred. sir ralph returns--he has been absent long- no less renown'd in golfing than in song; with continental learning richly stored, teutonic bards translated and explored; a _literaire_--a german scholar now, with all _griselda's_ honours on his brow! the links have still the pleasure to behold messieux, complete in matches, as of old; he, modest, tells you that his day's gone by: if any think it _is so_--let them try! still portly william wood is to be seen, as good as ever on the velvet green, the same unfailing trump; but john, methinks, has taken to the _turf_, and shies the links. whether the _leger_ and the _derby_ pay as well as _hope grant_, i can scarcely say; but let that be--'tis better, john, old fellow, to pluck the _rooks_, than _rook_ the _violoncello_. permit me just a moment to digress- friendship would chide me should i venture less- the poor chinese, there cannot be a doubt, will shortly be demolish'd out and out; but--o how blest beyond the common line of conquer'd nations by the power divine!- _saltoun_ to cut their yellow throats, and then _hope grant_ to play their requiem-notes--amen! still george moncrieffe appears the crowd before, _lieutenant-colonel_--captain now no more; improv'd in ev'rything--in looks and life, and, more than all, the husband of a wife! as in the olden time, see craigie halkett- wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett; he leaves us now. but in three years, i trust, he will return, and sport his _muzzle dust_, play golf again, and patronise all cheer, from noble _claret_ down to _bitter beer_. mount-melville still erect as ever stands, and plies his club with energetic hands, plays short and steady, often is a winner- a better captain never graced a dinner. but where is _oliphant_, that artist grand? he scarce appears among the golfing band. no doubt he's married; but when that befalls is there an end to putters, clubs, and balls? not so, methinks: _sir david baird_ can play with any golfer of the present day; the _laird of lingo_, major bob anstruther- both married, and the one as good's the other. dalgleish and haig, two better men to play you scarce will meet upon a summer's day; alike correct, whatever may befall, swipe, iron, putter, quarter-stroke, and all. old robert lindsay plays a decent game, tho' not a golfer of _enormous_ fame. well can he fish with minnow as with fly, paint, and play _farthing-brag_ uncommonly; give jolly dinners, justice courts attend- a good companion and a steady friend. but _cuttlehill_, that wonderful _buffoon_, we meet him now no more, as wont, at noon; no more along the green his jokes are heard, and some who _dared_ not _then_, now take the word. farewell! facetious jem--too surely gone- a loss to us--_joe miller_ to _boulogne_. poor peter glass, a worthy soul and _blue_, has paid the debt of nature--'tis too true! long did his candle flicker with the gout- one puff, a little stronger, _blew it out_. and good patullo! he who drove as none, since him, have driven--he is also gone! and captain cheape--who does not mourn the day that snatch'd so good, so kind a friend away? one more i name--and only one--but he was older far, and lower in degree- great davie robertson, the eldest cad, in whom the good was stronger than the bad; he sleeps in death! and with him sleeps a skill which davie, statesmanlike, could wield at will! sound be his slumbers! yet if he should wake in worlds where golf is play'd, himself he'd shake, and look about, and tell each young beginner, "i'll gie half-ane--nae mair, as i'm a sinner." he leaves a son, and allan is his name, in golfing far beyond his father's fame; tho' in diplomacy, i shrewdly guess, his skill's inferior, and his fame is less. now for the _mushrooms_--old, perchance, or new- but whom my former strain did not review: i'll name an _old one_, patton, tom, of perth, short, stout, grey-headed, but of sterling worth! a golfer perfect--something, it may be, the worse for _wear_, but few so true as he; good-humour'd when behind as when ahead, and drinks like blazes till he goes to bed. his friend is peddie, not an awful swiper, but at the putting he's a very _viper_: give him a man to drive him through the green, and he'll be bad to beat, it will be seen- patton and peddie--peddie and patton, are just the people one should bet upon. there keith with andrew wauchope works away, and most respectable the game they play; the navy captain's steadiness and age give him, perhaps, the _pull_--but i'll engage, ere some few months, or rather weeks, are fled, youth and activity will take the lead. see gilmour next--and he can drive a ball as far as any man among them all; in ev'ry hunting-field can lead the van, and is throughout a perfect gentleman. next comes a handsome man, with roman nose and whiskers dark--wolfe murray i suppose; he has begun but lately, still he plays a fairish game, and therefore merits praise; ask him when at his _worst_, and he will say, "'tis bad--but, lord! how i play'd _yesterday_!" another man with whiskers--stout and strong- a golfer too who swipes his balls along, and well he putts, but i should simply say, his _own opinion's_ better than his play; dundas can sing a song, or glee, or catch, i think far better than he makes a match. but who is he whose hairy lips betray hussar or lancer? muse, oh kindly say! 'tis captain feilden. lord, how hard he hits! 'tis strange he does not knock the ball to bits! sometimes he hits it fair, and makes a stroke whose distance saddell's envy might provoke; but take his _common_ play; the worst that ever play'd golf might give him _one_, and beat him clever. bad tho' he be, the captain has done more than ever man who play'd at golf before: _one_ thund'ring ball he drove--'twas in despair- wide of the hole, indeed, but kill'd a _hare_! ah! captain campbell, old schehallion, see! most have play'd longer, few so well as he;- a sterling highlander, and that's no trifle,- so thinks the _gael_--a workman with a rifle; keeps open house--a very proper thing- and, tho' rheumatic, _fiddles_ like a king! sir thomas of moncrieffe--i cannot doubt but he will be a golfer out-and-out; tho' now, perhaps, he's off, and careless too- his misses numerous, his hits are few; but he is zealous; and the time will be when few will better play the game than he. balbirnie and makgill will both be good- strong, active, lathy fellows; so they should. but for john grant, a clever fellow too, i really fear that golf will never do. 'tis strange, indeed; for he can paint, and ride, and hunt the hounds, and many a thing beside; amuse his friends with anecdote and fun; but when he takes his club in hand--he's _done_! stay! i retract!--since writing the above, i've seen him play a better game, by jove; so much beyond what one could have believ'd, that i confess myself for once deceived; and if he can go on the season through, there's still a _chance_ that he may really _do_. i've kept a man, in _petto_, for the last- not an old golfer, but by few surpassed- great captain fairlie! when he drives a ball- one of his _best_--for he don't hit them all, it then requires no common stretch of sight to watch its progress, and to see it light. one moment: i've another to define- a famous sportsman, and a judge of wine- whom faithful mem'ry offers to my view; he made the game a study, it is true; still, many play as well but, for _position_ john buckle fairly beggars competition! and now farewell! i am the worse for wear- grey is my jacket, growing grey my hair! and though my play is pretty much the same, mine is, at best, a despicable game. but still i like it--still delight to sing clubs, players, caddies, balls, and everything. but all that's bright must fade, and we who play, like those before us, soon must pass away; yet it requires no prophet's skill to trace the royal game thro' each succeeding race: while on the tide of generations flows, it still shall bloom, a never-fading rose; and still st. andrews links, with flags unfurl'd, shall peerless reign, and challenge all the world! [decoration] [decoration] the nine holes of the links of st. andrews. in a series of sonnets. i. the first or bridge hole. sacred to hope and promise is the spot- to philp's and to the union parlour near, to every golfer, every caddie dear- where we strike off--oh, ne'er to be forgot, although in lands most distant we sojourn. but not without its perils is the place; mark the opposing caddie's sly grimace, whispering: "he's on the road!" "he's in the burn!" so is it often in the grander game of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm, breathing of honour, joy, and love and fame, conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm, we start, and cry: "salute us, muse of fire!" and the first footstep lands us in the mire. r. c. ii. the second or cartgate hole. fearful to tyro is thy primal stroke, o cartgate! for behold the bunker opes right to the _teeing_-place its yawning chops, hope to engulf ere it is well awoke. that passed, a scylla in the form of rushes nods to charybdis which in ruts appears: he will be safe who in the middle steers; one step aside, the ball destruction brushes. golf symbols thus again our painful life, dangers in front, and pitfalls on each hand: but see, one glorious cleek-stroke from the sand sends tyro home, and saves all further strife! he's in at six--old sandy views the lad with new respect, remarking: "that's no bad!" r. c. iii. the third hole. no rest in golf--still perils in the path: here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes gently into the _principalian nose_, or else _tam's coo_, which equally is death. perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air, and take it to _the whins_--"look out, look out! tom morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout!" but tom, though _links-eyed_, finds not anywhere. such thy mishaps, o merit: feeble balls meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green; 'tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls, can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen. it only shows the ancient proverb's force, that you may further go and fare the worse. r. c. iv. the fourth or ginger-beer hole. though thou hast lost this last unlucky hole, i say again, betake thee not to swearing, or any form of speech profanely daring, though some allege it tendeth to console. better do thou thy swelling griefs control, sagacious that at hand a joy awaits thee (since out of doubt a glass of beer elates thee), without that frightful peril to thy soul. a glass of beer! go dip thine angry beak in it, and straight its rage will melt to soft placidity, that solace finding thou art wise to seek in it; ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it, that in thy inwards it will breed acidity- one glass of stewart's brandy will correct it. p. a. v. the hell hole. what daring genius first yclept thee hell? what high, poetic, awe-struck grand old golfer, much more of a mythologist than scoffer! whoe'er he was, the name befits thee well. "all hope abandon, ye who enter here," is written awful o'er thy gloomy jaws, a threat to all save allan might give pause: and frequent from within come tones of fear- dread sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain, and--for mere mortal patience is but scanty- shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain, dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses, with which i need not decorate my verses, because, in fact, you'll find them all in dante. p. a. vi. the heather hole. ah me! prodigious woes do still environ- to quote verbatim from some grave old poet- the man who needs must meddle with his _iron_; and here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it. for now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins, tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it, and so assiduous to make due increase of it; or wandering homeless through a world of whins! and when, these perils past, thou seemest _dead_. and hop'st a half--o woe, the ball goes crooked, making thy foe just one more hole ahead, surely a consummation all too sad, without that sneering devilish "never lookit," the parting comment of the opposing cad. p. a. vii. the high or eden hole. the shelly pit is cleared at one fell blow, a stroke to be remembered in your dreams! but here the eden on your vision gleams, lovely, but treach'rous in its solemn flow. the hole is perched aloft, too near the tide, the green is small, and broken is the ground which doth that little charmed space surround! go not too far, and go not to a side; take the short spoon to do your second stroke; sandy entreats you will the wind take heed on, for, oh, it would a very saint provoke, if you should let your ball plump in the eden. you do your best, but who can fate control? so here against you is another hole. r. c. jr. viii. the short hole. brief but not easy is the next adventure; legend avers it has been done in _one_, though such long _steals_ are now but rarely done- in _three_ 'twere well that you the hole should enter. strangely original is this bit of ground, for, while at hand the smooth and smiling green, one bunker wide and bushy yawns between, where tyro's gutta is too often found. nervous your rival strikes and heels his ball- from that whin-bush at six he'll scarce extract it: yours, by no blunder this time counteracted, is with the grass-club lofted over all. there goes a hole in your side--how you hug it! much as th' australian digger does a nugget. r. c. jr. ix. the end hole. the end, but not the end--the distance-post that halves the game--a serious point to thee, for if one more thou losest, 'twill be _three_: yet even in that case, think not all is lost. men four behind have been, on the return, so favoured by olympus, or by care, that all their terrors vanished into air, and caddies cried them _dormy_ at the burn! i could quote proverbs, did i speak at random: full many a broken ship comes into port, full many a cause is gained at last resort, but golf impresses most, _nil desperandum_. turn, then, my son, with two against, nor dread to gain the winning-post with one ahead. r. c. jr. [decoration] [decoration] the following scrap relative to golf occurs in a very rare work entitled _westminster drollery_, 12mo, 1671, p. 28. a song called- "and to each pretty lass we will give a green gown." thus all our life long we are frolick and gay, and instead of court revels we merrily play at trap, at rules, and at barly-break run, at goff and at foot-ball; and when we have done these innocent sports, we'll laugh and lie down, and to each pretty lass we will give a green gown. _n.b._--the above was copied from a book containing many curious scraps relating to golfing, archery, and curling, belonging to james maidment, esq., advocate. [decoration] the golfer's garland.[10] of rural diversions, too long has the chase all the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place; but truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim, that golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. at golf we contend without rancour or spleen, and bloodless the laurels we reap on the green; from vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise, and to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. o'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad, in parties well matched how they gracefully spread, whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal, and with putt well directed plump into the hole. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. from exercise keen, from strength active and bold, we traverse the green, and forget to grow old; blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care, are knock'd down by our balls as they whiz through the air. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. the strong-sinew'd son of alcmena would drub, and demolish a monster when armed with a club; but what were the monsters which hercules slew, to those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue? with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame, are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game: a sport so distinguished the fair must approve; so to golf give the day and the evening to love. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. our first standing toast we to golfing assign, no other amusement so truly divine; it has charms for the aged, as well as the young, then as first of field sports let its praises be sung. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. and to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill, a bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill; our charming instructresses--blessings attend them, and cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them! with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. the next we shall drink to our friends far and near; to the mem'ry of those who no longer appear, who have play'd their last round, and passed over that bourne from which the best golfer can never return. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. then fill up your glass, and let each social soul drink to the putter, the balls, and the hole; and may every true golfer invariably find his opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind. with a fal-the-ral-a, etc. [footnote 10: from mathieson's poem "the goff" 1743, with the exception of the 5th verse, which was copied by a member of the burgess club from a version of the song found on an old bookstall.] [decoration] the links o' innerleven. sung at the autumn meeting of the innerleven golfing club, 1841. tune--_dainty davie._ wha wad be free from doctor's bills- from trash o' powders and o' pills- will find a cure for a' his ills on the links o' innerleven. for there whar lassies bleach their claes, and bairnies toddle doun the braes, the merry golfer daily plays on the links o' innerleven. sae hie ye to the golfer's ha', and there, arranged alang the wa', o' presses ye will see a raw, at the club o' innerleven. there from some friendly box ye'll draw a club and second-handed ba',- a gourlay pill's the best o' a' for health at innerleven. and though the golfer's sport be keen, yet oft upon the putting-green he'll rest to gaze upon the scene that lies round innerleven- to trace the steamboat's crumpled way through largo's loch-like silvery bay, or to hear the hushing breakers play on the beach o' innerleven. when in the evening of my days, i wish i could a cottage raise beneath the snugly-sheltering braes o'erhanging innerleven. there in the plot before the door i'd raise my vegetable store, or tug for supper at the oar in the bay near innerleven. but daily on thy matchless ground i and my caddie would be found, describing still another round on thy links, sweet innerleven! would i care then for fortune's rubs, and a' their kirk and state hubbubs, while i could stump and swing my clubs on the links o' innerleven? and when the e'ening grey sat doun, i'd cast aside my tacket[11] shoon, and crack o' putter, cleek, and spoon,[12] wi' a friend at innerleven. syne o'er a glass o' cameron brig,[13] a nightcap we would doucely swig, laughing at conservative and whig, by the links o' innerleven. [footnote 11: golfers wear tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm when they strike.] [footnote 12: names for different kinds of clubs.] [footnote 13: the name of a noted distillery.] [decoration] in praise of _gutta percha_. (1856.) tune--_dainty davie._ of a' the changes that of late have shaken europe's social state- let wondering politicians prate, and 'bout them mak a wark a'- a subject mair congenial here, and dearer to a golfer's ear i sing--the change brought round last year by balls of _gutta percha_! tho' gouf be of our games most rare, yet truth to speak, the tear and wear o' balls was felt to be severe, and source o' great vexation; when gourlay's balls cost half-a-croun, and allan's no a farthing doun, the feck o's wad been harried soon, in this era of taxation. but times are changed--we dinna care though we may ne'er drive leather mair, be't stuffed wi' feather or wi' hair- for noo we're independent. at last a substance we hae got, frae which for scarce mair than a groat, a ba' comes that can row and stot- a ba' the most transcendent. hail, _gutta percha_, precious gum! o'er scotland's links lang may ye bum; some purse-proud billies haw and hum, and say ye're douf at fleein'; but let them try ye fairly out, wi' ony balls for days about, your merits they will loudly tout, and own they hae been leein'. and noo that a' your praise is spent, ye'll listen to a friend's comment, and kindlier tak on wi' paint, then ye wad be perfection. and sure some scientific loon, on golfing will bestow a boon, and gie ye a cosmetic soon, and brighten your complexion. [decoration] [decoration] "far and sure!" by the late sheriff logan. "far and sure! far and sure!" 'twas the cry of our fathers, 'twas a cry which their forefathers heard; 'tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers: when we're gone may it still be the word. "far and sure!" there is honour and hope in the sound; long over these links may it roll! it will--o it will! for each face around shows its magic is felt in each soul. let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar, it will shield us from folly's gay lure; then, tho' rough be the course, and the winning post _far_, we will carry the stakes--o be _sure_! let it guide us in golf, whether "burgess" or "star;" at the last round let none look demure: all golfers are brothers when _driving_ is _far_, when putting is canny and _sure_. "far and sure! far and sure!" fill the bumper and drain it, may our motto for ever endure; may time never maim it, nor dishonour stain it; then drink, brothers, drink, "far and sure!" [decoration] [decoration] song. tune--_scotland yet._ gae bring my guid auld clubs ance mair- come, laddie, bring them fast, for i maun hae anither game, e'er the autumn season's past; and trow ye as i play, my lads, my song shall ever be, "auld scotland's royal game o' gouf- our country's game for me." then here's a toast to goufin' yet, wi' a' the honours three. throw by that walloping surtout- on wi' my auld red jacket- haul aff thae gripless wellingtons for yon shoon wi' mony a tacket. hang up that snoring albert hat- yon foraging-cap for me; and now a golfer i walk forth, frae worldly care set free. then here's a toast, etc. now, laddie, pouch thae gourlay ba's, wi' joy they'll dance a reel- my play-club capers in my hand, as supple as an eel. and see! my partner's on the green, his ba' upon the tee- impatient, round he swings his club, making heads o' gowans flee. then here's a toast, etc. how sweet's the air upon the links that stretch along the sea! where, bending down white clover heads. in silence sips the bee. our steps how light! as on we speed o'er buoyant knowes o' balm, to where our balls in distance lie, like mushrooms on the lawn. then here's a toast, etc. and 'tween each stroke how socially abreast in crack we go, and shape o' club and mak o' ba' discuss wi' sportsman's glow. then hale-lung'd laughter peals aloud, and banter stingless flies, and tears o' mirth astonished run from sad dyspeptics' eyes. then here's a toast, etc. and when some rounds demand a rest, and appetite is keen, how sweet to taste the golfer's fare, reclining on the green! ne'er aldermen at turtle feast washed over with champagne, rejoiced like us, as baps we tear, and jugs o' "berwick's" drain. then here's a toast, etc. our caddies at our feet reclined, their sheaves o' clubs at rest- happy to hear the golfers' lore, chew on wi' silent zest. but up, like giants flushed with wine, again our clubs we wield- we feel new vigour in our arms, and ardent take the field. then here's a toast, etc. thus on we've toiled at dubbieside, but 'neath the lomond hill the sun has sunk, and the whirling din has ceased at kirkland mill. the sand-eel crowd is thickening black by the mouth o' leven stream, and the wearied _tar_ in largo bay lets off the roaring _steam_. so here's a toast, etc. so here's a health to our ain club, st. andrews next, our mither- a bumper to dunbarnie next, our neibour and our brither: auld dubbieside salutes ye a'; and if you wish to meet her, you'll find her ready at a ca', wi' her gallant captain peter. so here's a toast, etc. [decoration] [decoration] a golfing song. by mr. james ballantine. tune--_let haughty gaul._ come, leave your dingy desks and shops. ye sons of ancient reekie, and by green fields and sunny slopes, for healthy pastime seek ye. don't bounce about your "_dogs of war_," nor at our _shinties_ scoff, boys, but learn our motto, "_sure and far_," then come and play at golf, boys. _chorus_--three rounds of bruntsfield links will chase all murky vapours off, boys; and nothing can your sinews brace like the glorious game of golf, boys. above our head the clear blue sky, we bound the gowan'd sward o'er, and as our balls fly far and high, our bosoms glow with ardour; while dear edina, scotland's queen, her misty cap lifts off, boys, and smiles serenely on the green, graced by the game of golf, boys. _chorus_--three rounds, etc. we putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat, our strokes and jokes aye clinking, we banish all extraneous fat, and all extraneous thinking. we'll cure you of a summer cold, or of a winter cough, boys, we'll make you young, even when you're old, so come and play at golf, boys. _chorus_--three rounds, etc. when in the dumps with mulligrubs, or doyte with barley-bree, boys, go get you of the green three rubs, 'twill set you on the "_tee_," boys. there's no disease we cannot cure, no care we cannot doff, boys; our aim is ever "_far and sure_"- so come and play at golf, boys. _chorus_--three rounds, etc. o blessings on pure cauler air, and every healthy sport, boys, that makes sweet nature seem more fair, and makes long life seem short, boys; that warms your hearts with genial glow, and makes you halve your loaf, boys, with every needy child of woe- so bless the game of golf, boys. _chorus_--three rounds, etc. then don your brilliant scarlet coats, with your bright blue velvet caps, boys. and some shall play the _rocket shots_ and some the _putting paps_, boys. no son of scotland, man or boy, shall e'er become an oaf, boys, who gathers friendship, health, and joy, in playing at the golf, boys. _chorus_--three rounds, etc. [decoration] [decoration] golfing song. tune--_clean pease strae._ when tom and me were laddies, oor pastimes were but sma'- a game at common shinty, or playin' at the ba'; but lang since then a game we ken, enticin' great and sma': a king i ween aroun' leith green has often gowff'd the ba'. wi' glorious gowff brave scotia's game, oor youth comes back ance mair, when, swift and free as birds on wing, oor balls fly through the air. the rays o' fortune's golden star most earthly ills can cure; gowff helps to keep the others "_far_," or makes their absence "_sure_." when ice is keen the curlin' steen wi' birr gaes straught awa', and cricket on the meadow green, seems manly, brisk, and braw; but, laddie, tak a club in han', then tee and drive the ba'; ye'll find the royal game o' gowff is better than them a'. oor volunteers wi' guns and spears keep foreign foes in awe; noo britain's youth shield north an' south, laigh cot and stately ha'; sae ne'er a foe shall scotland fear while scotland's game we play, though we should leave the _puttin'_ green to buckle for the fray. [decoration] _printed by_ r. clark, _edinburgh_. * * * * * transcriber's notes: italics are indicated by _underscores_. small caps are indicated by all caps. [decoration]s are predominantly intertwined animals in the celtic style, used to mark the beginning or end of a canto or poem. dialect and archaic spelling abound in the original and are retained here. variations in hyphenation, punctuation, and use of accents appear as in the original, except as noted below. page vii: added comma (drysdale,) page 10: _this_ to this (_pygmalion_ this stout arm) page 10: spelling retained from original (goliah's spear) page 37: hyphen removed before "and" (_electro-talbot_ and) page 69: "bouyant" to "buoyant" (o'er buoyant knowes) +======================================================================+ | | | transcriber's notes | | | | illustrations have been moved to directly below the article | | they refer to and some pages of this work have been moved from the | | original sequence to enable the contents to continue without | | interruption. the page numbering remains unaltered. | | | | text printed in italics in the original is represented here between | | underscores, as in _text_. | | | | text printed in small capitals in the original work have been | | changed to all capitals. | | | +======================================================================+ [illustration: golf stories] * * * * * punch library of humour edited by j.a. hammerton designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "punch," from its beginning in 1841 to the present day. mr. punch's golf stories [illustration: golfer] * * * * * [illustration: the golfer's dream] * * * * * mr. punch's golf stories told by his merry men and illustrated by phil may, george du maurier, l. raven-hill, f.h. townsend, harry furniss, e.t. reed, bernard partridge, f. pegram, a.s. boyd, a.t. smith, a. wallis mills, david wilson, c.e. brock, gunning king, c. harrison, g.l. stampa, tom browne and others [illustration: golfer] _with 136 illustrations_ published by arrangement with the proprietors of "punch" * * * * * the educational book co. ltd. * * * * * the punch library of humour _twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_ life in london country life in the highlands scottish humour irish humour cockney humour in society after dinner stories in bohemia at the play mr. punch at home on the continong railway book at the seaside mr. punch afloat in the hunting field mr. punch on tour with rod and gun mr. punch awheel book of sports golf stories in wig and gown on the warpath book of love with the children [illustration] * * * * * [illustration] the humour of golf there are few pastimes that supply their followers with more innocent merriment than is afforded by "the royal and ancient." certainly no outdoor game can make the neophyte feel more utterly worm-like in his ability, for it is the peculiar quality of golf to appear to be absurdly easy to the onlooker and preposterously difficult to the unpractised player. it may be taken that there is no better way of reducing a man's self-conceit than to place him on the teeing ground for the first time, present him with a driver and invite him to strike a little rubber-cored ball to a distance of 200 yards in a given direction. consequently we have here most excellent material for fun; and you may depend upon it mr. punch has not had his eyes long shut to the humours of the links. despite the royalty and antiquity of golf, it has been thoroughly democratised in modern times, and its popularity, in the wide proportions to which it has attained, is chiefly a matter of recent years. despite the shortness of the period that is represented by what we may call the vogue of golf--a vogue that is by no means in danger of passing--mr. punch has evidently found the game so rich in fun that his merry knights of the pen and the pencil have contributed to his pages as many pictures as to illustrate very lavishly this volume and a good deal more literary matter than could be used. in the days when croquet was as popular as golf is to-day--the days of leech and keene--doubtless a volume could have been drawn from punch devoted entirely to that sport. but it is worthy of note that an examination of these old croquet pictures and jokes for a comparison of them with the contents of the present volume leaves one with the conviction that the humour of the present day is infinitely superior to the humour of the days of leech and keene. admirable draughtsmen though these artists were, both of them, but leech particularly, were often content to let their masterly drawings appear with the feeblest jokes attached. the standard of humour has been immensely raised of late years, and mr. punch's golf stories is no bad evidence of that. [illustration] * * * * * mr. punch's golf stories "golfers as i 'ave known" (_by a caddie_) [illustration: mr. punch] golfers i divides in me own mind into three clarses; them as 'its the ball, them as skratches it, and them as neither 'its nor skratches the blooming ball but turns rarnd and wants to 'it or skratch anyone as is small and 'andy. the first clars is very rare, the second is dreadfull plentifull, and the third, thank 'evins, can jeneraly be kep clear of by them as knows the ropes. sich as meself. any himprovement in golfers, as a clars, is doo to the 'uge morril hinfluence of us caddies, 'oom some pretends to look down on. much can be done, even wif the most 'ardened (and some of them golfers is dreadfull 'ardened), by firmness and hexample. "show 'em from the fust as you'll stand no nonsense," is allus my words when the yunger caddies gathers ararn me fer hadvice. me being older than me years, as the sying is, and much looked up to. if, as i often 'ears say, there's less of langwidge and more of golf upon these 'ere links, it's doo in no small part to 'im 'oo pens these lines. 'oo's 'onnered nime is 'enery wilks. i seldom demmeans meself to speak to the kulprits, for severil reasons which i shall not go into, but i 'ave other meffods. there's sniffing, fer instance. much can be done by jerdishous sniffing, which can be chinged to soot all cases. or there's a short, 'ard, dryish larf, but that ain't allus sife. as a blooming rule, i rellies upon me sniff, me smile and me eye. there's few of them as can meet the last when i chuses to turn it on. not as i objecs very strongly to a little 'onnest cussing; it's hinjustice and false haccusashun as i will not stand. sich are me meffods to them as needs 'em, but don't think, becos at times i'm cold like and 'ard and stern, that i cannot be jentle wif them as call fer jentleness. no blooming errer! 'enery wilks is the lad to 'oom old gents in need of keerfull nussing should be hintrusted by their wives and keepers. i'm not allooding now to old tigers 'oos stiple food is red pepper in 'uge quantitties, 'oo turn upon yer like blooming manniacks if yer blows yer nose quite inercent, and 'oo report yer before yer know if you're standing on yer 'ead or yer 'eels. no, i'm not allooding to old gentlemen like them! 'enery wilks 'as very little use fer sich unguvverned creetures. in 'is erpinyun they should not be let abrord without a chine. but i am allooding to them 'oos pashuns age 'as tamed, insted of blooming well hincreesed, to jentle 'armless old fellers, 'oo will almost eat out of yer 'and, as the sying is, an sich a one is mister perceval giggington. over sixty 'e is, and allus kind and civvil and respeckfull, but 'e 'as no more haptitood fer golf than a jeerarf. sometimes i thinks, musing kindly like, as 'ow the old cove 'ud be yunger if 'e took the gime less seerius. but 'enery wilks 'as little to reproche 'imself about; 'e, at least, 'as done what 'e could to 'elp old giggs. 'is wife came down to the club 'ouse wif 'im larst toosday, jest as nice an old lidy as 'e's a gent. she drew me on one side and spoke konfidenshul like, while the old man was fussing and bleeting about 'is clubs. it seems as she'd 'eard of me, and 'eard nuthing but good. which is only right. "'enery," she ses, "me 'usband 'as set 'is 'art, as you well know, on going rarnd the course in under an 'undred and thirty strokes. it's beginning to tell on 'is 'ealth, the strine and diserpointment, and i wants it stopped. 'e's going rarnd allone wif you now, as the course is clear, and i wants," she ses, "_i wants you to see as 'e does it!_" she ses. well, nobody, excep one ignerrant, gellous, preggerdiced skoolmaster, 'as ever dared to call 'enery wilks a fool. i took 'er meaning in a moment, and i touched me cap, quiet and konfident like. "mike yer mind easy, mum," i ses in my korteous way. "it shall be done, this very day, if 'enery wilks is spared," i ses. she nods and smiles and slips a bob into me 'and, and then old giggs finishes wurrying abart 'is clubs and we makes a start. the old 'un 'ands 'is card to me to keep, and i speaks to 'im, kind like but firm. "i'll keep the score, sir," i ses. "don't yer wurry abart yer strokes at all. what you've got to do is to koncentrite yer mind upon yer gime. for we're a-goin to do it to-day," i ses. 'e 'ears me wif a little sorrerful smile, and i lived up to them remarks. 'e'd arsk me at the end of an 'ole, that 'e'd fairly bitten along, 'ow many 'e'd taken, but i would never tell 'im. i jest kep 'im upon 'is legs wif kindly, jerdishous praise. even after that 'ole where 'e'd strook me wif 'is ball from the drive, although standing well be'ind 'im, and been in each bunker twice or more, i give 'im a word of 'ope. it was niblick play and 'ope all rarnd the blooming course. and at the end, when i added up 'is card, strike me pink if 'is score weren't an 'undred and twenty-nine! and i sent 'im 'ome to 'is wife, as pleased as any child. there's some, i dessay, as would 'ave made 'is score an 'undred and nineteen or even less, but 'enery wilks 'as allus known the virtew of modderation. * * * * * [illustration: _caddie (visiting)._ "what kind o' player is he?" _caddie (engaged)._ "_'im?_ he just plays as if it was for pleesure!"] * * * * * [illustration: _mcfoozler (after a steady sequence of misses)._ "ah--er--is there a _limit_ for these links?"] * * * * * [illustration: _policeman._ "where did you get that bag?" _bill sykes_ (_indignantly_). "there you are! nice thing, in a free country, that a man can't have a quiet hundred up without the police interfering!"] * * * * * [illustration: jones has recently taken up golf. he is already proficient in one department--the art of addressing the ball.] * * * * * ii. there's some as takes their golf too seerius fer their strength, like that pore old mister giggington, of 'oom i've told yer, and there's some as don't take it seerius enuff. under this 'eading i places mister 'erminius brellett. 'e's what they call a litterry cove in privit life, and, wifout wishing to be undoolly 'arsh, i must say as i beleeves it of 'im. strike me pink, if i didn't know as 'e was litterry, i should go away sometimes after 'earing 'im talk, and swear a hinfer-mashun of loonacy agin 'im! but chawley martin, one of our caddies, 'oo once spoke quite hintermate and friendly like wif a reporter feller, in connecshun wif a biking accerdent caused by chawley's unforchernate pashun fer trick riding, ses as 'ow all these pore riters is alike. so you and me should only pitty them. as fer 'is golf, exsentrick ain't the word fer it. 'e stands wif both 'is feet quite klose together, springs 'igh into the air wif a tremenjus swing, and strikes the ball afore 'e comes to earth agin. the erstonishing thing is that 'e does strike it abart once in three, and when 'e does it goes like old gewillikins. it just shows as there ain't no rules abart some peeple's golf. but the sad part is as 'e's quite proud of 'is stile, insted of laberring to kerrect it under my tewishun. [illustration: "keep your head still" is the first rule in golf, and binks means to do so.] "i'm a mishonnery, a pyoneer of golf, 'enery," 'e ses to me quite recent. "'ow i plays it to-day, the rest of the silly 'ide-bound creetures will play it to-morrow," 'e ses. "let's 'ope not, sir," i ses, quite respeckfull and reely meaning the words; fer, if yer think of it, a course full of mister 'erminius brelletts would be an 'iddeous sight. 'e glared at me fer a moment quite dangerous, and then 'e began to larf. what wif 'is livver, at which 'e's allus cussing, and 'is kurious 'arf-irriterble, 'arf-manniackal temper, i can tell yer 'e takes some 'andling. but 'enery wilks knows 'is 'erminius brellett by this time. "your one chawnce of fime, you retched child," 'e ses, and i found 'is stile of speaking jest a little gorling, "will rest on the fact that you karried the clubs of 'erminius brellett, pyoneer of golf and unerpreshiated riter of himmortal books," 'e ses. well, yer can't argue wif a man like that. yer can only yumour 'im by respeckful silence, and be reddy all the time to dodge if 'is manyer turns 'ommersidal all of a sudden. 'e took on mister washer the other day, a member 'oom both 'e and i 'ave little liking fer. at least, i can arnser fer meself. fer 'e's one of your pompus, strutting sort of fellers, 'oo thinks 'e's good at golf, but ain't. i 'eard 'im chalenge mister brellett to play a rarnd fer 'arf-a-crown, and a less skilful stoodent of yuman nachure than 'enery wilks could 'ave told as they didn't love each other. i 'ad a privit tuppence on the match meself, wif old washer's caddy, although not very 'opeful. 'owever, when 'enery wilks' money is down, as the sying is, 'e's 'ard to beat. but things went badly wif us from the start. i could see as 'ow mister brellett was wurried abart somethink, and in addition to that 'e was acktaly trying to play a keerful, sientifick gime. oh, lumme, it was orful, i can tell yer! we was skarcely touching a ball, and old washer, as pleesed as a turkey-kock but far less hornimental, was playing right above 'isself. fer a man like meself, 'oo'd staked above 'is means, it was 'art-breaking. we lost five 'oles bang orf, and then mister brellett spoke 'arf to me and 'arf to 'isself as we walked to the sixth tee. "it's all that cussed nime!" 'e ses. "if i could only think of that, i'd be orlright. a female nime fer a kerrecter in my new book. 'enery, what's the nime of your yung woman?" 'e ses, joking like. well, love ain't much in my line, me ambishuns not letting me 'amper meself wif wimmen, but still a feller 'as to keep 'is 'and in. i won't say as i 'aven't been more run after than most, but some'ow that ain't one of my temptashuns. 'owever, more to pleese 'er than meself, i lets one of them, jest a school kiddy, walk out wif me at times. she means well, i do believe, but i've allus reckoned as 'ow 'er nime's agin 'er. "hervangeline's 'er nime, mister brellett," i ses, deprerkating like. "but she can't 'elp it," i ses. "by jewpiter!" 'e 'owls. "hervangeline's the very nime i've been 'unting for. and now i'll win this match!" 'e ses. "you'll win it orlright, sir," i ses, ernest like. "but, for 'evin's sake, stop playing sientifick! play the old gime as you're pyoneer on, sir," i ses. "i beleeve as 'ow you're right, 'enery," 'e ses, thoughtful like; and then we come to the tee and watched old washer drive 'is yusual straight, shortish ball. then mister brellett grips 'is club, takes 'is yusual wicked, himmoril stance, springs 'igh into the air wif an 'arf-styfled yell, and, by gewillikins, drives sich a ball as the pro. 'isself might 'ave been proud on! it knocked the kowardly 'art out of old washer, did that tremenjus drive; and 'e's a man as only plays 'is best when 'e's winning easy. they 'ad a narsty lead, but we stuck to 'em like wax, 'itting a turriffick ball once out of three, or even oftener, and we won at last quite 'andsomely by three and two. i remember as i bought bull's-eyes fer hervangeline wif that 'ere tuppence, becos in a meshure, as you may say, she'd 'ad an 'and in the winning of it. 'owever, wif a jenerosity unyusual in wimmen, she hinsisted on sharing 'em wif 'enery wilks, 'oos skilful leedership 'ad reely won the match. * * * * * [illustration: _short-sighted old lady_ (_to little binks, who is going to the golf-links_). "how much will you charge me to mend this umbrella?"] * * * * * [illustration: trials of a novice.--"_something_ must be wrong. that's the third time running i've used this club!"] * * * * * [illustration: ! ! ! ! _lily_ (_from devonshire, on a visit to her scotch cousin margy in st. andrews, n.b._). "what a strange thing fashion is, margy! fancy a game like golf reaching up as far north as this!"] * * * * * the handy caddy _why jones sold his big st. bernard and substituted a tame caribou, which a friend brought him home from canada._ [illustration: it was so handy when going out golfing. it made such a capital caddy. and jones could indulge in expletives without being a bad example if the weather suddenly turned off cold he had only to help himself to a top coat; & if it rained to an umbrella and sou'wester. also it gave quite a park-like appearance to jones' back garden.] * * * * * iii. taking it all in all, 'enery wilks 'as very little use for wimmen. excep, of course, as playthings and rellaxashuns after toil. as sich i regards hervangerline, of 'oom i've told yer. that is, when 'er mood is dosile. at sich times, when she is not trying to be yumourous or utherwise acting the goat, the child can listen, wif doo respekt, whilst 'im she loves so well unbends 'isself. it is 'er privviledge to see 'enery wilks remove 'is stern cold marsk. yuss, i tollerates hervangerline, but i 'ave little use fer uther wimmen. speaking quite frenkly, i can find little to kommend in the hexeckertive of these 'ere links, but there is one of their resent hinnervashuns in pertickler that fills me wif cold rage. this is the rule permitting lidy members to play on the course, excep' on satterday and sunday. lord knows as 'ow the men is bad enuff to deal wif. 'eadstrong, vain, irriterble and pig-'eaded they mostly is, but oh! strike me pink and purple, if they ain't fair angels, wings and all, kompared to those dredfull, onreasoningable wimmen! onreasoningable is the one word as i can use to deskribe them. and that don't do 'em justise. wif a man, to some eggstent, you do know where you are. you do know from eggsperiense 'ow fur you may go wif 'im, before 'e katches you a clump on the side of the 'ead. but wif wimmen no eggsperiense will 'elp yer. becos there ain't no rules abart them. lord knows as 'ow i started out wif the idear of pleesing 'em. i ses to hervangerline, the evening i 'eard abart it, "we're going to 'ave lidies on the course, kid," i ses. "your 'enery will 'ave to smarten 'isself up a bit fer their dear sakes," i ses. womanlike she begun to snif. "you take care, 'enery wilks," she ses worningly. "you take care of them desining 'ussies. there's many of 'em as will be after you, i knows it well. fer some wimmen," she ses, sort of sarkastic, "some wimmen will go after anythink in trarsers," she ses. well, i wears nickers meself as a general rule, but i knowed what she meant. and, though of course i 'id it from her, pertending to be kontemptewous, i found 'er words quite pleesing. i thort to meself, komplasent like, as 'ow some of these lidy members might show a prefferrence fer that one of our caddies as is pollished and korteous and older than 'is years. but, apparriently, both i and hervangerline was rong--iddeously rong. fer it's no good konseeling from meself, at anyrate, as 'ow i 'aven't been a komplete success so fur wif our lidy members. why sich should be the case i cannot tell, but there it is. there's a preggerdise agin me as is kep' alive by the ontiring, revengfull tungs of miss trigsie kornish and missis jossephus 'askins. and this is 'ow that preggerdise begun. they come along one morning and say as 'ow they're going to play a rarnd, and they'll share a caddy between them. and to my ondying greef they picked on 'enery wilks. not as there was anythink surprising in their doing that. in their place i'd 'ave picked on 'im meself. and i'm bound in justise to say as there was nothing in _their_ appeerance to set me agin them. missis 'askins is very yung and plessant-looking, although she _is_ married, and miss kornish is darkish and carries 'erself wif a sort of swing. no, their looks was rite enuff; it was only their dredfull 'abit of cheating as made the trubble. they started as frendly as love-birds, but by the second 'ole the fur was beginning to stand up stiff upon their backs. it was their orful onguvernabul keenness as did it. on the third green missis 'askins asks miss kornish 'ow many she's played, and she tells 'er, nine, quite brisk like. now both misses 'askins and meself _knew_ quite well as 'ow miss kornish 'ad played ten; indeed, i could see as ow misses 'askins thort it were eleven. they rangles a bit abart it, growing gradewally more 'eated, and then misses 'askins erpeals to me, and i gives it in 'er favour, trying very 'ard to rap it up plessant like. miss kornish glares at me like a cat 'oom you've mannidged to 'it wif a brick whilst it's taking a stroll quite inercent and leshurely; but she doesn't say much and we goes on. two 'oles later it all 'appens agin, only this time it's missis 'askins 'oo 'as kondescended to redooce 'er score. they rages rarnd upon the green, and then miss kornish erpeals to me, and truth kompels me to erward the 'ole to 'er. this time it's missis 'askins 'oo glarnces at me as though she'd like to cut orf my yung life. but 'enery wilks can stand a lot of that. so we goes on agin, wif the air growing 'eavier like, and three 'oles later they both erpeals to me, fer both is cheating. it was an 'ard posishun fer a yung feller as is only wishfull to pleese. 'owever, i desided to give pore old truth another chawnce; although misdoubtfull. so i ses to them quite respeckfull like, as 'ow both their scores is inakkerite and should i keep them both in fuchure? oh lumme, i'd like to forgit what 'appened then! all in a moment those two young wimmen grew frendly agin to each other and konsentrited all their rage and spite on 'enery wilks. they fell upon me wif their tungs, and i felt as though i was being 'it wif barbed wire and nettels. they called me "impudent little boy," me the chosin 'ero of the yunger caddies, and i could only garsp and trimble. their crewel thretts brought tears even to my proud eyes, and i almost beleeve as 'ow i grovvellel before them. it 'urts me to remember it. when at last they 'ad tired themselves out, they finished their rarnd as though they 'ad never 'ad an unkind thort towards each other, and i slunk be'ind them, dased and silent, like a puppy 'oos been kicked. and that's--that's what comes of edmitting wimmen to a golf corse! * * * * * [illustration: "the bogey competition"] * * * * * [illustration: _little albert_ (_always thirsting for knowledge_). "uncle, do they pronounce that rico_chay_ing or rico_chet_ting?"] * * * * * [illustration: 1. "carry your clubs, guvnor, for sixpence!" "no, thanks, i don't require a caddie." 2. "carry yer clubs for fourpence, boss!" "go away, boy, i'll carry 'em myself." 3. "carry 'em for thrippence, mister" (no response). 4. a smash! 5. (_after the smash_). "i say, captain, i'll carry _your_ clubs for nothin', _jist for the fun of the thing_!"] * * * * * [illustration: mr. punch's patent caddie car] * * * * * [illustration: golf is now being played on the norman coast] * * * * * [illustration: golf is being played very much in egypt] * * * * * [illustration: a new disease--the golf twist] * * * * * [illustration: the above caddie (in the course of his third round with colonel foozle, who always takes out a collection of two dozen clubs, if only for the look of the thing) begins to doubt if he, the caddie, really belongs to the idle classes, as stated in the papers.] * * * * * [illustration: "how's that, umpire?" _golf player._ "now then, what are you grinning at, boy? don't you know where the ball is?" _caddie._ "yus, sir, i know, sir. please, sir, that there dun cow 've swallered it!"] * * * * * [illustration: scene--_country police court_ _magistrate._ "my boy, do you fully realise the nature of an oath?" _boy._ "well, i oughter, considerin' the times i've caddied for yer!"] * * * * * [illustration: _miggs and griggs, who have got away for a week-end holiday, have strayed on to the golf links, and have been watching the colonel, who has been bunkered for the last ten minutes--and the language!!_ _miggs._ "what's he doing?" _griggs._ "i dunno. think he's trying to kill something."] iv. yumin nachure is a kurius thing. i dunno whether this thort 'as okkurred to other peeple, but i sees the truth of it more clearly every day. you may studdy a man fer weeks and think as 'ow you know 'im inside out, and then, when you try to make some use of 'is pecooliarities, they ain't working that day, or else some little hannoying trifle spiles your well lade skeems. sich was the sad case of mister hoctavius glenwistle and my friend chawley martin. mister glenwistle is an oldish jentleman now, but in 'is day 'e 'as been a famus eggsplorer. jeograffy never being my strong point, i dunno egsackly where 'e went eggsploring, or why 'e did it. chawley martin, 'oo's jenerally 'is caddie, is my hinformant, and some days 'e will 'ave it that mister glenwistle would once 'ave reached the pole if 'is boots 'adn't guv out, and at other times 'e hinsists that it was africer that 'e visited. i dunno, meself; per'aps the old jentleman 'as been to both them regins in 'is time. but any'ow all is agreed that once 'e lived for nearly three weeks upon an oldish poodle dawg--which is an orfull thort. sich an eggspeerience must leeve its mark upon any man, 'owever strong. it 'as left its mark upon mister hoctavius glenwistle. every blade of 'air 'as vannished from 'is skalp, and 'is face is a sort of dark brick colour wif light eyebrows. 'e still suffers from sunstroke, and chawley martin 'as to carry a large red umbereller round the links to pertect 'is 'ead. i dunno whether it's the sunstroke, or whether it's 'is ondying remorce for that pore faithfull poodle, but mister glenwistle suffers terrible from absentmindedness. 'e 'as been known to swing up 'is great, red umbereller upon the tee and try to drive wif that, and chawley martin allus 'as to watch 'im keerfull to see what 'e'll be up to next. 'e 'ates to be disturbed when in one of 'is mooning fits, and is apt to swear terrible in some forrin' langwidge, which chawley thinks is eskimo; but still 'e's a jentleman all over, is mister hoctavius glenwistle. 'is tips is 'andsome, and it don't give 'im no pleshure to repport an 'armless lad. one sunday lately 'e came down wif a frend for an 'ole day's golf. chawley martin, as yusual, was 'is caddie, and i ondertook the manidgement of the frend. all went well in the morning, excep' that mister glenwistle fell into a sort of dream upon the seventh green and 'ad to be rarsed by chawley. it may 'ave been eskimo that 'e spoke to the boy when 'e'd touched 'im jently on the arm, but it sounded wuss--much wuss. 'owever, we comes back at one to the club-'ouse, red umbereller and all, like _robbinson crewso_, and they goes into lunch. whilst they're still laying into the grub like winking, i and chawley martin, 'aving eaten our own frugil meal, sit down near the 'club-'ouse and begin to polish up their clubs. we fell a-talking about the great science of golf, getting quite 'eated in a little while, and at last chawley, to illerstrate 'is own mistakin theery, gets upon 'is 'ind legs. 'e takes mister glenwistle's best driver from 'is bag and shows me what 'e calls "a full swing, wif every ounce of weight and rist and mussel crammed into it." i was afeard 'ow it would be. the length of the club mastered 'im. 'e 'it the onoffending turf a crewel blow, and there was a narsty crack. 'e sits down beside me wif a garsp, and we looks at mister glenwistle's pet driver wif the 'ead 'arf off. "what's to be done, 'enery?" 'e ses, after a sort of sickly pawse. fer my part i'd been thinking 'ard, me brain being better than most. "there's three courses open to you, chawley, me lad," i ses quietly. "you can do a guy at once, and not come back--that's one; or you can tell mister g. as you've been fooling wif 'is clubs--that's another," i ses, and waited fer 'is risponse. "let's 'ear the third," he ses gloomily. "deceat is aborrent to my nachure," i ses. "but you're made diferent, chawley. you could make use of 'is absentmindedness and let 'im think as 'e broke it 'isself. 'old it out to 'im wif a sort of winning smile, when 'e comes, and say as 'ow you're afrade it will 'ave to be mended after all. it's a fair sportin' chawnce," i ses. "'enery, you're a fair marvel!" 'e ses, after pondering fer a minute. "i'll try it on," he ses. and so we left it. i didn't see the meeting between mister glenwistle and 'is well-meaning caddie, becos my klient sent me to get him a ball, but when i came back i seed as 'ow chawley was sniffing slightly, and 'is large outstanding ears was reddened. 'is manner was coldish like to me, but when the two 'ad drivin, i asked 'im what 'ad 'appened. "'e just boxed me ears," chawley ses, "and told me as 'ow 'e'd repport me if i lied to 'im agen," 'e ses. fer once i was reely taken aback. "i can't make it out, chawley," i ses. "where was 'is yusual absentmindedness? it just shows as 'ow you can't depend on nuthing in this world! did you do as i told you, winning smile and all?" i asks 'im. "yuss, i did," 'e ses, snappish like. "but it seems as 'ow 'is interfeering frend 'appened to look out of the club-'ouse when i was showing you that swing, and seed it all. anuther time you can keep your winning smiles and your fat-'eaded hadvice to yourself, 'enery wilks!" 'e ses. i didn't answer 'im, remembering 'ow 'is 'uge progecting ears was tingling, but i ses to meself, "so much, 'enery wilks, for yumin gratitood!" * * * * * [illustration: mr. mothdriver, the famous, yet absent-minded, golf-naturalist, invariably carries a butterfly-net in his golf-bag--for he agrees with mr. horace hutchinson that some of the best entomological specimens can be captured in the course of playing the royal and ancient game.] * * * * * [illustration: _brer rabbit._ "i suppose you haven't seen such a thing as a golf-ball about anywhere, have you?"] * * * * * [illustration: _first enthusiast._ "i say, will you play another round with me on thursday?" _second enthusiast._ "well, i'm booked to be married on that day--_but it can be postponed_!"] * * * * * [illustration: the golf stream.--flows along the eastern coast of scotland during the summer and autumn. (vide _report of british association--section v._).] * * * * * [illustration: real enjoyment.--_non-golfer_ (_middle-aged, rather stout, who would like to play, and has been recommended it as healthy and amusing_). "well, i cannot see where the excitement comes in in this game!" _caddie._ "eh, mon, there's more swearing used over golf than any other game! d'ye no ca' that excitement?"] * * * * * v. a little success at golf, as i've notised, jenerally makes a man wish for more. like the appertite of a young girl for chocerlates. i dunno if you remember that nice old mister giggington, of 'oom i told you. under my skillfull gidance, and with the ade of a little inercent 'anky-panky, 'e kontrived to wander rarnd these 'ere links in an 'undred and twenty-nine. well, ever since that serprising triemph, 'e 'as been 'ungering for fresh feelds to konker, as you might say. "i want to meet someone, 'enery, as i can beat," 'e kep' saying, quite truckewlent like. "i don't pretend as 'ow i'm brillyent, but on my day i do fancy that there's wuss." "you keep on practising steddy, sir," was my invariable words, "and one of these days we shall see you winning cups and medils." as nice and kind an old jentleman as ever smashed a club is mister giggington, but i allus 'ave to 'andle 'im like eggs to prevent 'im losing 'art. i didn't think as 'ow even 'enery wilks would be able to grattify 'is 'armless ambishun, but the uther day i saw my chawnce. it was a toosday morning, and the course was quite disserted, excep' for mister g., 'oo was waiting to start a practice rarnd wiv 'is pashunt teecher. which is me. and then a new member come along 'oo was wishfull for a game, and dirrectly i set eyes on 'im, somethink, hinstink, i suppose, seemed to tell me that 'ere was the man for 'oom i 'ad been waiting. 'e was french, and i shall not attempt to rite 'is name, the 'ang of which i never reely kawt. 'e was a small, darkish, jornty man, and 'is garmints was a little briter and more cheerfull-looking than you see in england. 'e wore, among uther things, a deer-storker 'at wiv a fevver stuck in it. but 'is manners was reelly bewtifull. it was quite a site to see 'im click 'is 'eels togevver, and bow to my himployer, and in a minute they 'ad fixed their match. i 'ad 'inted to mister g. that 'e must hinsist on 'aving a stroke an 'ole, and that was 'ow they settled it. i never lerned what the frenchman's 'andicap was, but if the champyon 'isself 'ad offered to take strokes from 'im 'e would 'ave closed gladly wiv the offer. and yet there was reelly nuthing erfensive about the little man. i could see as 'ow pore old mister g. was trimbling wiv a sort of serpressed egsitement, and i wispered to 'im that 'e must play steddy and use the niblick whenever possibul. the niblick, from long practice in the bunkers, is 'is club. me frend, chawley martin, was the frenchman's caddie, and 'e took ercasion to remmark to me that we seemed in for somethink warmish. i checked the boy wiv one of my glawnces, and then we waited while 'is hemployer took the 'onner. that jentleman danced up to the tee, waving rarnd 'is head the longest and the bendiest driver that i 'ave ever seen, and 'e didn't trubble to address the ball at all. 'e just sprung at it and 'it it wiv all 'is might, and somethink fairly wistled past chawley's 'ead as 'e stood a little be'ind the tee box. the frenchman 'ad sliced at rite angels, and for anythink i know 'is ball is still in the air. certingly, we never saw it agin. that slite misforchune appeered to egsite and dimmoralise chawley's himployer, 'oo may 'ave been quite a brillyent player on 'is day, and i may say at once that 'e never reelly found 'is game. on the uther 'and it seemed to put new life and vigger into mister g. our erponent was appariently trying 'ard to do each 'ole in a brillyent one, but we was quite content to win them in a steddy nine. we 'ad our misforchunes, of course. 'is deerest frend wouldn't 'ardly say as 'ow mister g.'s game is a long one, and each bunker seems to 'ave a sort of magnettick attrackshun for 'is ball, but whilst the frenchman's brassey remained unbroken we knew that there was allus a chawnce for the 'ole. for 'arf the rarnd it stood the crewel strane and then it didn't break. it jest seemed to sort of dissolve into small peaces. but we was two up by then and our tails was 'igh in air. as for the frenchman, 'is meffods at times was reelly serprising. after that first drive chawley lade 'isself down flat when 'is hemployer drove, but even in that posishun it didn't seem 'ardly safe. that long, thin, bendy driver sent the ball to all 'ites and all angels, but never once in a strate line. after a wile 'e diskarded it, and guv a fair, 'onnest trial to every club in 'is bag in turn. i should never 'ave been serprised to see 'im drive desperit like wiv 'is putter, but even then chawley wouldn't 'ave dared say nuthink. 'e was quite a plessant, jentlemanly little man, but it didn't do to argue wiv 'im. 'e begun to scream and stamp at once, and chawley saw pretty soon that it was best and safest to let 'im play 'is own game. it was on the fiftienth green that the great match was ended. mister giggington's pluck and stamminer 'ad been amasing for 'is age, but the strane and the joyfull egsitement was beginning to tell on 'im. the frenchman tried to bring off a thirty-yard putt to save the 'ole, and failed by some forty yards. but 'e took 'is defeet like a nero. they shook 'ands on the green and 'e said that it warmed 'is 'art to reflect on the glory that 'is frendly foe 'ad won. i beleeve as 'ow there was tears in the old jentleman's eyes. 'e turned to me and i quite thort 'e was going to grasp my 'and, but instead of that 'e put a bob into it which was pretty near as good. 'e 'll never make a golfer, but 'enery wilks will allus be pleesed and proud to gide 'im rarnd the course. * * * * * [illustration: a ruling passion.--_mr. meenister macglucky_ (_of the free kirk, after having given way more than usual to an expression "a wee thing strong"--despairingly_). "oh! aye! ah, w-e-el! i'll hae ta gie 't up!" _mr. elder macnab._ "wha-at, man, gie up gowf?" _mr. meenister macglucky._ "nae, nae! gie up the meenistry!"] * * * * * [illustration: a poser.--"farmers always grumbling? well, supposin' your pigs were down wi' th' fever, an' your sheep had got th' influenza, if your crops were drownded in eighteen inches o' water, an' your rent were overdue--what would you do?" "i? i'd give it up and start a golf club!"] * * * * * [illustration: ingratitude _brown._ "why doesn't walker stop to speak? thought he knew you!" _smith._ "used to; but i introduced him to the girl he married. neither of them recognises me now!"] * * * * * golf (_as "put" by d. crambo junior._) [illustration: "putting" on the "links" the "tee" and the "caddie" a showy manner of handling the "clubs" a full drive a beautiful "iron" shot the "spoon" the "cleek" "holed out"] * * * * * [illustration: a morning performance] * * * * * [illustration: fore! "now, sir, be judge yourself, whether i in any just term am affin'd to love the moor." [_othello_, act i., sc. 1.] ] * * * * * vi. 'onnesty is the best pollicy, and, 'evin knows, 'enery wilks 'as allus tried 'is levil best to live up to them golden words. but i reckon there is certain excepshuns to the cast-iron 'onnesty of all of us, and every yumin being 'as 'is little weakness. mine is golf balls. tips is well enuff in their way, and i 'ave nuthing at all to say agin them, but the present of a good ball is far more pleesing to the 'art of 'enery wilks. praps it's becos of 'is allmost inkonquerabul pride which shrinks at times from taking munney from them 'oom 'e feels to be 'is equils or hinfeeriors; or praps it grattifies 'is artistick nachure to be given the himplements of that great sience which 'e onderstands so well. any'ow golf balls is my temptashun, and one which once or twice in the course of my 'onnerabul kareer i 'ave allowed meself to yeeld to. some golfers will ercashunally 'and you tuppence or an 'arf-used ball, wif a jenial word of thanks for your attenshuns which is worth more to a proud nachure than the gift itself. and there's uthers 'oo never think of doing nuthink of the sort. among _them_ is mister schwabstein, 'oo is not french or scotch, as you might think from 'is name, but german, wiv praps a touch of jentile. 'e's a man what catches the eye on the links, it being 'is constant and hannoying 'abbit to were a peaked yotting cap, large specks, and a white silk coat which was once a good deal whiter. an egsellent sort of person, i dessay, in the 'ome sircle, but 'ardly what you'd call a brillyent success upon the links. they say as 'ow 'e 'as more munney than 'e ritely knows what to do wiv, but i fancy 'e's made it by never giving any of it away. 'owever, 'enery wilks 'as done 'is best to put that rite. let me diskribe to you a rarnd which 'e played the uther day wiv mister 'erminius brellett, our litterry member, 'oo allus seems to go out of 'is way to play wiv kurious people. i 'ave taken mister schwabstein in charge before, but never 'ave i seen 'is pecooliarities so noticeabul as on that day. 'e took the 'onner, and for about three minutes 'e addressed the ball wiv 'is 'uge, thick, ugly driver, which 'as always rarsed my perfessional hindignashun. 'e swung at last, quite slow like, but wiv all 'is great weight and strength piled into it. i shall never know egsackly what 'e did, becos the tees was dry, and for the moment i was 'arf blinded by the dust. but there was a thud and a krackling snap, and two things was flying through the thick, dusty air. them two missils was the ball and the 'ead of the driver, and they fell togevver thirty yards from the tee. 'e said somethink which i couldn't catch and didn't want to, and walked rarnd in a slow sircle, smiling to 'isself. 'e's a man 'oo allus smiles. it often seems to me that it is 'is misforchune. then mister brellett took one of 'is yusual springing drives, which 'appened to come off, and 'e won that fust 'ole on 'is head. mister schwabstein kontrived to redooce 'is brassey to fragmints at the second 'ole; and after that he took out 'is niblick, and nuthing wouldn't perswade 'im to put it back. 'e drove wiv that niblick, and 'e played 'is many shots through the green wiv it. and the way that thick strong niblick eat into the turf was enuff to brake the 'art of 'enery wilks. we moved slowly forward, leaving be'ind us a line of crewel deep kassims, which nuthink wouldn't fill up. and 'is stile of bunker play was equilly distrucktive. 'is noshun of getting out was to distroy the wall of the bunker wiv reppeated blows, and then to force 'is ball throo the rewings. i wouldn't 'ave belleeved that meer wood and iron could 'ave done the work that that one german niblick did wivout turning an 'air. 'e only smiled 'is slow smile when mister brellett or meself venchured a remmonstrance, and 'e would never pick up 'is ball. 'e persevered wiv each 'ole until at last 'e 'ad pushed the ball into the tin, and then 'e would turn and pat my 'ead wiv 'is large 'and. after the fust time i jenerally dodged, and once 'e turned and patted mister brellett's 'ead by accerdent. like most litterry jents, the latter is rather touchy, and there was neerly trouble; but some'ow, thanks to mister schwabstein's apparent onconshusness of offense, it was erverted. at the thirteenth 'ole mister brellett was five up. mister schwabstein put down a new ball, wiv a sort of groan, and pulled it wiv 'is niblick right rarnd into the rough. for a long two minnutes we 'unted 'igh and low, but nowhere could we find that ball. if i'd seen it i would 'ave handed it over at once, sich being my boundin dooty. but i never did see it. there was jest one little place in that rough where some'ow it didn't seem worth while looking. we 'ad to erbandon it at last; and mister schwabstein lost the 'ole and the match. later in the day i wandered down on a sort of ferlorn 'ope to that bit of rough, and kuriously enuff i walked bang on to that ball. there was severil courses open to me. i might 'ave 'anded it over to the orthorities, or i might 'ave kep' it as a memmentoe of mister schwabstein's unfaling jenerosity and kortesy. but 'enery wilks didn't see 'is way to doing either of them two things. 'e jest disposed of that fine new ball to the very best hadvantage. * * * * * golfing notes "denmark is the latest of the continental nations to receive golf."--_the tatler._ [illustration: but golf must have flourished at denmark in hamlet's time, judging by the above reproduction of a very ancient mural decoration which has just come to light. see also quotation _hamlet_, act ii., scene 2:--" ... drives; in rage, strikes wide!"] * * * * * [illustration: encouragement.--_professional golfer_ (_in answer to anxious question_). "weel, no, sir, at your time o' life, ye can never hope to become a _player_; but if ye practise hard for three years, ye may be able to tell good play from bad when ye see it!"] * * * * * [illustration: _bertie_ (_to caddie, searching for lost ball_). "what are you looking there for? why, i must have driven it fifty yards further!" _diplomatic caddie._ "but sometimes they hit a stone, sir, and bounce back a terrible distance!"] * * * * * [illustration: _old hand._ "ah, i heard you'd joined. been round the links yet?" _new hand._ "oh, yes. went yesterday." _old hand._ "whot did you go round in?" _new hand._ "oh, my ordinary clothes!"] * * * * * [illustration: golfing amenities. (_overheard on a course within 100 miles of edinburgh_).--_hopeless duffer_ (_who continually asks his caddy the same question, with much grumbling at the non-success of his clubs_). "and what shall i take now?" _his unfortunate partner_ (_whose match has been lost and game spoilt, at last breaking out_). "what'll ye tak noo! the best thing ye can tak is the fower fifteen for edinburgh!"] * * * * * the pedantry of sport.--_first golf maniac._ i played a round with captain bulger the other day. _second g.m._ when did you get to know him? _first g.m._ oh, about the end of the gutty ball period. * * * * * [illustration: _cheerful beginner_ (_who has just smashed the colonel's favourite driver_). "oh, now i see why you have to carry so many clubs!"] * * * * * [illustration: golfer] tee, tee, only tee! (_song of the golf enthusiast. after thomas moore_) air--"_thee, thee, only thee._" the dawn of morn, the daylight's sinking, shall find me on the links, and thinking, of tee, tee, only tee! when rivals meet upon the ground, the putting-green's a realm enchanted, nay, in society's giddy round my soul, (like tooting's thralls) is haunted by tee, tee, only tee! for that at early morn i waken, and swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon, for tee, tee, only tee! i'm game to start all in the dark, to the links hurrying--resting never. the caddie yawns, but, like a lark, i halt not, heed not, hastening ever to tee, tee, only tee! of chilly fog i am no funker, i'll brave the very biggest bunker, for tee, tee, only tee! a spell that nought on earth can break holds me. golf's charms can ne'er be _spoken_; but late i'll sleep, and early wake, of loyalty be this my token, to tee, tee, only tee! * * * * * golf caddies are now very much in the public eye. the education of some of them is certainly not all that it should be. "here's an honour for us!" cried one of them excitedly the other day, as he pointed to a paragraph in the paper headed, "king alfonso visits cadiz." * * * * * the science of golf [a certain make of field-glasses is advertised just now as "suitable for golf-players, enabling them before striking to select a favourable spot for the descent of their ball." there can be little doubt that this brilliant hint will be further developed, with some such results as those outlined in the following anticipation.] as i told jones when he met me at the clubhouse, it was a year or more since i had last played, so the chances were that i should be a bit below form. besides, i was told that the standard of play had been so raised---"raised? i should just think it has!" said jones. "why, a year ago they played mere skittles--not what you could properly call golf. got your clubs? come along then. queer old-fashioned things they are, too! and you're never going out without your theodolite? "well," i said with considerable surprise, "the fact is, i haven't got one. what do you use it for?" "taking levels, of course. and--bless me, you've no inflater, or glasses--not even a wind-gauge! shall i borrow some for you?--oh, just as you like, but you won't be able to put up much of a game without them." "does your caddie take all those things?" i asked, pointing to the curious assortment of machinery which jones had put together. "my caddies do," he corrected. "no one takes less than three nowadays. good; there's only one couple on the first tee, so we shall get away in half an hour or so." "i should hope so!" i remarked. "do you mean that it will be half an hour before those men have played two shots?" "there or thereabouts. simkins is a fast player--wonderful head for algebra that man has--so it may be a shade less. come and watch him; then you'll see what golf is!" and indeed i watched him with much interest. first he surveyed the country with great care through a field-glass. then he squinted along a theodolite at a distant pole. next he used a strange instrument which was, jones told me, a wind-gauge, and tapped thoughtfully at a pocket-barometer. after that he produced paper and pencil, and was immersed apparently in difficult sums. finally, he summoned one of his caddies, who carried a metal cylinder. a golf ball was connected to this by a piece of india-rubber tubing, and a slight hissing noise was heard. "putting in the hydrogen," explained jones. "everything depends upon getting the right amount. new idea? not very; even a year ago you must have seen pneumatic golf balls--filled with compressed air? well, this is only an obvious improvement. there, he's going to drive now." and this he did, using a club unlike anything i had seen before. then he surveyed the putting-green--about half a mile away--through his glasses, and remarked that it was a fairish shot, the ball being within three inches of the hole. his companion, who went through the same lengthy preliminaries, was less fortunate. in a tone of considerable disgust he announced that he had over-driven the hole by four hundred yards. "too much hydrogen," murmured jones, "or else he got his formul㦠muddled. well, we can start now. shall i lead the way?" i begged him to do so. he in turn surveyed the country, consulted instruments, did elaborate sums, inflated his ball. "now," he said, at length settling into his stance, "now i'll show you." and then he missed the ball clean. ... of course he ought not to have used such language, and yet it was a sort of relief to find _something_ about the game which was entirely unchanged. * * * * * [illustration: a last resort.--_miss armstrong_ (_who has foozled the ball six times with various clubs_). "and which of the sticks am i to use now?" _weary caddie._ "gie it a bit knock wi' the bag!"] * * * * * [illustration: _caddie_ (_in stage whisper to biffin, who is frightfully nervous_). "don't you get nervous, sir. it's all right. i've told every one of 'em you can't play!"] * * * * * [illustration: _fitzfoozle_ (_a beginner, who is "teaching" a lady on the men's links, and loses a club_). "pardon me, sir. have you seen a lady's club anywhere?" _admiral peppercorn_ (_very irate at being delayed, wishes ladies would play on their own course_). "no, sir, but there's a goose club at the 'pig and whistle,' i believe. try that!"] * * * * * royal and ancient records.--the _glasgow evening times_ displayed the following headings on the occasion of his majesty's visit to north berwick:-visit to the golf course. a drive through the town. this, of course, constitutes a new record, the old one standing at about 330 yards. * * * * * the golfer's friend after long drives--the tea-caddy. * * * * * golf motto.--the "hole" hog or none. * * * * * [illustration: _golfer, whose ball has lodged under stone, has had several unsuccessful shots, and finally, with a tremendous stroke, smashed his club._ _old man._ "you put me in moind of my old jackass." _golfer._ "what d'you mean, you idiot?" _old man._ "yer've got more strength than knowledge!"] * * * * * the moan of the maiden (_after tennyson_) golf! golf! golf! by the side of the sounding sea; and i would that my ears had never heard aught of the "links" and the "tee." oh, well for the man of my heart, that he bets on the "holes" and the play; oh, well for the "caddie" that carries the "clubs," and earns his pay. he puts his red coat on, and he roams on the sandy hill; but oh! for the touch of that golfer's hand, that the "niblick" wields with a will. golf! golf! golf! where the "bunkers" vex by the sea; but the days of tennis and croquet will never come back to me! * * * * * virgil on golf.--"miscueruntque herbas et non innoxia verba." _georgics_, 3, 283. * * * * * to correspondents.--"an inexperienced golfer" writes to inquire whether what he has heard about "the tee duty" will in any way affect the "caddies." * * * * * [illustration: willing to compensate.--_mrs. lightfoot._ "oh, wait a minute, mr. sharp--don't drive yet. my husband is still on the green." _mr. sharp._ "never mind. i'll risk it. for if i _do_ bowl him over, why, i'm ready to replace him any time!"] * * * * * capable caddies rumour has it that a movement is on foot amongst a certain section of the golfing public to ensure that for the future all caddies on english links shall be compelled to furnish satisfactory proof that they are physically and morally qualified for the porterage and cleaning of clubs, and acquainted with the more rudimentary principles of the game. to this end, it is reported, an entrance examination paper is in course of preparation, in which individuals aspiring to official recognition as caddies will be required to obtain a percentage of at least eighty marks. the following questions are said to have been already drafted:-1. write your name, legibly if possible, in the top right-hand corner of the sheet. (do not trouble to insert your nickname, as it is a matter of indifference to the examiners whether you are locally known as "tiger," "ginger," or "bill bailey.") 2. state your age. if this is less than six, or more than seventy-five years, you may omit the remaining questions and retire at once from the examination. 3. are you married or single? give reasons for your answer. 4. illustrate the finer points of distinction between (_a_) a niblick and a gutty; (_b_) a bye and a bulger. 5. are you a protectionist or a total abstainer? 6. rewrite the following passage, correcting anything that may strike you as an error or an incongruity:--"in an 18-hole match, x., a scratch player with a handicap of 20, stood dormy 12 at the 17th hole, but while half-way through the final green was unfortunate enough to get badly bunkered behind the tee-box. being required to play 'two more' to his opponent y., who had laid himself dead in 6, he only played one of them, thus holing out in 5, and securing a victory by the narrow margin of 4 up and 7 to play." 7. given that the regulation charge for a round is a shilling, would you consider yourself justified in attempting to exact an extra half-crown for club-cleaning from a player in spectacles, with a handicap of 27 and a wistful expression? (candidates are advised to say "no" to this question.) * * * * * [illustration: stimied.--_golfer._ "fore!" _tinker._ "what?" _golfer._ "get out of the way!" _tinker._ "what for?" _golfer._ "i might hit you." _tinker._ "thee'd best _not_, young man!"] * * * * * [illustration: _licensed caddy._ "carry your clubs, sir?" _jones_ (_who has chartered a small boy at a cheap rate_). "no, i've got a caddy." _licensed caddy._ "carry your caddy, sir?"] * * * * * "as she is spoke."--(_in the train from nice._) _enthusiastic golfer_ (_to friend, as train stops at golfe-juan_): "oh, here we are! this must be the place. '_golfe_,' golf. '_juan_,' _jeu_, play, you know. yes, this is evidently the station for the links!" * * * * * the natural crest of every golf club.--the lynx. * * * * * five-o'clock "tees."--suburban golf. [illustration: punch] * * * * * [illustration: the ruling passion.--_laden and perspiring stranger._ "could you kindly tell me how far it is to the station?" _sportsome native._ "about a full drive, two brassies and a putt."] * * * * * the golf widows (_after e.b. browning_) do you hear the widows weeping, o my brothers, wedded but a few brief years? they are writing home complaining to their mothers, and their ink's suffused with tears. the young lads are playing in the meadows, the young babes are sleeping in the nest; the young men are flirting in the shadows, the young maids are helping them, with zest. but the young golf widows, o my brothers, are weeping bitterly, they are weeping in the playtime of the others, while you're swiping from the tee. do you ask their grazing widows in their sorrow why their tears are falling so? "oh--yesterday--to-day again--to-morrow- to the links you always go! your golf 'shop,'" they say, "is very dreary, you speak of nothing else from week to week; a really patient wife will grow a-weary of talk about a concentrated cleek." yes, the young golf widows, o my brothers, do you ask them why they weep? they are longing to be back beside their mothers, while you're playing in a sweep. and well may the widows weep before you when your nightly round is done; they care nothing for a stymie, or the glory gained by holing out in one. "how long," they say, "how long in careless fashion will you stand, to drive the dyke, upon our hearts, trample down with nailã¨d heel our early passion, turning homeward only when the light departs? you can hear our lamentations many a mile hence, can you hearken without shame, when our mourning curseth deeper in the silence than a strong man off his game?" * * * * * [illustration: "---he would have said" _a beautiful stroke missed! a favourite club broken! no words to bring relief!_ _american friend (in the background, after a long pause)._ "wa'al, brown, i guess that's the most profane silence i've ever listened to!"] * * * * * [illustration: "a beautiful drive."] * * * * * [illustration: subtle.--"aren't you a little off your game this morning, mr. smythe?" "oh, i'm not playing this morning, miss bertha. only just amusing myself."] * * * * * should married men be allowed to play golf? (_extract from a golfer's diary_) _july 21._--played robinson, who would never win a match if it wasn't for his wife. think that i shall start a links for bachelors only. (mem.--suggest to the committee that no married man is allowed to play golf in the mornings or afternoons.) hole i. i played perfectly, holing beautiful long putt. robinson hopeless. one up. hole ii. r. bunkered. entirely his own fault. two up. hole iii. holed my approach, allowing for both wind and slope of green; really a grand shot. caught sight of mrs. r. as i walked to the next tee. three up. hole iv. thought that i might have to speak to mrs. r. at any minute. missed my drive in consequence. disgusting! two up. hole v. r. seemed to be looking for his wife instead of attending to what i was saying. my drive lay on a buttercup, and who the deuce can be expected to play off buttercups? one up. hole vi. stymied r. quite perfectly. he pretended to think that we were not playing stymies. we were. two up. hole vii. saw mrs. r. looking aimlessly out to sea. these loafing ladies are enough to put any man off his game. why can't they do something? one up. hole viii. r. may say what he likes, but he waved to his wife. i was also annoyed by his stockings, which i should think mrs. r. knitted. the sort of useless thing she would do. all square. hole ix. got well away from mrs. r., and though my caddy coughed as i was approaching i laid my ball dead. beautiful shot. one up at the turn. hole x. had the hole in my pocket when r. laid his approach dead. ridiculous luck. all square. hole xi. just as i was driving i saw mrs. r. still looking at the sea. i complained, but r. took no notice. at any rate she cost me the hole. one down. hole xii. vardon couldn't have played better than i did, and even r. had to say "good shot!" twice. all square. hole xiii. as i was putting i had a feeling in my back that mrs. r. had arrived at last. missed my putt and only halved the hole. hole xiv. couldn't see mrs. r. anywhere. wondered where on earth she had got to, or whether she was drowned. of course i lost the hole. one down. hole xv. a little dispute, as r. claimed that his ball--which was under a wheelbarrow--was on ground under repair. absolutely foolish, and i told him so. all square. hole xvi. made a perfect drive, approach and putt. looked everywhere for mrs. r. and couldn't see her. one up. hole xvii. completely put off by wondering when i should see mrs. r. most unfair. told my caddy i should report him to the committee. all square. hole xviii. saw mrs. r. on a hill half a mile away. got on my nerves. r. said, "halloa, there's my wife! i thought she wasn't coming out this morning." lost the hole and the match, and told the secretary that r.'s handicap ought to be reduced. * * * * * [illustration: "she was not a golfer" _husband._ "what on earth has happened to my driver?" _wife._ "oh, i couldn't find the hammer, so i used that thing. it wasn't much use, though."] * * * * * [illustration: our village the golf-club in full swing.] * * * * * [illustration: _she._ "why, mr. smith, you don't mean to say you have taken up golf?" _smith (age 78)._ "yes. i found i was getting a bit too old for lawn tennis!"] * * * * * [illustration: erratic _pedestrian (anxious for his safety)._ "now, which way are you going to hit the ball?" _worried beginner._ "only wish to goodness i knew myself!"] * * * * * [illustration: punch] * * * * * [illustration: sweet simplicity _diffident man (who does not know to how much of an ingã©nue he is talking)._ "have you been out long, miss grace?" _miss grace (consulting her wrist-strap)._ "oh, about three-quarters of an hour. you see we were asked to come punctually."] * * * * * lines on the links hard by the biggest hazard on the course, beneath the shelter of a clump of gorse, secure from shots from off the heel or toe, i watch the golfers as they come and go. i see the fat financier, whose "dunch" suggests too copious draughts of "fizz" at lunch; while the lean usher, primed with ginger beer, surmounts the yawning bunker and lies clear. i see a member of the house of peers within an ace of bursting into tears, when, after six stout niblick shots, his ball lies worse than if he had not struck at all. but some in silent agony endure misfortunes no "recovery" can cure, while others, even men who stand at plus, loudly ejaculate the frequent cuss. an aged anglo-indian oft i see who waggles endlessly upon the tee, causing impatience of the fiercest kind to speedy couples pressing from behind. familiar also is the red-haired pat who plays in rain or shine without a hat, and who, whenever things are out of joint, "sockets" his iron shots to cover point. before ten thirty, also after five, the links with lady players are alive, at other seasons, by the rules in force, restricted to their own inferior course. one matron, patient in her way as job, i've seen who nine times running missed the globe; but then her daughter, limber maid, can smite close on two hundred yards the bounding kite. * * * dusk falls upon the bracken, bents and whins; the careful green-keeper removes the pins, to-morrow being sunday, and the sward is freed from gutty and from rubber-cored. homeward unchecked by cries of "fore!" i stroll, revolving many problems in my soul, and marvelling at the mania which bids sexagenarians caracole like kids; which causes grave and reverend signiors to talk for hours of nothing but their scores, and worse, when baffled by a little ball, on the infernal deities to call; which brightens overworked officials' lives; which bores to tears their much-enduring wives; which fosters the consumption of white port, and many other drinks, both long and short. who then, in face of functions so diverse, will call thee, golf, a blessing or a curse? or choose between the premier's predilection and rosebery's deliberate rejection? not mine to judge: i merely watch and note thy votaries as they grieve or as they gloat, uncertain whether envy or amaze or pity most is prompted by the craze. * * * * * [illustration: _foreigner (who has "pulled" badly, and hit his partner in a tender spot),_ "mille pardons, monsieur! my clob--he deceived me!"] * * * * * [illustration: _tommy._ "i say, do you know who's winning?" _ethel._ "i think uncle must be--i heard him offer to carry auntie's clubs."] * * * * * the hole concern scene--_any golf-club where an alteration of the course is in prospect._ time--_any time, from dawn to dusk._ characters--_any number of_ members, _plus (on this occasion) an_ inoffensive stranger. _first member._ (_catching sight of_ inoffensive stranger). look here, nobbs, you're an impartial judge, we'll have your opinion. what i say is this. if you take the present 4th hole and make it the 13th, putting the tee back ten yards behind the 12th, and carry the lower green fifteen yards to the right, and play the 2nd, 5th and 16th holes in reverse order, keeping clear of the ditch outside the 4th green, you'll bring---_second member._ oh, that's rubbish. anybody with a grain of sense would see that you'd utterly ruin the course that way. my plan is to take the first three, the 11th, and the 14th--you understand, nobbs?--(_slowly and emphatically_) the first three, the 11th, and the 14th. _inoffensive stranger._ yes? _second m._ (_quickly_). and leave 'em as they are. leave 'em just exactly as they are. then you do away with the next, make the 3rd into the 7th, and---_i.s._ (_horribly confused_). but---_third m._ yes, i know--you're thinking of the crossing from the 14th. and you're perfectly right. simply fatal, that would be; too dangerous altogether. what we really want is a 2nd hole, and my plan would make a splendid one--really sporting, and giving these gentlemen who fancy their play a bit to do. _second m._ don't know about _that_. tried that patent 2nd hole of yours this morning out of curiosity. holed it with my third, and might have done it in two, with a bit of luck. _third m._ (_whistles expressively_). oh, _come_! splendid player you are, and all that--handicap's fifteen, isn't it?--but there aren't _many_ of us who would stand here and say calmly that we'd done a hole of 420 yards in three! _really_, you know---_second m._ 420 yards? 130, you mean. _third m._ (_defiantly_). 420, if an inch. _second m._ but look here, you told me yourself only yesterday---_third m._ (_slightly taken aback_). oh, ah, yes. i understand now. i _did_ think, at one time, of making the 2nd a short hole. but this is quite a different idea. miles better, in fact. it flashed across me quite suddenly at dinner-time last night. sort of inspiration--kind of thing you can't account for--but there it _is_, you see. _fourth m._ well, what you fellows can argue about like this beats me altogether. there's only one _possible_ way of improving the course, and i showed you the plan of it last week. it won't be adopted--not likely. so good, and simple, and inexpensive that the committee won't look at it. couldn't expect anything else. anyhow (_with an air of unappreciated heroism_)--i've done _my_ best for the club! (_sighs heavily, and picks up a newspaper._) _fifth m._ (_brutally_). oh, _we_ know all about that blessed plan of yours. now, i'm open to conviction. mind you, i don't condemn anybody else's scheme. all that _i_ say is, that if a man doesn't see that my plan is the best, he's a dunder-headed jackass, and that's all about it. what do _you_ think, mr. nobbs? _i.s._ (_rather nervously_). well, really--i hardly know--perhaps---_first m._ (_compassionately_). ah, it's those whins below the 17th that are bothering _you_. but if you exchange the 8th and the 10th---_second m._ (_abruptly_). rot! (_the battle continues. the_ inoffensive stranger _stealthily withdraws._ (_curtain._)) [illustration: punch] * * * * * [illustration: a town mouse _jones._ "well, my little man, what are _you_ thinking about?" _london boy_ (_who has never been out of whitechapel before_). "i'm thinkin' it's time yer mother put yer into _trousers_!"] * * * * * [illustration: a martyr to appearances _young lady._ "i say, caddie, what _does_ mr. mcfadjock do with all these clubs?" _caddie (wofully preparing to follow his tyrant)._ "he makes me carry them!"] * * * * * [illustration: link(s)ed sweetness _the real caddie_ (_audibly_). "this club is going to ruin--allowing all these ladies to join!" _miss sharp._ "they evidently can't get gentlemen!"] * * * * * [illustration: _sanguine golfer._ "is that on the 'carpet,' caddie?" _caddie_ (_as the ball swerves into cottage window_). "yus, sir; front parlour, sir!"] * * * * * [illustration: the old type of link man. supper time.] * * * * * [illustration: the new type of link man. tee time.] * * * * * "a three-card lay" long ago in sweet september, oh! the day i well remember, i was playing on the links against the winsomest of maids; in a "cup" my ball was lying, and the "divots" round were flying, and with eyes-a-dance she said to me, "your iron's the king of spades!" now a foe, on such occasion, of the feminine persuasion, fair and twenty to the game a sort of subtlety imparts; and i felt its potent glamour, and i answered with a stammer shy and nervous, "it was rash of me to play the queen of hearts!" any further explanation of my inward admiration very likely had exposed me to the deadliest of snubs! but a snigger from behind me just in time came to remind me of the presence of my caddie--and i blessed the knave of clubs! * * * * * [illustration: glorious uncertainty scene--_at the golf club._ _she._ "good-bye, major. what's the programme for to-morrow?" _the major._ "oh, either skating or punting, according to the weather."] * * * * * golf and good form (_by the expert wrinkler_) is it good form to golf? that is a question i have been so repeatedly asked of late by correspondents that i can no longer postpone my answer. now to begin with, i fear there is no doubt that golf is a little on the down grade--socially. golf is no longer the monopoly of the best set, and i am told that artisans' clubs have actually been started in certain districts. the other day, as i was travelling in lancashire, a man in the same compartment--with the most shockingly ill-cut trousers i ever saw--said to a friend, "i like 'oylake, it's 'ealthy, and it's 'andy and within 'ail of 'ome." and it turned out that the chief attraction to him at hoylake was the golf. such an incident as this speaks volumes. but i always try to see both sides of every question, and there is unquestionably a great deal to be said in favour of golf. it was undoubtedly played by kings in the past, and at the present moment is patronised by grand dukes, dukes, peers and premiers. * * * * * [illustration: between friends.--_mr. spooner, q.c._ (_a neophyte_). "this is my ball, i think?" _colonel bunting_ (_an adept_). "by jove, that's a jolly good 'lie'!" _mr. spooner._ "really, bunting, we're very old friends, of course. but i do think you might find a pleasanter way of pointing out a perfectly unintentional mistake!"] * * * * * golf and dress. but the real and abiding attraction of golf is that it mercifully gives more opportunities to the dressy man than any other pastime. football and cricket reduce everyone to a dead level in dress, but in golf there is any amount of scope for individuality in costume. take the case of colour alone. the other day at finsbury park station i met a friend on his way home from a day's golfing, and i noticed that he was sporting the colours of no fewer than five different clubs. on his cap was the badge of the camberwell crusaders; his tie proved his membership of the bickley authentics; his blazer was that of the tulse hill nondescripts; his brass waistcoat buttons bore the monogram of the gipsy hill zingari; the roll of his knickerbocker stockings was embroidered with the crest of the kilburn incogs. the effect of the whole was, if i may be allowed the word, spicy in the extreme. of course it is not everyone who can carry off such a combination, or who can afford to belong to so many first-class clubs. but my friend is a very handsome man, and has a handicap of _plus_ two at tooting bec. knickerbockers or trousers. the burning question which divides golfers into two hostile camps is the choice between knickerbockers and trousers. personally i favour the latter, but it is only right to explain that ever since i was gaffed in the leg by my friend viscount ---when out cub-sticking with the cottesmore i have never donned knickers again. to a man with a really well-turned calf and neat ankles i should say, wear knickerbockers whenever you get a chance. the late lord septimus boulger, who had very thick legs, and calves that seemed to begin just above the ankles, used to wear knickerbockers because he said it put his opponent off his play. if i may say so without offence, he was a real funny chap, though a careless dresser, and i am told that his father, old lord spalding, has never been the same man since his death. stockings and calves. another advantage of knickerbockers is the scope they afford for the display of stylish stockings. a very good effect is produced by having a little red tuft, which should appear under the roll which surmounts the calf. the roll itself, which should always have a smart pattern, is very useful in conveying the impression that the calf is more fully developed than it really is. i noticed the other day at hanger hill that sir arlington ball was playing in a pair of very full knickers, almost of the dutch cut, and that his stockings--of a plain brown colour--had no roll such as i have described. then of course sir arlington has an exceptionally well-modelled calf, and when in addition a man has â£30,000 a year he may be allowed a certain latitude in his dress and his conduct generally. boots and shoes. the question of footwear at golf is one of considerable difficulty, but there is a general feeling in favour of shoes. my friend the tooting bec _plusser_ affects a very showy sort of shoe with a wide welt and a sort of fringe of narrow strips of porpoise hide, which fall over the instep in a miniature cataract. as regards the rival merits of india rubber studs on the soles and of nails, i compromise by a judicious mixture of both. if a waistcoat be worn it should be of the brightest possible colour. i saw lord dunching the other day at wimbledon park in a charming waistcoat. the groundwork was a rich spinach green with discs of pompeian red, and the buttons were of brass with his monogram in blue and white enamel in the centre. as it was a cold day he wore a mustard-coloured harris tweed norfolk jacket and a sealskin cap. quite a large crowd followed him, and i heard afterwards that he had raised the record for the links to 193. qualifications for a valet. one thing is certain--and that is we cannot all be first-class players. personally, owing to the accident i have already referred to, i hardly ever play at all, but i always make it a point, if i am going on a visit to any place in the country where i know there are no golf links, to take a few niblicks with me. a bag for clubs only costs a few shillings, and it looks well amongst your other paraphernalia on a journey. in engaging a valet again, always remember to ascertain whether he knows the rules of the "royal and ancient game." i shall never forget my humiliation when down at lord springvale's. as i was taking part in a foursome with the hon. agrippa bramble, lady horace hilton, and the second mrs. bunkeray, i got stuck in a furze-bush and my man handed me a putter. i could have cried with vexation. answers to correspondents. cavendish, chatsworth.--as to the treatment of divots, different methods are recommended by different authorities. my plan, and i am not aware of a better, is to put them in my pocket when the caddie is not looking. when thoroughly dried they form an excellent peat for burning, or can be used for bedding out rhododendrons. "nil desperandum," beckenham.--the best stimulant during match play is a beaten-up egg in a claret glass of sloe gin. the eggs are best carried in the pocket of your club-bag. a. flubb, woking.--no, it is not good form to pay your caddie in stamps. alcibiades, wembley park.--if you must play golf on sunday, i call it nothing short of hypocritical to go down to the links in a tall hat. * * * * * [illustration: a hero "fin de siã�cle."--_podgers_ (_of sandboys golf club_). "my dear miss robinson, golf's the only game nowadays for the _men_. lawn-tennis is all very well for you _girls_, you know."] * * * * * [illustration: if you should find a stray bull in possession of the links, and who is fascinated by your little red landmarks, don't try and persuade poor mr. littleman to drive him away. he is very plucky--but it isn't golf.] * * * * * [illustration: his first round.--_caddie_ (_pointing to direction flag_). "you'd better play right on the flag, sir." _curate._ "thank you very much. but i have very grave doubts as to my ability to hit such a very small mark at this distance!"] * * * * * [illustration: ear blinkers.--a suggestion for caddies of tender age in attendance on hot-tempered anglo-indian military gentlemen learning golf.] * * * * * [illustration: every man to his trade.--_exasperated amateur_ (_to fore-caddie, who will_ not _go on ahead_). "go along, man. _do_ get on towards the next green." _caddie._ "beg parding, capting. you won't never get him to go no more than twenty yards ahead. 'e's been used to carrying a flag in front of a steam-roller."] * * * * * lays from the links i.--the history of a match. let a be the links where i went down to stay, and b the man whom i challenged to play:- * * * c was the caddie no golfer's without, d was the driver i used going "out": e was the extra loud "fore!" we both holloa-ed, f was the foozle which commonly followed: g was the green which i longed to approach, h was the hazard which upset the coach: i was b's iron-shot (he's good for a younker), j was his joy when i pitched in the bunker. k was the kodak, that mischief-contriver, l was b's likeness--on smashing his driver: m was the moment he found out 'twas taken. n was his niblick around my head shaken: o was the oil poured on waters so stormy, p was the putt which, next hole, made me dormy. q was the quality--crowds came to look on: r the result they were making their book on: s was the stymie i managed to lay, t was two more, which it forced him to play; u was the usual bad work he let fly, v was the vengeance he took in the bye. * * * w the whisky that night: i must own x was its quantity--wholly unknown; y were the yarns which hot whisky combine with, z was the zest which we sang "_auld lang syne_". * * * * * [illustration: _short-sighted lady golfer._ "hi! have you seen a golf-ball fall anywhere here, please?" [_victim regards ball with remaining eye._] ] * * * * * ii.--a toast. fill up your glasses! bumpers round of scotland's mountain dew! with triple clink my toast you'll drink, the links i pledge with you: the links that bind a million hearts, there's magic in their name, the links that lie 'neath every sky, and the royal and ancient game! a health to all who "miss the globe," the special "stars" who don't; may thousands thrive to tee and drive as jehu's self was wont! no tee without a caddie--then the caddies will acclaim! a health, i say, to all who play the royal and ancient game! long life to all who face the foe, and on the green "lie dead"!- an envied lot, as all men wot, for gallant "lads in red": where balls fly fast and iron-shots plough win medals, trophies, fame; your watchword "fore!" one cheer--two more- for the royal and ancient game! then "_toe_ and _heel_ it" on the green (you'll make your partner swear), but i'll be bound your dance, a round, with luck will end all square win, lose, or halve the match--what odds? we love our round the same; though luck take wing, "the play's the thing," the royal and ancient game! * * * then, royal and ancient game, accept this tribute lay from me; from me then take, for old sake's sake, this toast--long life to thee! a long, long life to thee, old friend- none worthier the name- with three times three, long life to thee, o royal and ancient game! [illustration: punch] * * * * * [illustration: _very mild gentleman_ (_who has failed to hit the ball five times in succession_). "well ----" _up-to-date caddy_ (_producing gramophone charged with appropriate expletives_). "allow me, sir!" [_mild gentleman_ does _allow him, and moreover presents him with a shilling for handling the subject in such a masterly manner._] ] * * * * * [illustration: _first golfer_ (_to second golfer, who is caught in a bunker_). "well, jones told me this morning he did this hole yesterday in four." _second golfer_ (_who stammers_). "if jones s-s-said he did it in four, he was a l-l-l-l----" _first golfer._ "steady, friend, steady!" _second golfer._ "----he was a l-lucky beggar!"] * * * * * golf-land--hole by hole _match for a suit of oil-skins between sunny jack and dismal jimmy._ "the rain has beaten all records."--_daily papers._ "play the game."--_modern motto._ _hole 1._--halved in 28. d.j. gets into the current with his 16th (a beauty) and is rescued by life-boat. _hole 2._--abandoned. a green-finder with a divining-rod, which is convertible into an umbrella, states that primitive baptists are using the green for purposes of total immersion. _hole 3._--abandoned. a regatta is found to be taking place in the big bunker. _hole 4._--halved in 23. s.j. discovered with life-belt round him which he has stolen from the flag. reported death of a green-keeper, lost in trying to rescue two caddies from the bunker going to the 11th hole. _hole 5._--abandoned out of sympathy with the green-keeper. _hole 6._--abandoned. s.j. gets his driver mixed in his life-belt, with the result that his braces burst. d.j. claims hole on the ground that no player may look for a button for more than two minutes. mr. vardon, umpiring from balloon, disallows claim. both players take to canoes. _hole 7._--d.j.'s canoe upset by body of drowned sheep as he is holing short put. mr. vardon decides that corpses are rubs on the green. _hole 8._--abandoned, owing to a fight for life-belt. _hole 9._--halved in 303, mr. vardon keeping the score. _hole 10._--d.j. saves s.j.'s life. hole awarded to s.j. by mr. vardon out of sympathy. s.j. one up. _hole 11._--s.j. saves d.j.'s life and receives the humane society's monthly medal and the hole from mr. vardon as a reward of courage. s.j. two up. _hole 12._--abandoned. collection made for the widows of drowned golfers, which realises ninepence. s.j. subsequently returns from a long, low dive. _holes 13 and 14._--won by d.j. in the absence of s.j., who attends funeral water-games in honour of the green-keeper. all square. _holes 15 and 16._--abandoned by mutual consent, whisky being given away by the society of free-drinkers. instant reappearance of the green-keeper. _holes 17 and 18._--unrecorded. mr. vardon declares the match halved. [illustration: punch] * * * * * [illustration: fore and aft] * * * * * [illustration: _short-sighted golfer_ (_having been signalled to come on by lady who has lost her ball_). "thanks _very_ much. and _would_ you mind driving that sheep away?"] * * * * * [illustration: _extract from the rules of a local golf club:_--"rule v.--the committee shall have the power at any time to fill any vacancy in their body."] * * * * * a lesson in golf "you won't dare!" said i. "there is nothing else for it," said amanda sternly. "you know perfectly well that we must practise every minute of the time, if we expect to have the least chance of winning. if she _will_ come just now--well!" amanda cocked her pretty chin in the air, and looked defiant. "but--_aunt susannah!_" said i. "it's quite time for you to go and meet her," said amanda, cutting short my remonstrances; and she rose with an air of finality. my wife, within her limitations, is a very clever woman. she is prompt: she is resolute: she has the utmost confidence in her own generalship. yet, looking at aunt susannah, as she sat--gaunt, upright, and formidable--beside me in the dogcart, i did not believe even amanda capable of the stupendous task which she had undertaken. she would never dare---i misjudged her. aunt susannah had barely sat down--was, in fact, only just embarking on her first scone--when amanda rushed incontinently in where i, for one, should have feared to tread. "dear aunt susannah," she said, beaming hospitably, "i'm sure you will never guess how we mean to amuse you while you are here!" "nothing very formidable, i hope?" said aunt susannah grimly. "you'll never, never guess!" said amanda; and her manner was so unnaturally sprightly that i knew she was inwardly quaking. "we want to teach you--what do you think?" "i think that i'm a trifle old to learn anything new, my dear," said aunt susannah. i should have been stricken dumb by such a snub. not so, however, my courageous wife. "well--golf!" she cried, with overdone cheerfulness. aunt susannah started. recovering herself, she eyed us with a stony glare which froze me where i sat. "there is really nothing else to do in these wilds, you know," amanda pursued gallantly, though even she was beginning to look frightened. "and it is such a lovely game. you'll like it immensely." "_what_ do you say it is called?" asked aunt susannah in awful tones. "golf," amanda repeated meekly; and for the first time her voice shook. "spell it!" commanded aunt susannah. amanda obeyed, with increasing meekness. "why do you call it 'goff' if there's an 'l' in it?" asked aunt susannah. "i--i'm afraid i don't know," said amanda faintly. aunt susannah sniffed disparagingly. she condescended, however, to inquire into the nature of the game, and amanda gave an elaborate explanation in faltering accents. she glanced imploringly at me; but i would not meet her eye. "then you just try to get a little ball into a little hole?" inquired my relative. "and in the fewest possible strokes," amanda reminded her, gasping. "and--is that all?" asked aunt susannah. "y--yes," said amanda. "oh!" said aunt susannah. a game described in cold blood sounds singularly insignificant. we both fell into sudden silence and depression. "well, it doesn't sound _difficult_" said aunt susannah. "oh, yes, i'll come and play at ball with you if you like, my dears." "_dear_ auntie!" said amanda affectionately. she did not seem so much overjoyed at her success, however, as might have been expected. as for me, i saw a whole sea of breakers ahead; but then i had seen them all the time. we drove out to the links next day. we were both very silent. aunt susannah, however, was in good spirits, and deeply interested in our clubs. "what in the world do you want so many sticks for, child?" she inquired of amanda. "oh, they are for--for different sorts of ground," amanda explained feebly; and she cast an agonised glance at our driver, who had obviously overheard, and was chuckling in an offensive manner. we both looked hastily and furtively round us when we arrived. we were early, however, and fortune was kind to us; there was no one else there. "perhaps you would like to watch us a little first, just to see how the game goes?" amanda suggested sweetly. "not at all!" was aunt susannah's brisk rejoinder. i've come here to play, not to look on. which stick----?" "_club_--they are called clubs," said amanda. "why?" inquired aunt susannah. "i--i don't know," faltered amanda. "do you laurence?" i did not know, and said so. "then i shall certainly call them sticks," said aunt susannah decisively. "they are not in the least like clubs." "shall i drive off?" i inquired desperately of amanda. "drive off? where to? why are you going away?" asked aunt susannah. "besides, you can't go--the carriage is out of sight." "the way you begin is called driving off," i explained laboriously. "like this." i drove nervously, because i felt her eye upon me. the ball went some dozen yards. "that seems easy enough," said aunt susannah. "give me a stick, child." "not that end--the _other_ end!" cried amanda, as our relative prepared to make her stroke with the butt-end. "dear me! isn't that the handle?" she remarked cheerfully; and she reversed her club, swung it, and chopped a large piece out of the links. "where is it gone? where is it gone?" she exclaimed, looking wildly round. "it--it isn't gone," said amanda nervously, and pointed to the ball still lying at her feet. "what an extraordinary thing!" cried aunt susannah; and she made another attempt, with a precisely similar result. "give me another stick!" she demanded. "here, let me choose for myself--this one doesn't suit me. i'll have that flat thing." "but that's a putter," amanda explained agonisedly. "what's a putter? you said just now that they were all clubs," said aunt susannah, pausing. "they are all clubs," i explained patiently. "but each has a different name." "you don't mean to say you give them names like a little girl with her dolls?" cried aunt susannah. "why, what a babyish game it is!" she laughed very heartily. "at any rate," she continued, with that determination which some of her friends call by another name, "i am sure that this will be easier to play with!" she grasped the putter, and in some miraculous way drove the ball to a considerable distance. "oh, splendid!" cried amanda. her troubled brow cleared a little, and she followed suit, with mediocre success. aunt susannah pointed out that her ball had gone farther than either of ours, and grasped her putter tenaciously. "it's a better game than i expected from your description," she conceded. "oh, i daresay i shall get to like it. i must come and practise every day." we glanced at each other in a silent horror of despair, and aunt susannah after a few quite decent strokes, triumphantly holed out. "what next?" said she. i hastily arranged her ball on the second tee: but the luck of golf is proverbially capricious. she swung her club, and hit nothing. she swung it again, and hit the ground. "_why_ can't i do it?" she demanded, turning fiercely upon me. "you keep losing your feet," i explained deferentially. "spare me your detestable slang terms, laurence, at least!" she cried, turning on me again like a whirlwind. "if you think i have lost my temper--which is absurd!--you might have the courage to say so in plain english!" "oh, no, aunt susannah!" i said. "you don't understand----" "or want to," she snapped. "of all silly games----" "i mean you misunderstood me," i pursued, trembling. "your foot slipped, and that spoilt your stroke. you should have nails in your boots, as we have." "oh!" said aunt susannah, only half pacified. but she succeeded in dislodging her ball at last, and driving it into a bunker. at the same moment, amanda suddenly clutched me by the arm. "oh, laurence!" she said in a bloodcurdling whisper. "_what_ shall we do? here is colonel bartlemy!" the worst had happened. the hottest-tempered man in the club, the oldest member, the best player, the greatest stickler for etiquette, was hard upon our track; and aunt susannah, with a red and determined countenance, was urging her ball up the bunker, and watching it roll back again. "dear auntie," said amanda, in her sweetest voice, "you had much better take it out." "is that allowed?" inquired our relative suspiciously. "oh, you may always do that and lose a stroke!" i assured her eagerly. "i shan't dream of losing a stroke!" said aunt susannah, with decision. "i'll get it out of this ditch by fair means, if i have to spend all day over it!" "then do you mind waiting one moment?" i said, with the calmness of despair. "there is a player behind us----" "let him stay behind us! i was here first," said aunt susannah; and she returned to her bunker. the links rose up in a hillock immediately behind us, so that our successor could not see us until he had reached the first hole. i stood with my eye glued to the spot where he might be expected to appear. i saw, as in a nightmare, the scathing remarks that would find their way into the suggestion book. i longed for a sudden and easy death. at the moment when colonel bartlemy's rubicund face appeared over the horizon, aunt susannah, flushed but unconquered, drew herself up for a moment's rest from toil. he had seen her. amanda shut her eyes. for myself, i would have run away shamelessly, if there had been any place to run to. the colonel and aunt susannah looked hard at each other. then he began to hurry down the slope, while she started briskly up it. "miss cadwalader!" said the colonel. "colonel bartlemy!" cried aunt susannah; and they met with effusion. i saw amanda's eyes open, and grow round with amazed interest. i knew perfectly well that she had scented a bygone love affair, and was already planning the most suitable wedding-garb for aunt susannah. a frantic hope came to me that in that case the colonel's affection might prove stronger than his zeal for golf. they were strolling down to us in a leisurely manner, and the subject of their conversation broke upon my astonished ears. "i'm afraid you don't think much of these links, after yours," colonel bartlemy was saying anxiously. "they are rather new----" "oh, i've played on many worse," said aunt susannah, looking round her with a critical eye. "let me see--i haven't seen you since your victory at craigmory. congratulations!" "approbation from sir hubert stanley!" purred the colonel, evidently much gratified. "you will be here for the twenty-seventh, i hope?" "exactly what i came for," said aunt susannah calmly. "though i don't know what our ladies will say to playing against the cranford champion!" chuckled the colonel; and then they condescended to become aware of our existence. we had never known before how exceedingly small it is possible to feel. "aunt susannah, what am i to say? what fools you must think us!" i murmured miserably to her, when the colonel was out of earshot looking for his ball. "we are such raw players ourselves--and of course we never dreamt----" aunt susannah twinkled at me in a friendly manner. "there's an ancient proverb about eggs and grandmothers," she remarked cheerfully. "there should be a modern form for golf-balls and aunts--hey, laurence?" amanda did not win the prize brooch; but aunt susannah did, in spite of an overwhelming handicap, and gave it to her. she does not often wear it--possibly because rubies are not becoming to her: possibly because its associations are too painful. * * * * * [illustration: the retort courteous.--(_the major-general waiting to drive, to girl carrying baby, who blocks the way_). "now then, hurry on please with that baby." _girl._ "garn! baby yerself, playing at ball there in your knickerbockers an' all!"] * * * * * [illustration: a golf tournament in ye time of ye romans _from a rare old frieze (not) in ye british museum._] * * * * * [illustration: "anyway, it's better to break one's ---clubs than to lose one's ------temper!!"] * * * * * [illustration: a place for everything.--_obstructive lady (in reply to the golfer's warning call)._ "the whole world wasn't made for golf, sir." _youngster._ "no; but the links _wis_. 'fore!"] * * * * * [illustration: unenviable position of mr. pottles, whose record drive has just landed fairly in the ribs of irascible old colonel curry, out for his constitutional canter.] * * * * * [illustration: _aunt jabisca (pointing to earnest golfer endeavouring to play out of quarry)._ "dear me, maud, what a respectably dressed man that is breaking stones!"] * * * * * [illustration: suggestion for a rainy day. spillikins on a grand scale.] * * * * * [illustration: golf ã� la watteau--and otherwise] * * * * * [illustration: _major brummel (comparing the length of his and his opponent's "drives")._ "i think i'm shorter than mr. simkins?" _small caddie (a new hand, greatly flattered at being asked, as he thinks, to judge of their personal appearance)._ "yes, sir, and fatterer too, sir!" [_delight of the gallant major._] ] * * * * * [illustration: arry at golf.] * * * * * [illustration: _miss dora (to major putter, who is playing an important match, and has just lost his ball)._ "oh, major, do come and take your horrid ball away from my little dog. he won't let me touch it, and i know he must be ruining his teeth!"] * * * * * the lost golfer [the sharp decline of ping-pong, whose attractions at its zenith seduced many golfers from the nobler sport, has left a marked void in the breasts of these renegades. some of them from a natural sense of shame hesitate to return to their first love. the conclusion of the following lines should be an encouragement to this class of prodigal.] just for a celluloid pillule he left us, just for an imbecile batlet and ball, these were the toys by which fortune bereft us of jennings, our captain, the pride of us all. shopmen with clubs to sell handed him rackets, rackets of sand-paper, rubber and felt, said to secure an unplayable service, pestilent screws and the death-dealing welt. oft had we played with him, partnered him, sworn by him, copied his pitches in height and in cut, hung on his words as he delved in a bunker, made him our pattern to drive and to putt. benedick's with us, the major is of us, swiper the county bat's still going strong; he alone broke from the links and the clubhouse, he alone sank in the slough of ping-pong. we have "come on"--but not his the example; sloe-gin has quickened us--not his the cash; holes done in 6 where a 4 would be ample vexed him not, busy perfecting a smash. rased was his name as a decadent angel, one more mind unhinged by a piffulent game, one more parlour-hero, the worshipped of school-girls who once had a princely "plus 5" to his name. jennings is gone; yet perhaps he'll come back to us, healed of his hideous lesion of brain, back to the links in the daytime; at twilight back to his cosy club corner again. back for the medal day, back for our foursomes, back from the tables' diminishing throng, back from the infantile, ceaseless half-volley, back from the lunatic lure of ping-pong. * * * * * [illustration: _tennis player (from london)._ "don't see the fun o' this game--knockin' a ball into a bush, and then 'untin' about for it!"] * * * * * [illustration: the american husband] * * * * * [illustration: the english wife] * * * * * [illustration: a too-feeble expletive _macsymon._ "i saw you were carrying for the professor yesterday, sandy. how does he play?" _sandy._ "eh, yon man'll never be a gowffer. div ye ken what he says when he foozles a ba'?" _macsymon._ "no. what does he say?" _sandy._ "'_tut-tut!_'"] * * * * * the links 'tis a brilliant autumn day, and the breeze has blown away all the clouds that lowered gray; so methinks, as i've half an hour to spare, i will go and take the air, while the weather still is fair, on the links. i admire the splendid view, the delicious azure hue of the ocean and--when, _whew_! with a crack, lo! there drops a little ball which elects to break its fall by alighting on the small of my back. in the distance someone cries some remark about my eyes, none too pleasant, i surmise, from the tone; so away my steps i turn till a figure i discern, who is mouching by the burn all alone. he has lost a new "eclipse," and a little word that slips from his sulky-looking lips tells me true that, besides the missing ball, which is gone beyond recall, he has lost--what's worst of all- temper, too. i conclude it will be best if i leave him unaddressed, such a melancholy quest to pursue; and i pass to where i spy clouds of sand uprising high till they all but hide the sky from the view. they proceed, i understand, from a bunker full of sand, where a golfer, club in hand, freely swears as he hacks with all his might, till his countenance is quite as vermilion as the bright coat he wears. i observe him for a while with a highly-tickled smile, for it is the queerest style ever seen: he is very short and stout, and he knocks the ball about, but he never gets it out on the green. still i watch him chop and hack, till i hear a sudden crack, and the club-head makes a track in the light- there's a startled cry of "fore!" as it flies, and all is o'er!- i remember nothing more till to-night, when i find myself in bed with a lump upon my head like a penny loaf of bread; and methinks, for the future i'll take care when i want a little air, that i won't go anywhere near the links. [illustration: punch] * * * * * [illustration: the miseries of a _very_ amateur golfer he is very shy, and unfortunately has to drive off in front of the lady champion and a large gallery. he makes a tremendous effort. the ball travels at least five yards!] * * * * * [illustration: _golfer._ "and what's your name?" _caddie._ "they ca' me 'breeks, but ma maiden name is christy."] * * * * * [illustration: "mummy, what's that man for?"] * * * * * [illustration: distinction without difference.--_sensitive golfer (who has foozled)._ "did you laugh at me, boy?" _caddie._ "no, sir; i wis laughin' at anither man." _sensitive golfer._ "and what's funny about him?" _caddie._ "he plays gowf awfu' like you, sir!"] * * * * * [illustration: jones cannot see his ball anywhere, although he is positive it fell about there somewhere.] * * * * * [illustration: caddie] never have a caddie with a squint! (_a lay of the links_) they told me he was skilful, and assiduous, and true, they told me he had "carried" for the bravest and the best. his hair was soldier-scarlet, and his eyes were saucer blue, and one seemed looking eastward, whilst the other fronted west. his strabismus was a startler, and it shook my nerve at once; it affected me with dizziness, like gazing from a height. i straddled like a duffer, and i wavered like a dunce, and my right hand felt a left one, and my left felt far from right. as i watched him place my ball with his visual axes crossed, the very sunshine glimmered, with a queer confusing glint, i felt like a sick lubber on atlantic surges tossed- oh! never have a caddie with a squint! i'm an "irritable duffer"--so my enemies declare,- that is i'm very sensitive, and play a modest game. a very little puts me off my stroke, and, standing there, with his boot-heels at right angles, and his optics much the same, he maddened me--no less, and i felt that all success against bumptious young mcbungo--was impossible that day. i'd have parted with a fiver to have beaten him. his dress was so very very swagger, and his scarlet cap so gay. he eyed my cross-eyed caddie with a supercilious smirk, i tried to set my features, and my nerves, like any flint; but my "knicker'd" knees were knocking as i wildly set to work. oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint! [illustration: golfer] i tried to look away from the spoiler of my play, but for fiendish fascination he was like a squinting snake; all the muffings man can muff i contrived to muff that day; my eyes were all askew and my nerves were all ashake. i seemed to squint myself, and not only with my eyes, my knees, my hands, my elbows, with obliquity were rife. mcbungo's sleek sham sympathy and sinister surprise made almost insupportable the burden of my life. he _was_ so beastly friendly, and he _was_ so blazing fair, so fulsomely effusive with suggestion, tip, and hint! and all the while that caddie stood serenely cock-eyed there. oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint! miss binks was looking on! on that maiden i was gone, just as she was gone on golf, in perfervid scottish style. on my merits with mcbungo i should just about have won, but my shots to-day were such as made even effie smile; oh, the lumps of turf i lifted! oh, the easy balls i missed! oh, the bunkers i got bogged in! and at last a gentle scorn curled the lips i would have given my pet "putter" to have kissed. such a bungler as myself her loved links had never borne; and all the while mcbungo--the young crocodile!--bewailed what he called my "beastly luck," though his joy was plain as print, whilst that squint grew worse and worse at each shot of mine which failed. oh! never have a caddie with a squint! [illustration: lady golfer] in "playing through the green" with my "brassie" i was seen at most dismal disadvantage on that miserable day; _he_ pointed through the rushes with cock-eyed, sardonic spleen,- i followed his squint guidance, and i struck a yard away; but, oh! 'twas worst of all, when i tried to hole the ball. oh, the ogre! _how_ he squinted at that crisis of the game! his hideous strabismus held me helpless, a blind thrall shattered my nerves completely, put my skill to open shame. that squint would, i am sure, have upset the solar system- oho! the impish impudence, the gruesome goggle-glint! the low, malicious chuckle, as he softly muttered, "missed 'im!" no, _never_ have a caddie with a squint! yet all the same mcbungo did _not_ get that rich miss binks, who was so sweet in every way, especially on golf. he fancied he had cut me out that day upon those links, but although he won the game--at golf, his love-game came not off. he and that demon caddie tried between them very hard to shame me in the eyes of that dear enthusiast, but--well, my clubs she carries, whilst mcbungo, evil-starred, was caught by a scotch vixen with an obvious optic cast! _that's_ nemesis, i say! and she will not let him play at the game he so adores. true she's wealthy as the mint. at golf, with effie, i have passed many a happy day, but--we never have a caddie with a squint! a caddie who's a duffer, or a caddie who gets drunk; a caddie who regards all other caddies as his foes; a caddie who will snigger when you fumble, fail or funk; a caddie who will whistle, or seems ever on the doze; a caddie who's too tiny, or too big and broad of bulk; a caddie who gets playing with your clubs upon the sly; a caddie who will chatter, or a caddie who will sulk; all these are calculated a golf devotee to try; all these are most vexatious to a golfer of repute; and still more so to a novice. but just take a friendly hint! take a caddie who's a duffer, or a drunkard, or a brute, _but never try a caddie with a squint!!!_ * * * * * [illustration: another lenten sacrifice.--_golf caddie (to curate)._ "high tee, sir?" _curate._ "no; put it on the ground. i give up sand during lent."] * * * * * [illustration: _voice from the hill._ "now then, you young coward, don't stand about all day. why don't you _take it away_ from the dog?"] * * * * * [illustration: _boy (to young lady, who has been unfortunate enough to upset colonel bunker)._ "you'd better ride on before 'e gets 'is breath, miss!" _young lady._ "why?" _boy._ "_i've 'eard 'im play golf!!!_"] * * * * * a growl from golfland bores there are of various species, of the platform, of the quill, bores obsessed by christian science or the education bill, but the most exasperating and intolerable bore is the man who talks of nothing but the latest "rubber core." place him in the great sahara, plant him on an arctic floe, or a desert island, fifteen thousand miles from westward ho! pick him up a twelvemonth later, and i'll wager that you find rubber filling _versus_ gutty still and solely on his mind. o american invaders, i accept your beef, your boots, your historical romances, and your californian fruits; but in tones of humble protest i am tempted to exclaim, "can't you draw the line at commerce, can't you spare one british game?" i am but a simple duffer; i am quite prepared to state that my lowest round on record was a paltry 88; that my partner in a foursome needs the patience of a job, that in moments of excitement i am apt to miss the globe. with my brassy and my putter i am very far to seek, generally slice to cover with my iron and my cleek; but i boast a single virtue: i can honestly maintain i've escaped the fatal fever known as haskell on the brain. * * * * * [illustration: a golf case was recently before the court of appeal. why not a golf court on the links?] * * * * * golf victor! sir golf and sir tennis are fighting like mad- now sir tennis is blown, and sir golf's right above him, and his face has a look that is weary and sad, as he hastily turns to the ladies who love him, but the racket falls from him, he totters, and swirls, as he hears them cry, "golf is the game for the girls!" * * * the girls crave for freedom, they cannot endure to be cramped up at tennis in courts that are poky and they are all of them certainly, perfectly sure that they'll never again touch "that horrible croquet," where it's quite on the cards that they may play with papa, and where all that goes on is surveyed by mamma, to golf on the downs for the whole of the day is "so awfully jolly," they keep on asserting, with a good-looking fellow to teach you the way, and to fill up the time with some innocent flirting, and it may be the maiden is woo'd and is won, ere the whole of the round is completed and done. henceforward, then, golf is the game for the fair- at home, and abroad, or in pastures colonial, and the shouts of the ladies will quite fill the air for the links that will turn into bonds matrimonial, and for husbands our daughters in future will seek with the powerful aid of the putter and cleek! * * * * * [illustration: finis] bradbury, agnew, & co. ld., printers, london and tonbridge. the half-back a story of school, football, and golf by ralph henry barbour illustrated by b. west clinedinst [illustration] to every american boy who loves honest, manly sport, this story is dedicated. contents. chapter i.--the boy in the straw hat. ii.--station road and river path. iii.--outfield west. iv.--the head coach. v.--a rainy afternoon. vi.--the practice game. vii.--a letter home. viii.--the golf tournament. ix.--an evening call. x.--the broken bell rope. xi.--two heroes. xii.--the probation of blair. xiii.--the game with st. eustace. xiv.--the goodwin scholarship. xv.--the boat race. xvi.--good-by to hillton. xvii.--the sacred order of hullabalooloo. xviii.--visitors from marchdale. xix.--a varsity sub. xx.--an old friend. xxi.--the departure. xxii.--before the battle. xxiii.--harwell _vs_. yates--the first half. xxiv.--harwell _vs_. yates--a fault and a requital. xxv.--the return. list of illustrations. a leap in the nick of time. joel's arrival at school. his next drive took him cleanly over rocky bunker. "stay where you are; the fellows are bringing a boat". the left-guard bore down straight upon joel. instantly the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water. diagrams. plan of hillton academy golf links. diagram of second play. diagram of third play. positions, harwell _vs_. yates. chapter i. the boy in the straw hat. "how's craps, country?" "shut up, bart! he may hear you." "what if he does, ninny? i want him to. say, spinach!" "do you suppose he's going to try and play football, bart?" "not he. he's looking for a rake. thinks this is a hayfield, wall." the speakers were lying on the turf back of the north goal on the campus at hillton academy. the elder and larger of the two was a rather coarse-looking youth of seventeen. his name was bartlett cloud, shortened by his acquaintances to "bart" for the sake of that brevity beloved of the schoolboy. his companion, wallace clausen, was a handsome though rather frail-looking boy, a year his junior. the two were roommates and friends. "he'd better rake his hair," responded the latter youth jeeringly. "i'll bet there's lots of hayseed in it!" the subject of their derisive remarks, although standing but a scant distance away, apparently heard none of them. "hi, west!" shouted bartlett cloud as a youth, attired in a finely fitting golf costume, and swinging a brassie, approached. the newcomer hesitated, then joined the two friends. "hello! you fellows. what's up? thought it was golf, from the crowd over here." he stretched himself beside them on the grass. "golf!" answered bartlett cloud contemptuously. "i don't believe you ever think of anything except golf, out! do you ever wake up in the middle of the night trying to drive the pillow out of the window with a bed-slat?" "oh, sometimes," answered outfield west smilingly. "there's a heap more sense in being daft over a decent game like golf than in going crazy about football. it's just a kid's game." "oh, is it?" growled bartlett cloud. "i'd just like to have you opposite me in a good stiff game for about five minutes. i'd show you something about the 'kid's game!'" "well, i don't say you couldn't knock me down a few times and walk over me, but who wants to play such games--except a lot of bullies like yourself?" "plenty of fellows, apparently," answered the third member of the group, wallace clausen, hastening to avert the threatening quarrel. "just look around you. i've never seen more fellows turn out at the beginning of the season than are here to-day. there must be sixty here." "more like a hundred," grunted "bart" cloud, not yet won over to good temper. "every little freshman thinks he can buy a pair of moleskins and be a football man. look at that fellow over yonder, the one with the baggy trousers and straw hat. the idea of that fellow coming down here just out of the hayfield and having the cheek to report for football practice! what do you suppose he would do if some one threw a ball at him?" "catch it in his hat," suggested wallace clausen. "he _does_ look a bit--er--rural," said outfield west, eying the youth in question. "i fear he doesn't know a bulger from a baffy," he added sorrowfully. "what's more to the subject," said wallace clausen, "is that he probably doesn't know a touch-down from a referee. there's where the fun will come in." "well, i'm no judge of football, thank goodness!" answered west, "but from the length of that chap i'll bet he's a bully kicker." "nonsense. that's what a fellow always thinks who doesn't know anything about the game. it takes something more than long legs to make a good punter." "perhaps; but there's one thing sure, bart: that hayseed will be a better player than you at the end of two months--that is, if he gets taken on." "i'll bet you he won't be able to catch a punt," growled cloud. "a fool like him can no more learn football than--than--" "than you could learn golf," continued west sweetly. "oh, shut up! i know a mule that plays golf better than you do." "well, i sha'n't attempt to compete with your friends, bart." "there you both go, quarreling again," cried clausen. "if you don't shut up, i'll have to whip the pair of you." wallace clausen was about two thirds the size of cloud, and lacked both the height and breadth of shoulder that made west's popular nickname of "out" west seem so appropriate. clausen's threat was so absurd that cloud came back to good humor with a laugh, and even west grinned. "come on, wall--there's blair," said cloud. "you'd better come too, out, and learn something about a decent game." west shook his head, and the other two arose and hurried away to where the captain of the school eleven was standing beneath the west goal, surrounded by a crowd of variously attired football aspirants. west, left to himself, sighed lazily and fell to digging holes in the turf with his brassie. tiring of this amusement in a trice, he arose and sauntered over to the side-line and watched the operations. some sixty boys, varying in age from fifteen to nineteen, some clothed in full football rig, some wearing the ordinary dress in which they had stepped from the school rooms an hour before, all laughing or talking with the high spirits produced upon healthy youth by the tonic breezes of late september, were standing about the gridiron. i have said that all were laughing or talking. this is not true; one among them was silent. for standing near by was the youth who had aroused the merriment of cloud and clausen, and who west had shortly before dubbed "rural." and rural he looked. his gray and rather wrinkled trousers and his black coat and vest of cheap goods were in the cut of two seasons gone, and his discolored straw hat looked sadly out of place among so many warm caps. but as he watched the scene with intent and earnest face there was that about him that held west's attention. he looked to be about seventeen. his height was above the ordinary, and in the broad shoulders and hips lay promise of great strength and vigor. but it was the face that attracted west most. so earnest, honest, and fearless was it that west unconsciously wished to know it better, and found himself drawing nearer to the straw hat and baggy gray trousers. but their owner appeared to be unconscious of his presence and west paused. "i don't believe that chap knows golf from puss-in-the-corner," mused west, "but i'll bet a dozen silvertowns that he could learn; and that's more than most chaps here can. i almost believe that i'd loan him my new dogwood driver!" wesley blair, captain of the eleven, was bringing order out of chaos. blair was one of the leaders in school life at hillton, a strongly built, manly fellow, beloved of the higher class boys, adored from a distance by the youngsters. blair was serving his second term as football captain, having been elected to succeed himself the previous fall. at this moment, attired in the crimson sweater, moleskin trousers, and black and crimson stockings that made up the school uniform, he looked every inch the commander of the motley array that surrounded him. "warren, you take a dozen or so of these fellows over there out of the way and pass the ball awhile. get their names first.--christie, you take another dozen farther down the field." the crowd began to melt away, squad after squad moving off down the field to take position and learn the rudiments of the game. blair assembled the experienced players about him and, dividing them into two groups, put them to work at passing and falling. the youth with the straw hat still stood unnoticed on the side-line. when the last of the squads had moved away he stepped forward and addressed the captain: "where do you want me?" blair, suppressing a smile of amusement as he looked the applicant over, asked: "ever played any?" "some; i was right end on the felton grammar school team last year." "where's felton grammar school, please?" "maine, near auburn." "oh! what's your name?" "joel march." "can you kick?" "pretty fair." "well, show me what you consider pretty fair." he turned to the nearest squad. "toss me the ball a minute, ned. here's a chap who wants to try a kick." ned post threw the ball, and his squad of veterans turned to observe the odd-looking country boy toe the pigskin. several audible remarks were made, none of them at all flattering to the subject of them; but if the latter heard them he made no sign, but accepted the ball from blair without fumbling it, much to the surprise of the onlookers. among these were clausen and cloud, their mouths prepared for the burst of ironical laughter that was expected to follow the country boy's effort. "drop or punt?" asked the latter, as he settled the oval in a rather ample hand. "which can you kick best?" questioned blair. the youth considered a moment. "i guess i can punt best." he stepped back, balancing the ball in his right hand, took a long stride forward, swung his right leg in a wide arc, dropped the ball, and sent it sailing down the field toward the distant goal. a murmur of applause took the place of the derisive laugh, and blair glanced curiously at the former right end-rush of the felton grammar school. "yes, that's pretty fair. some day with hard practice you may make a kicker." several of the older fellows smiled knowingly. it was blair's way of nipping conceit in the bud. "what class are you in?" "upper middle," replied the youth under the straw hat, displaying no disappointment at the scant praise. "well, march, kindly go down the field to that last squad and tell tom warren that i sent you. and say," he continued, as the candidate started off, and he was struck anew with the oddity of the straw hat and wrinkled trousers, "you had better tell him that you are the man that punted that ball." "that chap has got to learn golf," said outfield west to himself as he turned away after witnessing the incident, "even if i have to hog-tie him and teach it to him. what did he say his name was? february? march? that was it. it's kind of a chilly name. i'll make it a point to scrape acquaintance with him. he's a born golfer. his calm indifference when blair tried to 'take him down' was beautiful to see. he's the sort of fellow that would smile if he made a foozle in a medal play." west drew a golf ball from his pocket and, throwing it on the turf, gave it a half-shot off toward the river, following leisurely after it and pondering on the possibility of making a crack golfer out of a country lad in a straw hat. over on the gridiron, meanwhile, the candidates for football honors were limbering up in a way that greatly surprised not a few of the inexperienced. it is one thing to watch the game from the grand stand or side-lines and another to have an awkward, wobbly, elusive spheroid tossed to the ground a few feet from you and be required to straightway throw yourself upon it in such manner that when it stops rolling it will be snugly stowed between you and the ground. if the reader has played football he will know what this means. if he has not--well, there is no use trying to explain it to him. he must get a ball and try it for himself. but even this exercise may lose its terrors after a while, and when at the end of an hour or more the lads were dismissed, there were many among them, who limped back to their rooms sore and bruised, but proudly elated over their first day with the pigskin. even to the youth in the straw hat it was tiresome work, although not new to him, and after practice was over, instead of joining in the little stream that eddied back to the academy grounds, he struck off to where a long straggling row of cedars and firs marked the course of the river. once there he found himself standing on a bluff with the broad, placid stream stretching away to the north and south at his feet. the bank was some twenty feet high and covered sparsely with grass and weeds; and a few feet below him a granite bowlder stuck its lichened head outward from the cliff, forming an inviting seat from which to view the sunset across the lowland opposite. the boy half scrambled, half fell the short distance, and, settling himself in comfort on the ledge, became at once absorbed in his thoughts. perhaps he was thinking a trifle sadly of the home which he had left back there among the maine hills, and which must have seemed a very long way off; or perhaps he was dwelling in awe upon the erudition of that excellent greek gentleman, mr. xenophon, whose acquaintance, by means of the anabasis, he was just making; or perhaps he was thinking of no more serious a subject than football and the intricate art of punting. but, whatever his thoughts may have been, they were doomed to speedy interruption, as will be seen. outfield west left the campus behind and, with the little white ball soaring ahead, took his way leisurely to the woods that bordered the tiny lake. here he spent a quarter of an hour amid the tall grass and bushes, fighting his way patiently out of awkward lies, and finally driving off by the river bank, where a stretch of close, hard sod offered excellent chances for long shots. again and again the ball flew singing on its way, till at last the campus was at hand again, and stony bunker intervened between west and home. stony bunker lay close to the river bluff and was the terror of all hillton golfers, for, while a too short stroke was likely to leave you in the sand pit, a too vigorous one was just as likely to land you in the river. west knew stony bunker well by reason of former meetings, and he knew equally well what amount of swing was necessary to land just over the hazard, but well short of the bluff. perhaps it was the brassie that was to blame--for a full-length, supple-shafted, wooden driver would have been what you or i would have chosen for that stroke--or perhaps west himself was to blame. that as it may be, the fact remains that that provoking ball flew clear over the bunker as though possessed of wings and disappeared over the bluff! with an exclamation of disgust west hurried after, for when they cost thirty-five cents apiece golf balls are not willingly lost even by lads who, like outfield west, possess allowances far in excess of their needs. but the first glance down the bank reassured him, for there was the runaway ball snugly ensconced on the tiny strip of sandy beach that intervened between the bank and the water. west grasped an overhanging fir branch and swung himself over the ledge. now, that particular branch was no longer youthful and strong, and consequently when it felt the full weight of west's one hundred and thirty-five pounds it simply broke in his hand, and the boy started down the steep slope with a rapidity that rather unnerved him and brought an involuntary cry of alarm to his lips. it was the cry that was the means of saving him from painful results, since at the bottom of the bank lay a bed of good-sized rocks that would have caused many an ugly bruise had he fallen among them. but suddenly, as he went falling, slipping, clutching wildly at the elusive weeds, he was brought up with a suddenness that drove the breath from his body. weak and panting, he struggled up to the top of the jutting ledge, assisted by two strong arms, and throwing himself upon it looked wonderingly around for his rescuer. above him towered the boy in the straw hat. chapter ii. station road and river path. traveling north by rail up the hudson valley you will come, when some two hours from new york, to a little stone depot nestling at the shoulder of a high wooded hill. to reach it the train suddenly leaves the river a mile back, scurries across a level meadow, shrills a long blast on the whistle, and pauses for an instant at hillton. if your seat chances to be on the left side of the car, and if you look quickly just as the whistle sounds, you will see in the foreground a broad field running away to the river, and in it an oval track, a gayly colored grand stand, and just beyond, at some distance from each other, what appear to the uninitiated to be two gallows. farther on rises a gentle hill, crowned with massive elms, from among which tower the tops of a number of picturesque red-brick buildings. then the train hurries on again, under the shadow of mount adam, where in the deep maple woods the squirrels leap all day among the tree tops and where the sunlight strives year after year to find its way through the thick shade, and once more the river is beside you, the train is speeding due north again, and you have, perhaps without knowing it, caught a glimpse of hillton academy. from the little stone station a queer old coach rumbles away down a wide country road. it carries the mail and the village supplies and, less often, a traveler; and the driver, "old joe" pike, has grown gray between the station and the eagle tavern. if, instead of going on to the north, you had descended from the train, and had mounted to the seat beside "old joe," you would have made the acquaintance of a very worthy member of hillton society, and, besides, have received a deal of information as the two stout grays trotted along. "yes, that's the 'cademy up there among them trees, that buildin' with the tower's the 'cademy buildin', and the squatty one that you can just see is one of the halls--masters they call it, after the man that founded the school. the big, new buildin' is another of 'em, warren; and turner's beyond it; and if you look right sharp you can see bradley hall to the left there. "here's where we turn. just keep your foot on that mail-bag, if you please, sir. there's the village, over yonder to the right. kind of high up, ain't it? ev'ry time any one builds he goes higher up the hill. that last house is old man snyder's. snyder says he can't help lookin' down on the rest of us. he, he! "that road to the left we're comin' to 's academy road. this? well, they used to call it elm street, but it's generally just 'the station road' nowadays. now you can see the school pretty well, sir. that squatty place's the gymnasium; and them two littler houses of brick's the laboratories. then the house with the wide piazza, that's professor wheeler's house; he's the principal, you know. and the one next it, the yellow wooden house, i mean, that's what they call hampton house. it's a dormatory, same as the others, but it's smaller and more select, as you might say. "hold tight, sir, around this corner. most of them, the lads, sir, live in the village, however. you see, there ain't rooms enough in the 'cademy grounds. i heard the other day that there's nigh on to two hundred and twenty boys in the school this year; i can remember when they was'nt but sixty, and it was the biggest boardin' school for boys in new york state. and that wa'n't many years ago, neither. the boys? oh, they're a fine lot, sir; a bit mischievous at times, of course, but we're used to 'em in the village. and, bless you, sir, what can you expect from a boy anyhow? there ain't none of 'em perfect by a long shot; and i guess i ought to know--i've raised eight on 'em. there's the town hall and courthouse, and the methodist church beyond. and here we are, sir, at the eagle, and an hour before supper. thank you, sir. get ap!" * * * * * hillton academy claims the distinction of being well over a century old. founded in 1782 by one peter masters, ll.d., a very good and learned pedagogue, it has for more than a hundred years maintained its high estate among boys' schools. the original charter provides "that there be, and hereby is, established ... an academy for promoting piety and virtue, and for the education of youth in the english, latin, and greek languages, in writing, arithmetic, music, and the art of speaking, practical geometry, logic, and geography, and such other of the liberal arts and sciences or languages as opportunity may hereafter permit, and as the trustees, hereinafter provided, shall direct." in the catalogue of hillton academy you may find a proud list of graduates that includes ministers plenipotentiary, members of cabinets, governors, senators, representatives, supreme court judges, college presidents, authors, and many, many other equally creditable to their alma mater. the founder and first principal of the academy passed away in 1835, as an old record says, "full of honor, and commanding the respect and love of all who knew him." he was succeeded by that best-beloved of american schoolmasters, dr. hosea bradley, whose portrait, showing a tall, dignified, and hale old gentleman, with white hair, and dressed in ceremonious broadcloth, still hangs behind the chancel of the school chapel. dr. bradley resigned a few years before his death, in 1876, and the present principal, john ross wheeler, a.m., professor of latin, took the chair. as professor wheeler is a man of inordinate modesty, and as he is quite likely to read these words, i can say but little about him. perhaps the statement of a member of the upper middle class upon his return from a visit to the "office" will serve to throw some light on his character, said the boy: "i tell _you_ i don't want to go through with that again! i'll take a licking first! he says things that count! you see, 'wheels' has been a boy himself, and he hasn't forgotten it; and that--that makes a difference somehow!" yes, that disrespectful lad said "wheels!" i have no excuse to offer for him; i only relate the incident as it occurred. the buildings, many of them a hundred years old, are with one exception of warm-hued red brick. the gymnasium is built of red sandstone. ivy has almost entirely hidden the walls of the academy building and of masters hall. the grounds are given over to well-kept sod, and the massive elms throw a tapestry of grateful shade in summer, and in winter hold the snow upon their great limbs and transform the green into a fairyland of white. from the cluster of buildings the land slopes away southward, and along the river bluff a footpath winds past the society house, past the boathouse steps, down to the campus. the path is bordered by firs, and here and there a stunted maple bends and nods to the passing skiffs. opposite the boat house, a modest bit of architecture, lies long isle, just where the river seemingly pauses for a deep breath after its bold sweep around the promontory crowned by the academy buildings. here and there along the path are little wooden benches to tempt the passer to rest and view from their hospitable seats the grand panorama of gently flowing river, of broad marsh and meadow beyond, of tiny villages dotting the distances, and of the purple wall of haze marking the line of the distant mountains. opposite long isle, a wonderful fairyland inaccessible to the scholars save on rare occasions, the river path meets the angle of the station road, where the coach makes its first turn. then the path grows indistinct, merges into a broad ten-acre plot whereon are the track, gridiron, baseball ground, and the beginning of the golf links. this is the campus. and here is stony bunker, and beyond it is the bluff and the granite ledge; and lo! here we are back again at the point from which we started on our journey of discovery; back to outfield west and to the boy in the ridiculous straw hat. chapter iii. outfield west. it was several moments before west recovered his breath enough to speak, during which time he sat and gazed at his rescuer in amazement not unmixed with curiosity. and the rescuer looked down at west in simple amusement. "thanks," gasped west at length. "i suppose i'd have broke my silly neck if you hadn't given me a hand just when you did." the other nodded. "you're welcome, of course; but i don't believe you'd have been very much hurt. what's that thing?" nodding toward the brassie, still tightly clutched in west's hand. "a bras--a golf club. i was knocking a ball around a bit, and it went over the cliff here." "i should think golf was a rather funny sort of a game." "it isn't funny at all, if you know anything about it," replied west a trifle sharply. the rescuer was on dangerous ground, had he but known it. "isn't it? well, i guess it is all in getting used to it. i don't believe i'd care much for tumbling over cliffs that way; i should think it would use a fellow up after a while." "look here," exclaimed west, "you saved me an ugly fall, and i'm very much obliged, and all that; but--but you don't know the first thing about golf, and so you had better not talk about it." he made an effort to gain his feet, but sat down again with a groan. "you sit still a while," said the boy in the straw hat, "and i'll drop down and get that ball for you." suiting the action to the word, he lowered himself over the ledge, and slid down the bank to the beach. he dropped the golf ball in his pocket, after examining it with deep curiosity, and started back. but the return was less easy than the descent had been. the bank was gravelly, and his feet could gain no hold. several times he struggled up a yard or so, only to slip back again to the bottom. "i tell you what you do," called west, leaning over. "you get a bit of a run and get up as high as you can, and try and catch hold of this stick; then i'll pull you up." the other obeyed, and succeeded in getting a firm hold of the brassie, but the rest was none so easy. west pulled and the other boy struggled, and then, at last, when both were out of breath, the straw hat rose above the ledge and its wearer scrambled up. sitting down beside west he drew the ball from his pocket and handed it over. "what do they make those of?" he asked. "gutta percha," answered west. "then they're molded and painted this way. you've never played golf, have you?" "no, we don't know much about it down our way. i've played baseball and football some. do you play football?" "no, i should say not," answered west scornfully. "you see," more graciously, "golf takes up about all my time when i haven't got some lesson on; and this is the worst place for lessons you ever saw. a chap doesn't get time for anything else." the other boy looked puzzled. "well, don't you want to study?" west stared in amazement. "study! want to? of course i don't! do you?" "very much. that's what i came to school for." "oh!" west studied the strange youth dubiously. plainly, he was not at all the sort of boy one could teach golf to. "then why were you trying for the football team awhile ago?" "because next to studying i want to play football more than anything else. don't you think i'll have time for it?" "you bet! and say, you ought to learn golf. it's the finest sport going." west's hopes revived. a fellow that wanted sport, if only football, could not be a bad sort. besides, he would get over wanting to study; that, to west, was a most unnatural desire. "there isn't half a dozen really first-class players in school. you get some clubs and i'll teach you the game." "that's very good of you," answered the boy in the straw hat, "and i'm very much obliged, but i don't think i'll have time. you see i'm in the upper middle, and they say that it's awfully hard to keep up with. still, i should really like to try my hand at it, and if i have time i'll ask you to show me a little about it. i expect you're the best player here, aren't you?" west, extremely gratified, tried to conceal his pleasure. "oh, i don't know. there's wesley blair--he's captain of the school eleven, you know--he plays a very good game, only he has a way of missing short puts. and then there's louis whipple. the only thing about whipple is that he tries to play with too few clubs. he says a fellow can play just as well with a driver and a putter and a niblick as he can with a dozen clubs. of course, that's nonsense. if whipple would use some brains about his clubs he'd make a rather fair player. there are one or two other fellows in school who are not so bad. but i believe," magnanimously, "that if blair had more time for practicing he could beat _me_." west allowed his hearer a moment in which to digest this. the straw hat was tilted down over the eyes of its wearer, who was gazing thoughtfully over the river. "i suppose he's kept pretty busy with football." "yes, he's daft about it. otherwise he's a fine chap. by the way, where'd you learn to kick a ball that way?" "on the farm. i used to practice when i didn't have much to do, which wasn't very often. jerry green and i--jerry's our hired man--we used to get out in the cow pasture and kick. then i played a year with our grammar-school eleven." "well, that was great work. if you could only drive a golf ball like that! say, what's your name?" "joel march." "mine's outfield west. the fellows call me 'out' west. my home's in pleasant city, iowa. you come from maine, don't you?" "yes; marchdale. it's just a corner store and a blacksmith shop and a few houses. we've lived there--our family, i mean--for over a hundred years." "phew!" whistled west. "dad's the oldest settler in our county, and he's been there only forty years. great gobble! we'd better be scooting back to school. come on. i'm all right now, though i _was_ a bit lame after that tumble." the two boys scrambled up the bank and set out along the river path. the sun had gone down behind the mountains, and purple shadows were creeping up from the river. the tower of the academy building still glowed crimson where the sun-rays shone on the windows. "where's your room?" asked west. "thirty-four masters hall," answered joel march; for now that we have twice been introduced to him there is no excuse for us to longer ignore his name. "mine's in hampton house," said west. "number 2. i have it all to myself. who's in with you?" "a fellow named sproule." "'dickey' sproule? he's an awful cad. why didn't you get a room in the village? you have lots more fun there; and you can get a better room too; although some of the rooms in warren are not half bad." "they cost too much," replied march. "you see, father's not very well off, and can't help me much. he pays my tuition, and i've enough money of my own that i've earned working out to make up the rest. so, of course, i've got to be careful." "well, you're a queer chap!" exclaimed west. "why?" asked joel march. "oh, i don't know. wanting to study, and earning your own schooling, and that sort of thing." "oh, i suppose your father has plenty of money, hasn't he?" "gobs! i have twenty dollars a month allowance for pocket money." "i wish i had," answered march. "you must have a good deal saved up by the end of the year." west stared. "saved? why, i'm dead broke this minute. and i owe three bills in town. don't tell any one, because it's against the rules to have bills, you know. anyhow, what's the good of saving? there's lots more." it was march's turn to stare. "what do you spend it for?" he asked. "oh, golf clubs and balls, and cakes and pies and things," answered west carelessly. "then a fellow has to dress a little, or the other fellows look down on you." "do they?" march cast a glance over his own worn apparel. "then i guess i must try their eyes a good deal." "well, i wouldn't care--much," answered west halfheartedly. "though of course that hat--" "yes, i suppose it is a little late for straws." west nodded heartily. "i was going to get a felt in boston, but--well, i saw something else i wanted worse; and it was my own money." "what was it?" asked west curiously. "a book." west whistled. "well, you can get a pretty fair one in the village at grove's. and--and a pair of trousers if you want them." march nodded, noncommittingly. they had reached the gymnasium. "i'm going in for a shower," said west. "you'd better come along." march shook his head. "i guess not to-night. it's most supper time, and i want to read a little first. good-night." "good-night," answered west. "i'm awfully much obliged for what you did, you know. come and see me to-morrow if you can; number 2 hampton. good-night." joel march turned and retraced his steps to his dormitory. he found his roommate reading at the table when he entered number 34. sproule looked up and observed: "i saw you with outfield west a moment ago. it looks rather funny for a 'grind,' as you profess to be, hobnobbing with a hampton house swell." "i haven't professed to be a 'grind,'" answered joel quietly, as he opened his greek. "well, your actions profess it. and west will drop you quicker than a hot cake when he finds it out. why, he never studies a lick! none of those hampton house fellows do." march made no answer, but presently asked, in an effort to be sociable: "what are you reading?" "the three cutters; ever read it?" "no; what's it about?" "oh, pirates and smuggling and such." "i should think it would be first rate." "it is. i'd let you take it after i'm through, only it isn't mine; i borrowed it from billy cozzens." "thanks," answered joel, "but i don't believe i'd have time for it." "humph!" grunted sproule. "there you are again, putting on airs. just wait until you've been here two or three months; i guess i won't hear so much about study then." joel received this taunt in silence, and, burying his head in his hands, tackled the story of cyrus the younger. joel had already come to a decision regarding richard sproule, a decision far from flattering to that youth. but in view of the fact that the two were destined to spend much of their time together, joel recognized the necessity of making the best of his roommate, and of what appeared to be an unsatisfactory condition. during the two days that joel had been in school sproule had nagged him incessantly upon one subject or another, and so far joel had borne the persecution in silence. "but some day," mused joel, "i'll just _have_ to punch his head!" richard sproule was a member of the senior class, and monitor for the floor upon which he had his room. he had, perhaps, no positive meanness in him. most of his unpleasantness was traceable to envy. just at present he was cultivating a dislike for joel because of the latter's enviable success at lessons and because a resident of hampton house had taken him up. sproule cared nothing for out-of-door amusements and hated lessons. his whole time, except when study was absolutely compulsory, was taken up with the reading of books of adventure; and captain marryat and fenimore cooper were far closer acquaintances than either cicero or caesar. richard sproule was popularly disliked and shunned. in the dining hall that evening joel ate and relished his first hearty meal since he had arrived at hillton. the exercise had brought back a naturally good appetite, which had been playing truant. the dining hall takes up most of the ground floor of warren hall. eight long, roomy tables are arranged at intervals, with broad aisles between, through which the white-aproned waiters hurry noiselessly about. to-night there was a cheerful clatter of spoons and forks and a loud babel of voices, and joel found himself hugely enjoying the novelty of eating in the presence of more than a hundred and fifty other lads. outfield west and his neighbors in hampton house occupied a far table, and there the noise was loudest. west was dressed like a young prince, and his associates were equally as splendid. as joel observed them, west glanced across and saw him, and waved a hilarious greeting with a soup spoon. joel nodded laughingly back, and then settled in his chair with an agreeable sensation of being among friends. this feeling grew when, toward the end of his meal, wesley blair, in leaving the hall, saw him and stopped beside his chair. "how did you get on this afternoon?" blair asked pleasantly. "very well, thanks," joel replied. "that's good. by the way, go and see mr. beck to-morrow and get examined. tell him i sent you. you'll find him at the gym at about eleven. and don't forget to show up to-morrow at practice." the elder youth passed on, leaving joel the center of interest for several moments. his left-hand neighbor, a boy who affected very red neckties, and who had hitherto displayed no interest in his presence, now turned and asked if he knew blair. "no," replied joel. "i met him only to-day on the football field." "are you on the 'leven?" "no, but i'm trying for it." "well, i guess you'll make it; blair doesn't often go out of his way to encourage any one." "i hope i shall," answered joel. "who is mr. beck, please?" "he's director of the gym. you have to be examined, you know; if you don't come up to requirements you can't go in for football." "oh, thank you." and joel applied himself to his pudding, and wondered if there was any possibility of his not passing. apparently there was not; for when, on the following day, he presented himself at the gymnasium, he came through the ordeal of measurement and test with flying colors, and with the command to pay special attention to the chest-weights, was released, at liberty to "go in" for any sport he liked. despite his forebodings, the studies proved not formidable, and at four o'clock joel reported for football practice with a comforting knowledge of duties performed. an hour and a half of steady practice, consisting of passing, falling, and catching punts, left the inexperienced candidates in a state of breathless collapse when blair dismissed the field. west did not turn up at the gridiron, but a tiny scarlet speck far off on the golf links proclaimed his whereabouts. on the way back to the grounds a number of youthful juniors, bravely arrayed in their first suits of football togs, loudly denounced the vigor of the practice, and pantingly made known to each other their intentions to let the school get along as best it might without their assistance on its eleven. they would be no great loss, thought joel, as he trudged along in the rear of the procession, and their resignation would probably save blair the necessity of incurring their dislikes when the process of "weeding-out" began. although no special attention had been given to joel during practice, yet he had been constantly aware of blair's observation, and had known that several of the older fellows were watching his work with interest. his feat of the previous day had already secured to him a reputation throughout the school, and as the little groups of boys passed him he heard himself alluded to as "the country fellow that punted fifty yards yesterday," or "the chap that made that kick." and when the three long, steep flights of masters confronted him he took them two steps at a time, and arrived before the door of number 34 breathless, but as happy as a schoolboy can be. chapter iv. the head coach. "upper middle class: members will meet at the gym at 2.15, to march to depot and meet mr. remsen." "louis whipple, _pres't_." this was the notice pasted on the board in academy building the morning of joel's fifth day at school. beside it were similar announcements to members of the other classes. as he stood in front of the board joel felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and turned to find outfield west by his side. "are you going along?" asked that youth. "i don't believe so," answered joel. "i have a latin recitation at two." "well, chuck it! everybody is going--and the band, worse luck!" "is there a band?" west threw up his hands in mock despair. "is there a _band? is_ there a band! mr. march, your ignorance surprises and pains me. it is quite evident that you have never heard the hillton academy band; no one who has ever heard it forgets. yes, my boy, there _is_ a band, and it plays washington post, and hail columbia, and hilltonians; and then it plays them all over again." "but i thought mr. remsen was not coming until saturday?" "that," replied west, confidentially, "was his intention, but he heard of a youngster up here who is such an astonishingly fine punter that he decided to come at once and see for himself; and so he telegraphed to blair this morning. and you and i, my lad, will march--see?--with the procession, and sing--" "'hilltonians, hilltonians, your crimson banner fling unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! hilltonians! hilltonians! we stand to do or die, beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!'" and, seizing joel by the arm, west dragged him out of the corridor and down the steps into the warm sunlight of a september noon, chanting the school song at the top of his voice. a group of boys on the green shouted lustily back, and the occupant of a neighboring window threw a cushion with unerring precision at west's head. stopping to deposit this safely amid the branches halfway up an elm tree, the two youths sped across the yard toward warren hall and the dinner table. "you sit at our table, march," announced west. "digbee's away, and you can have his seat. come on." joel followed, and found himself in the coveted precincts of the hampton house table, and was introduced to five youths, who received him very graciously, and invited him to partake of such luxuries as pickled walnuts and peach marmalade. joel was fast making the discovery that to be vouched for by outfield west invariably secured the highest consideration. "i've been telling march here that it is his bounden duty to go to the station," announced west to the table at large. "of course it is," answered cooke and cartwright and somers, and two others whose names joel did not catch. "the wealth, beauty, and fashion will attend in a body," continued cooke, a stout, good-natured-looking boy of about nineteen, who, as joel afterward learned, was universally acknowledged to be the dullest scholar in school. "patriotism and--er--school spirit, you know, march, demand it." and cooke helped himself bountifully to west's cherished bottle of catsup. "this is remsen's last year as coach, you see," explained west, as he rescued the catsup. "i believe every fellow feels that we ought to show our appreciation of his work by turning out in force. it's the least we can do, i think. mind you, i don't fancy football a little bit, but remsen taught us to win from st. eustace last year, and any one that helps down eustace is all right and deserves the gratitude of the school and all honest folk." "hear! hear!" cried somers. "i'd like very well to go," said joel, "but i've got a recitation at two." cooke looked across at him sorrowfully. "are you going in for study?" he asked. "i'm afraid so," answered joel laughingly. "my boy, don't do it. there's nothing gained. i've tried it, and i speak from sad experience." "but how do you get through?" questioned joel. "i will tell you." the stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "i belong to the same society as 'wheels,' and he doesn't dare expel me." "i wish," said joel in the laugh that followed, "that i could join that society." "easy enough," answered cooke earnestly. "i will put your name up at our next meeting. all you have to do is to forget all the greek and latin and higher mathematics you ever knew, give your oath never to study again, and appear at chapel two consecutive mornings in thigh boots and a plaid ulster." despite west's pleas joel refused to "cut" his recitation, promising, however, to follow to the station as soon as he might. "it's only a long mile," west asserted. "if you cut across turner's meadow you'll make it in no time. and the train isn't due until three. you'll see me standing on the truck." and so joel had promised, and later, from the seclusion of the schoolroom, which to-day was well-nigh empty, had heard the procession take its way down the road, headed by the school band, which woke the echoes with the brave strains of the washington post march. to-day the aeneid lost much of its interest, and when the recitation was over joel clapped his new brown felt hat on his head--for west had conducted him to the village outfitter the preceding day--and hurried up to his room to leave his book and pad. "dickey" sproule was stretched out upon the lounge--a piece of personal property of which he was very proud--reading kenilworth. "hello!" cried joel, "why aren't you over at the lab? isn't this your day for exploding things?" sproule looked up and yawned. "oh, i cut it. what's the good of knowing a lot of silly chemistry stuff when you're going to be an author?" "i should say it might be very useful to you; but i've never been an author, and perhaps i'm mistaken. want to go to the station?" "what, to meet that stuck-up remsen? i guess not. catch me walking a mile and a half to see him!" "well, i'm going," answered joel. an inarticulate growl was the only response, and joel took the stairs at leaps and bounds, and nearly upset mrs. cowles in the lower hall. "dear me, mr. march!" she exclaimed, as together they gathered up a load of towels, "is it only you, then? i thought surely it was a dozen boys at least." "i'm very sorry," laughed joel. "i'm going to the station. mr. remsen is coming, you know. have i spoiled these?" "no, indeed. so mr. remsen's coming. well, run along. i'd go myself if i wasn't an old woman. i knew mr. remsen ten years ago, and a more bothersome lad we never had. he had number 15, and we never knew what to expect next. one week he'd set the building on fire with his experiments, and the next he'd break all the panes in the window with his football. but then he was such a nice boy!" and with this seemingly contradictory statement the matron trudged away with her armful of towels, and joel took up his flight again, across the yard to academy road, and thence over the fence into turner's meadows, where the hill starts on its rise to the village. skirting the hill, he trudged on until presently the station could be seen in the distance. and as he went he reviewed the five days of his school existence. he remembered the strange feeling of loneliness that had oppressed him on his arrival, when, just as the sun was setting over the river, he had dropped down from the old stage coach in front of academy hall, a queer-looking, shabbily dressed country boy with a dilapidated leather valise and a brown paper parcel almost as big. he remembered the looks of scorn and derision that had met him as he had taken his way to the office, and, with a glow at his heart, the few simple, kindly words of welcome and the firm grasp of the hand from the principal. then came the first day at school, with the dread examinations, which after all turned out to be fairly easy, thanks to joel's faculty for remembering what he had once learned. he remembered, too, the disparaging remarks of "dickey" sproule, who had predicted joel's failure at the "exams.". "who ever heard," sproule had asked scornfully, "of a fellow making the upper middle class straight out of a country grammar school, without any coaching?" but when the lists were posted, joel's name was down, and sproule had taken deep offense thereat. "the school's going to the dogs," he had complained. "examinations aren't nearly as hard as they were when _i_ entered." the third day, when he had kicked that football down the field, and, later, had made the acquaintance of outfield west, seemed now to have been the turning point from gloom to sunshine. since then joel had changed from the unknown, derided youth in the straw hat to some one of importance; a some one to whom the captain of the school eleven spoke whenever they met, a chum of the most envied boy in the academy, and a candidate for the football team for whom every fellow predicted success. but, best of all, in those few days he had gained the liking of well-nigh all of the teachers by the hearty way in which he pursued knowledge; for he went at caesar as though he were trying for a touch-down, and tackled the foundations of rhetoric as though that study was an opponent on the gridiron. even professor durkee, known familiarly among the disrespectful as "turkey," lowered his tones and spoke with something approaching to mildness when addressing joel march. altogether, the world looked very bright to joel to-day, and when, as presently, he drew near to the little stone depot, the sounds of singing and cheering that greeted his ears chimed in well with his mood. truly "all hillton" had turned out! the station platform and the trim graveled road surrounding it were dark with hilltonian humanity and gay with crimson bunting. afar down the road a shrill long whistle announced the approach of the train, and a comparative hush fell on the crowd. joel descried outfield west at once, and pushed his way to him through the throng just as the train came into sight down the track. west was surrounded on the narrow baggage truck by some half dozen of the choice spirits from hampton house, and joel's advent was made the occasion for much sport. "ah, he comes! the professor comes!" shouted west. "he tears himself from his studies and joins us in our frivolity," declaimed cooke. "that's something you'll never have a chance of doing, tom," answered cartwright, as joel was hauled on to the truck. "you'll never get near enough to a study to have to be torn away." "study, my respected young friend," answered cooke gravely, "is the bane of the present unenlightened age. in the good old days when everybody was either a greek or a roman or a barbarian, and so didn't have to study languages, and--" "shut up! here's the train," cried west. "now every fellow cheer, or he'll have me to fight." "hooray! hooray! hooray!" yelled cooke. "somebody punch him, please," begged west, and somers and another obliging youth thrust the offender off the truck and sat on his head. the train slowed down, stopped, and a porter appeared laden with a huge valise. this was the signal for a rush, and the darkey was instantly relieved of his burden and hustled back grinning to the platform. then joel caught sight of a gentleman in a neat suit of gray tweed descending the steps, and saw the pupils heave and push their ways toward him; and for a sight the arrival was hidden from view. then the cheers for "coach!" burst enthusiastically forth, the train was speeding from sight up the track, the band was playing hilltonians, and the procession took up its march back to the academy. when he at last caught a fair sight of stephen remsen, joel saw a man of about twenty-eight years, gayly trudging at the head of the line, his handsome face smiling brightly as he replied to the questions and sallies of the more elderly youths who surrounded him. joel's heart went out to stephen remsen at once. and neither then nor at any future time did he wonder at it. "that," thought joel, "is the kind of fellow i'd like for a big brother. although i never _could_ grow big enough to lick him." chapter v. a rainy afternoon. the following day joel arrived on the football field to discover the head coach in full charge. he was talking earnestly to wesley blair. his dress was less immaculate than upon the preceding afternoon, although not a whit less attractive to joel. a pair of faded and much-darned red-and-black striped stockings were surmounted by a pair of soiled and patched moleskin trousers. his crimson jersey had faded at the shoulders to a pathetic shade of pink, and one sleeve was missing, having long since "gone over to the enemy." in contrast to these articles of apparel was his new immaculate canvas jacket, laced for the first time but a moment before. but he looked the football man that he was from head to toe, and joel admired him immensely and was extremely proud when, as he was passing, blair called him over and introduced him to remsen. the latter shook hands cordially, and allowed his gaze to travel appreciatingly over joel's five feet eight inches of bone and muscle. "i'm glad to know you, march," he said, "and glad that you are going to help us win." the greeting was so simple and sincere that joel ran down the field a moment later, feeling that football honors were even more desirable than before. to-day the throng of candidates had dwindled down to some forty, of whom perhaps twenty were new men. the first and second elevens were lined up for the first time, and joel was placed at left half in the latter. an hour of slow practice followed. the ball was given to the first eleven on almost every play, and as the second eleven were kept entirely on the defensive, joel had no chance to show his ability at either rushing or kicking. remsen was everywhere at once, scolding, warning, and encouraging in a breath, and the play took on a snap and vim which wesley blair, unassisted, had not been able to introduce. after it was over, joel trotted back with the others to the gymnasium and took his first shower bath. on the steps outside was west, and the two boys took their way together to the academy building. "did you hear remsen getting after bart cloud?" asked west. "no. who is cloud?" "he plays right half or left half, i forget which, on the first eleven," answered west, "and he's about the biggest cad in the school. his father's an alderman in new york, they say, and has lots of money; but he doesn't let bart handle much of it for him. he played on the team last year and did good work. but this season he's got a swelled head and thinks he doesn't have to play to keep his place; thinks it's mortgaged to him, you see. remsen opened his eyes to-day, i guess! whipple says remsen called him down twice, and then told him if he didn't take a big brace he'd lose his position. cloud got mad and told clausen--clausen's his chum--that if he went off the team he'd leave school. i guess few of us would be sorry. bartlett cloud's a coward from the toes up, march, and if he tries to make it unpleasant for you, why, just offer to knock him down and he'll change his tune." "thank you for telling me," responded joel, "but i don't expect to have much to do with him; i don't like his looks. i know the boy you mean, now. he's the fellow that called me names--'country,' you know, and such--the first day we had practice. i heard him, but didn't let on. i didn't mind much, but it didn't win my love." west laughed uproariously and slapped joel on the back. "oh, you're a queer sort, march. i'd have had a fight on the spot. but you--say, you're going to be an awful grind, march, if you keep on in your present terrible course. you won't have time for any fun at all. and i was going to teach you golf, you know. it's not nice of you, it really isn't." "i'll play golf with you the first afternoon we don't have practice, west, honestly. i'm awfully sorry i'm such a crank about lessons, but you see i've made up my mind to try for the--the--what scholarship is that?" "carmichael?" suggested west. joel shook his head. "no, the big one." west stared. "do you mean the goodwin scholarship?" "yes, that's the one," answered joel. west whistled. "well, you're not modest to hurt, march. why, man, that's a terror! you have to have the greek alphabet backward, and never miss chapel all term to get a show at that. the goodwin brings two hundred and forty dollars!" "that's why i want it," answered joel. "if i win it it will pay my expenses for this year and part of next." "well, of course i hope you'll make it," answered west, "but i don't believe you have much show. there's knox, and reeves, and--and two or three others all trying for it. knox won the schall scholarship last year. that carries two hundred even." "well, anyhow, i'll try hard," answered joel resolutely. "of course. you ought to have it; you need it. did i tell you that i won a masters scholarship in my junior year? yes, i did really. it was forty dollars. i remember that i bought two new putters and a jolly fine caddie bag." "you could do better than that if you'd try, west. you're awfully smart." "who? me?" laughed west. "pshaw! i can't do any more than pass my exams. of course i'm smart enough when it comes to lofting out of a bad lie or choosing a good club; but--" he shook his head doubtfully, but nevertheless seemed pleased at the idea. "no, i mean in other ways," continued joel earnestly. "you could do better than half the fellows if you tried. and i wish you would try, west. you rich fellows in hampton house could set such a good example for the youngsters if you only would. as it is, they admire you and envy you and think that it's smart to give all their time to play. i know, because i heard some of them talking about it the other day. 'you don't have to study,' said one; 'look at those swells in hampton. they just go in for football and golf and tennis and all that, and they never have any trouble about passing exams.'" west whistled in puzzled amazement. "why, march, you're setting out as a reformer; and you're talking just like one of those good boys in the story books. what's up?" joel smiled at the other boy's look of wonderment. "nothing's up, except that i want you to promise to study more. of course, i know it sounds cheeky, west, but i don't mean to meddle in your business. only--only--" joel hesitated. "only what? out with it!" said west. they had reached the academy building and had paused on the steps. "well, only--that you've been very kind to me, west, and i hate to see you wasting your time and know that you will wish you hadn't later, when you've left school, you know. that's all. it isn't that i want to meddle--" there was a moment of silence. then: "the idea of your caring!" answered west. "you're a good chap, march, and--i tell you what i'll do. i _will_ go in more for lessons, after next week. you see there's the golf tournament next saturday week, and i've got to put in a lot of hard practice between now and then. but after that i'll try and buckle down. you're right about it, march, i ought to do more studying, and i will _try_; although i don't believe i'll make much of a success as a 'grind.' and as to the--the--the rest that you said, why, i haven't been extraordinarily kind; i just sort of took to you that day on the campus because you looked to be such a plucky, go-ahead, long-legged chap, you know. i thought i'd rescue you from the ranks of the lowly and teach you golf and make a man of you generally. instead of that"--west gave one of his expressive whistles--"instead of that, why, here you are turning me into a regular 'masters hall grind.' thus do our brightest dreams fade. well, i'm oil. don't forget the upper middle class meeting to-night. they're going to vote on the class crew question, and we want all the votes we can get to down the fellows that don't want to pay the assessment. good-night." and outfield west took himself off toward his room, his broad shoulders well back, and his clear, merry voice singing the school song as he strode along. joel turned into the library, feeling well satisfied with the result of his meddling, to pore over a reference book until supper time. the following morning joel awoke to find a cold rain falling from a dull sky. the elms in the yard were dripping from every leaf and branch, and the walks held little gray pools that made the trip to breakfast a series of splashes. in the afternoon joel got into his oldest clothes and tramped over to hampton house. the window of west's room looked bright and cheerful, for a big wood fire was blazing on the hearth within. joel kicked the mud from his shoes, and passing through the great white door with its old-fashioned fanlight above, tapped at west's room. a faint response from beyond the portal summoned him in. the owner of the room was sandpapering a golf shaft before the fire, and a deep expression of discontent was on his face. but his countenance lighted up at sight of his visitor, and he leaped to his feet and drew a second armchair before the hearth. "you're a brick, march! i was just wishing you roomed near enough so that i could ask you to come over and talk a bit. isn't it a horrible day?" "it's awfully wet; but then it has to rain sometimes, i suppose," answered joel as he took off his overcoat. "yes, but it doesn't have to rain just when a fellow has fixed to practice golf, does it?" west growled. joel laughed. "i thought the real, simon-pure golfer didn't mind the weather." "he doesn't as long as he can get over the ground, but the links here is like a quagmire when it rains. but never mind, we'll have a good chummy afternoon. and i've got some bully gingersnaps. do you like gingersnaps?" joel replied in the affirmative, and west produced a box of them from under the bed. "i have to keep these kinds of things hid, you know, because blair and cooke and the rest of the fellows would eat them all up. by the way, i made up a list of the things you'll have to get if you're going in for golf. here it is. of course, i only put down one of each, and only a dozen balls. i'll get the catalogue and we'll reckon up and see how much they come to." "but i don't think i can afford to buy anything like this, west," answered joel doubtfully. "nonsense! you've got to! a fellow has to have _necessities_! what's the first thing on the list? read 'em off, will you?" "driving cleek," read joel. "yes, but never mind the clubs. there are seven of them on the list and you can get pretty fair ones for a dollar and a half each. what's next?" "but that makes ten dollars and a half," cried joel. "of course it does. and cheap enough, too. why, some of mine cost three dollars apiece! what's next?" "one dozen silvertowns." "correct; four dollars. mark it down. next?" "caddie bag," responded joel faintly. "a dollar and a half. next." "but, west, i can't afford these things." "nonsense, march! still--well, you can call the bag a dollar even; though the dollar ones aren't worth much. mine cost five." "but you have coat and trousers down. and shoes, and--" "well, you can leave the shoes out, and get some hobnails and put them on the soles of any good heavy shoes. then there's gloves. they cost about a dollar and a half. as for trousers, you _can_ do with ordinary ones, but--you've got to have a coat, march. a chap can't swing a club in a tight-fitting jacket like the one you've got on. now let's reckon up." "there's no use in doing that, west," laughed joel. "i can't buy one of these things, to say nothing of the whole list. i'm saving up for my football togs, and after i have those i sha'n't be able to buy anything else for months." west settled his chin in his hand and scowled at the flames. "it's too bad, march; and i put your name up for the golf club, too. you will join that, won't you? you must, now that i've put you up. it's only a dollar initiation fee and fifty cents dues." "very well, then, i'll join the club," answered joel. "though i don't see what use there is in it, since i haven't anything to play with and wouldn't know how to play if i had." "well, i'm going to teach you, you know. and as for clubs and things, why, i've got some oldish ones that will do fairly well; a beginner doesn't need extra good ones, you see. and then, for clothes--well, i guess fellows _have_ played in ordinary trousers and coat; and i've played myself in tennis shoes. and if you don't mind cold hands, why, you needn't have gloves. so, after all, we'll get on all right." west was quite cheerful again and, with a wealth of clubs--divers, spoons, bulgers, putters, baps, niblicks, and many other sorts--on the rug before him, chattered on about past deeds of prowess on the links until the room grew dark and the lamps in the yard shone fitfully through the rain, by which time a dozen clubs in various states of repair had been laid aside, the gingersnaps had been totally demolished, and west had forgotten all about the meanness of the weather and his lost practice. then cooke and somers demanded admission, to the annoyance of both west and joel, and the lamps were lighted, and joel said good-night and hurried back to his room in order to secure a half hour's study ere supper time. chapter vi. the practice game. "first and second eleven rushes and quarters down the field and practice formations. backs remain here to kick!" shouted wesley blair. it was a dull and cold afternoon. the last recitation was over and half the school stood shivering about the gridiron or played leapfrog to keep warm. stephen remsen, in the grimiest of moleskins, stood talking to the captain, and, in obedience to the command of the latter, some fifteen youths, clad for the coming fray, were trotting down the field, while eight others, backs and substitute backs on the two teams, passed and dropped on the pigskin in an endeavor to keep warm. the first and second elevens were to play their first real game of the season at four o'clock, and meanwhile the players were down for a stiff thirty minutes of practice. joel march shivered with the rest of the backs and waited for the coach and the captain to finish their consultation. presently blair trotted off down the field and remsen turned to the backs. "browne, meach, and turner, go down to about the middle of the field and return the balls. cloud, take a ball over nearer the side-line and try some drop-kicks. post, you do the same, please. and let me see, what is your name?" addressing a good-looking and rather slight youth. "ah, yes, clausen. well, clausen, you and wills try some punts over there, and do try and get the leg swing right. march, take that ball and let me see you punt." then began a time of sore tribulation for joel; for not until ten minutes had passed did the ball touch his toe. his handling was wrong, his stepping out was wrong, and his leg-swing was very, very wrong! but he heard never a cross word from his instructor, and so shut his lips tight and bore the lecture in good-humored silence. "there," announced remsen finally, "that's a lot better. now kick." joel caught the ball nicely, and sent it sailing far down the field. "that's a good kick, but it would have been better had you landed higher up on your foot. try and catch the ball just in front of the arch of the foot. you take it about on the toe-cap. remember that the broader the surface that propels the ball the greater will be the accuracy--that is, the ball has less chance of sliding off to one side when the striking surface is large. here's your ball coming. now try again, and remember what i have said about the swing at the hip. forget that you have any joints at all, and just let the right side of you swing round as it will." then remsen passed on to the next man and joel pegged away, doing better and better, as he soon discovered, every try, until a whistle blew from the middle of the field and the players gathered about the captains on the fifty-five-yard line. joel was down to play left half on the second eleven, and beside him, at right, was wills, a promising lower middle boy, who was an excellent runner, but who, so far, had failed to develop any aptitude for kicking. cloud and clausen occupied similar positions on the first eleven, and behind them stood wesley blair, the best full-back that hillton academy had possessed for many years. the full-back on the second eleven was ned post, a veteran player, but "as erratic as a mule," to use the words of stephen remsen. the first eleven was about six pounds heavier in the line than the team captained by louis whipple, who played at quarter, and about the same weight behind the line. it was a foregone conclusion that the first would win, but whether the second would score was a mooted point. joel felt a bit nervous, now that he was in his first game of consequence, but forgot all about it a moment later when the whistle blew and greer, the big first eleven center, tore through their line for six yards, followed by wallace clausen with the ball. then there was a delay, for the right half when he tried to arise found that his ankle was strained, and so had to limp off the ground supported by greer and barnard, the one-hundred-and-sixty-pound right tackle. turner, a new player, went on, and the ball was put in play again, this time for a try through left tackle. but the second's line held like a stone wall, and the runner was forced back with the loss of a yard. then the first eleven guards fell back, and when the formation hit the second's line the latter broke like paper, and the first streamed through for a dozen yards. and so it went until the second found itself only a few yards from its goal line. there, with the backs pressed close against the forwards, the second held and secured the ball on downs, only to lose it again by a fumble on the part of post. then a delayed pass gained two yards for the first and a mass at left tackle found another. but the next play resulted disastrously, for when the ball was passed back there was no one to take it, and the quarter was borne back several yards before his own astounded players could come to his assistance. "that about settles cloud," whispered post to joel, as they hurried up to take the new position. "that was his signal to take the leather through right end, and he was fast asleep. remsen's laying for him." but the advantage to the second was of short duration, for back went the first's guards again, and down came the ball to their goal line with short, remorseless gains, and presently, when their quarter knelt on the last white line, the dreaded happened, and blair lay between the posts with half the second eleven on top of him, but with the ball a yard over the line. an easy goal resulted, and just as the teams trotted back to mid-field the whistle sounded, and the first twenty-minute half was done. the players wrapped themselves warmly in blankets and squatted in the protection of the fence, and were immediately surrounded by the spectators. remsen and blair talked with this player and that, explaining his faults or saying a good word for his work. in the second half many of the second eleven went into the first, the deposed boys retiring to the side-lines, and several substitutes were put into the second. joel went back to full, ned post taking clausen's place at right half on the first eleven and turner becoming once more a spectator. it was the second eleven's ball, and joel raced down the field after the kick-off as far as their twenty-yard line, and there caught blair's return punt very neatly, ran three yards under poor interference, and was then seized by the mighty greer and hurled to earth with a shock that completely took the breath out of him for a moment. but he was soon on his feet again, and whipple gave him an encouraging slap as he trotted back to his place. the next play was an ordinary formation with the ends back, and the ball passed to left end for a run back of quarter and through the line outside of guard. it worked like a charm, and left end sped through with joel bracing him at the turn and the left half going ahead. four yards were netted, meach, the substitute left half, being tackled by post. in the mix-up that followed joel found himself sprawling over the runner, with cloud sitting astride the small of his back, a very uncomfortable part of the body with which to support a weighty opponent. but he would not have minded that alone; but when cloud arose his foot came into violent contact with joel's head, which caused that youth to see stars, and left a small cut back of his ear. "that wasn't an accident," muttered joel, as he picked himself up and eyed cloud. but the latter was unconcernedly moving to his position, and joel gave his head a shake or two and resolved to forgive and forget. a play similar to the last was next tried with an outlet on the other side, outside tackle. but it resulted in a loss of a yard, and at the next down the ball was thrown back to joel, who made a poor catch and followed it with a short high punt to the opponent's forty yards. "your head's cut, march," said wills, as they took up the new position. joel nodded. "cloud," he answered briefly. "punch him," answered wills. "he's mad because he made such a bull of his play in the other half. if he tries tricks with me--" "if he does, let him alone, if you want to stay on the team," said joel. "that sort of thing doesn't help. watch your chance and spoil a play of his. that's the best way to get even." the next ten minutes were spent in desperate attack on the part of the first and an equally desperate defense by the second eleven. twenty yards of gain for the former was the result, and the half was nearly up. on a first down blair ran back and joel, whispering "kick!" to himself, turned and raced farther back from the line. then the ball was snapped, there was a crossing of backs, and suddenly, far out around the right end came cloud with the pigskin tightly clutched, guarded by post and the left end. it was an unexpected play, and the second's halfs saw it too late. meach and wills were shouldered out of the way, and cloud ran free from his interference and bore down on joel, looking very big and ugly. it was cloud's opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright indeed. but he was reckoning without his host. joel started gingerly up to meet him. the field was streaming down on cloud's heels, but too far away to be in the running. ten yards distant from joel, cloud's right arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly. "keep off!" he hissed as joel prepared for a tackle. but joel had no mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything, and his own advice to wills occurred to him and made him grin. cloud swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a leap joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips. cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with joel's head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. a shout arose from the crowd. the field came up and joel scrambled to his feet. cloud, his face red with chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward joel aimed a vicious blow at his face. the latter ducked and involuntarily raised his fist; then, ere greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and walked away. "that will do, cloud," said remsen in sharp, incisive tones. "you may leave." and with a muttered word of anger cloud strode from the field, passing through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and black looks. "first's ball down here," cried greer, and play went on; but joel had lost his taste for it, and when, a few minutes later, neither side having scored again, time was called, he trotted back to the gymnasium in a depressed mood. "you did great work," exclaimed outfield west, as he joined joel on the river path. "that settles cloud's chances. remsen was laying for him anyhow, you know, and then that 'slugging!' remsen hates dirty playing worse than anything, they say." "i'm sorry it happened, though," returned joel. "pshaw! don't you be afraid of cloud. he's all bluster." "i'm not afraid of him. but i'm sorry he lost the team through me. of course i couldn't have let him go by, and i don't suppose it could have been helped, but i wish some one else had tackled him." "of course, it couldn't have been helped," responded west cheerfully. "and i'm glad it couldn't. my! isn't cloud mad! i passed him a minute or two ago. 'you ought to try golf, bart,' said i. you should have seen the look he gave me. i guess it was rather like 'rubbing it in.'" and west grinned hugely at the recollection. "how about the tournament, west?" asked joel. "fine! there are twelve entries, and we're going to begin at nine in the morning. i did the fourth hole this afternoon in two, and the eighth in three. no one has ever done the fourth in two before; it's the bogey score. don't forget that you have promised to go around with me. they say whipple is practicing every morning over in turner's meadow. what with that and football he's a pretty busy lad, i dare say. don't forget, nine o'clock day after to-morrow." and outfield west waved his hand gayly and swung off toward hampton house, while joel entered the gymnasium and was soon enjoying the luxury of a shower bath and listening to the conversation of the others. "there'll be a shake-up to-morrow," observed warren as he rubbed himself dry with a big, crimson-bordered towel. "mr. remsen wasn't any too well pleased to-day. he's going to put greer on the scrub to-morrow." "that's where you might as well be," answered the big center good-naturedly. "the idea of playing a criss-cross with your right end on the side-line!" "we took two yards just the same," replied warren. "we gave it to you, my lad, because we knew that if you lost on such a fool play your name would be--well, anything but thomas 'stumpy' warren." the reply to this sally was a boot launched at the center rush, for tom warren's middle name was in reality saalfield, and "stumpy" was a cognomen rather too descriptive to be relished by the quarter-back. greer returned the missile with interest, and the fight grew warm, and boots and footballs and shin-guards filled the air. in the dining hall that evening interest was divided between the golf match to be played on the following saturday morning and the football game with the westvale grammar school in the afternoon. golf had fewer admirers than had the other sport, but what there were were fully as enthusiastic, and the coming tournament was discussed until joel's head whirled with such apparently outlandish terms as "bogey," "baffy," "put," "green," "foozle," and "tee." whipple, blair, and west all had their supporters, and joel learned a number of marvelous facts, as, for instance, that whipple had "driven from purgatory to the hill in five," that blair was "putting better than grimes did last year," and that "west had taken four to get out of sandy." all of which was undoubtedly intensely interesting, but was as so much sanskrit to joel; and he walked back to his room after supper with a greatly increased respect for the game of golf. chapter vii. a letter home. one of joel's letters written to his mother at about this time contains much that will prove of interest to the reader who has followed the fortunes of that youth thus far. it supplied a certain amount of information appreciated only by its author and its recipient: facts regarding woolen stockings; items about the manner in which the boy's washing was done; a short statement of his financial condition; a weak, but very natural, expression of home-longing. but such i will omit, as being too private in character for these pages. "... i don't think you need worry. outfield west is rather idle about study, but he doesn't give satan much of a show, for he's about the busiest fellow i know in school. he's usually up a good hour before breakfast, which we have at eight o'clock, and puts in a half hour practicing golf before chapel. then in the afternoon he's at it again when the weather will let him, and he generally spends his evenings, when not studying, in mending his clubs or painting balls. then he's one of the canvassers for the class crew; and belongs to the senior debating club, which draws its members from the two upper classes; and he's president of the golf club. so you can see that he's anything but idle, even if he doesn't bother much about lessons. "he's naturally a very bright fellow; otherwise he couldn't get along with his classes. i grow to like him better every day; he's such a manly, kind-hearted fellow, and one of the most popular in school. he's rather big, with fine, broad shoulders, and awfully good-looking. he has light-brown hair, about the color of cousin george's, and bright blue eyes; and he always looks as though he had just got out of the bath-tub--only stopped, of course, to put his clothes on. i guess we must be pretty old-fashioned in our notions, we maine country folks, because so many of my pet ideas and beliefs have been changed since i came here. you know with us it has always gone without dispute that rich boys are mean and worthless, if not really immoral. but here they're not that way. i guess we never had much chance to study rich people up our way, mother. at the grammar school all the fellows looked down on wealthy boys; but we never had any of them around. the richest chap was gilbert, whose father was a lumberman, and gilbert used to wear shoes that you wouldn't give to a tramp. "i suppose west's father could buy mr. gilbert out twenty times and not miss the money. outfield--isn't it a queer name?--spends a lot of money, but not foolishly; i mean he has no bad habits, like a few of the fellows. i hope you will meet him some time. perhaps i could have him up to stay a few days with me next summer. he'd be glad to come. "no, my roommate, sproule, doesn't improve any on acquaintance. but i've got so i don't mind him much. i don't think he's really as mean as he makes you believe. he's having hard work with his studies nowadays, and has less time to find fault with things. "you ask how i spend my time. dear little mother, you don't know what life in a big boarding school like hillton is. why, i haven't an idle moment from one day's end to the next. here's a sample. this morning i got up just in time for chapel--i'm getting to be a terrible chap for sleeping late--and then had breakfast. by that time it was quarter to nine. at nine i went to my mathematics. then came latin, then english. at twelve i reported on the green and practiced signals with the second squad until half past. then came lunch. after lunch i scurried up to my room and dug up on chemistry, which was at one-thirty. then came greek at half past two. then i had an hour of loafing--that is, i should have had it, but i was afraid of my to-morrow's history, so put in part of the time studying that. at a little before four i hurried over to the gymnasium, got into football togs, and reached the campus 'just in time to be in time.' we had a stiff hour's practice with the ball and learned two new formations. when i got back to the 'gym' it was a quarter past five. i had my bath, rubbed down, did two miles on the track, exercised with the weights, and got to supper ten minutes late. west came over to the room with me and stayed until i put him out, which was hard work because he's heavier than i am, and i got my books out and studied until half an hour ago. it is now just ten o'clock, and as soon as i finish this i shall tumble into bed and sleep like a top. "i can't answer your question about mr. remsen, because i do not know him well enough to ask about his home or relatives. but his first name is stephen. perhaps he is a relative of the remsens you mention. some day i'll find out. anyhow, he's the grandest kind of a fellow. i suppose he's about thirty. he has plenty of money, west says, and is a lawyer by profession. he has coached hillton for three years, and the school has won two out of three of its big games during those years. the big game, as they call it, is the game on thanksgiving day with st. eustace academy, of marshall. this fall it is played here.... "please tell father that i am getting on well with my studies, but not to hope too much for the goodwin scholarship. there are so many, many smart fellows here! sometimes i think i haven't a ghost of a show. but--well, i'm doing my best, and, after all, there are some other scholarships that are worth getting, though i don't believe i shall be satisfied with any other. west says i'm cheeky to even expect a show at the goodwin.... all the professors are very nice; even 'turkey.' his real name is durkee, and he is professor of english. he is not popular among the fellows, but is an awfully good instructor. the principal, professor wheeler, is called 'wheels,' but it sounds worse than it is. every one likes him. he is not at all old, and talks to the fellows about football and golf; and west says he can play a fine game of the latter when he tries. "i have been elected to the golf club and have joined. it costs a dollar and a half for this year, but west wanted me to join so much that i did. there are a lot of nice fellows in it--the sort that it is well to know. and i am going to try for the senior debating club after the holidays.... tell father that he wouldn't be so down on football if he could see the fellows that play it here at hillton. mr. remsen is head coach, as i have told you. then there is an advisory committee of one pupil, one graduate, and one professor. these are wesley blair, mr. remsen, and professor macarthur. then there is a manager, who looks after the business affairs; and a trainer, who is professor beck; and, of course, a captain. wesley blair is the captain. the second eleven is captained by tom warren, who is a fine player, and who is substitute quarter-back on the first or school eleven. in a couple of weeks both the first and second go to training tables: the first at one of the boarding houses in the village and the second in the school dining hall. when that happens we go into training for sure, and have to be in bed every night at ten sharp and get up every morning at seven. i'm pretty sure now of a place on the second, and may possibly make the first before the season's done.... "of course, i want the overcoat. but you had better send it as it is, and i will have the tailor here in the village cut it over. he is very moderate in charges and does good work, so west tells me, and in this way it will be sure to fit right. thank father for me, please.... good-night.... "your loving son, "joel." the opportunity to inquire regarding stephen remsen's family connections presented itself to joel on the day preceding the golf tournament and the football game with westvale. on account of the latter there had been only a half hour of light practice for the two squads, and joel at half past four had gone to his room to study. but when it came time to puzzle out some problems in geometry joel found that his paper was used up, and, rather than borrow of his neighbors, he pulled on his cap and started for the village store. october had brought warm weather, and this afternoon, as he went along the maple-bordered road that leads to the post office he found himself dawdling over the dusty grasses and bushes, recognizing old friends and making new ones, as right-minded folks will when the sun is warm and the birds sing beside the way. he watched a tiny chipmunk scamper along the top of the stone wall and disappear in the branches of a maple, looked upward and saw a mass of fluffy white clouds going northward, and thought wistfully of spring and the delights it promised here in the hudson valley. the golden-rod had passed its prime, though here and there a yellow torch yet lighted the shadowed tangles of shrub and vine beneath the wall, but the asters still bloomed on, and it was while bending over a clump of them that joel heard the whir of wheels on the smooth road and turned to see a bicyclist speeding toward him from the direction of the academy. when the rider drew near, joel recognized stephen remsen, and he withdrew toward the wall, that the coach might have the benefit of the level footpath and avoid the ruts. but instead of speeding by, remsen slowed down a few feet distant and jumped from his wheel. "hello, march!" was his greeting as he came up to that youth. "are you studying botany?" joel explained that he had been only trying to identify the aster, a spray of which he had broken off and still held in his hand. "perhaps i can tell you what it is," answered remsen as he took it. "yes, it's the purple-stemmed, _aster puniceus_. isn't it common where you live?" "i've never noticed it," answered joel. "we have lots of the _novoe-anglioe_ and _spectabilis_ in maine, and some of the white asters. it must be very lovely about here in spring." "yes, it is. spring is beautiful here, as it is everywhere. the valley of the hudson is especially rich in flora, i believe. i used to be very fond of the woods on mount adam when i was a boy here at hillton, and knew every tree in it." they were walking on toward the village, remsen rolling his bicycle beside him. "it's a long while since then, i suppose, sir?" queried joel. "i graduated from hillton ten years ago this coming june. i rowed stroke in the boat that spring, and we won from eustace by an eighth of a mile. and we nearly burned old masters down to the ground with our roman candles and sky rockets. you room there, don't you, march?" "yes, sir; number 34." "that was billy mathews's room that year. some time if you look under the carpet you'll find a depression in the middle of the floor. that's where billy made a bonfire one night and offered up in sacrifice all his text-books. it took half an hour to put that fire out." remsen was smiling reminiscently. "but what did he burn his books for, sir? was it the end of the year?" "no, but billy had been expelled that day, and was celebrating the fact. he was a nice old chap, was billy mathews. he's president of a western railroad now." joel laughed. "that bonfire must have made as much commotion as some of the explosions in number 15, mr. remsen." "hello! are my efforts in pursuit of science still remembered here? who told you about that, march?" "mrs. cowles. she said you were forever doing something terrible, but that you were such a _nice_ boy." remsen laughed heartily as he replied: "well, don't pattern your conduct on mine or mathews's, march. we weren't a very well-behaved lot, i fear. but i don't believe our pranks did much harm. in those days football wasn't as popular as it is to-day, at hillton, and fellows couldn't work off their surplus animal spirits thumping a pigskin as they can now. football is a great benefactor in that way, march. it has done away with hazing and street brawls and gate stealing and lots of other deviltry. by the way, how are you getting on with the game?" "i think i'm getting the hang of it, sir. i'm having a hard time with drop kicking, but i guess i'll learn after a while." "i'm sure you will. i'm going to have blair give you a bit of coaching in it next week. he'll have more time then, after he has finished with this golf business. don't get discouraged. peg away. it's worth the work, march, and you have the making of a good back as soon as you learn how to kick a goal and run a little faster. and whenever you're puzzled about anything come to me and we'll work it out together. will you?" "yes, sir, thank you." "that's right. well, here's where i turn off. have you time to come and pay me a visit?" "not to-day, i'm afraid, mr. remsen. i'm just going to the post office for some paper, and--" "well, come and see me some time. i'm pretty nearly always at home in the evenings and will be very glad to see you. and bring your friend west with you. that's my headquarters down there, the yellow house; mrs. hutchins's. if you cut across the field here it will save you quite a distance. good-by; and get to bed early to-night, march, if you can. there's nothing like a good sleep before a game." "good-by," answered joel. then, "mr. remsen, one minute, please, sir," he called. "are you any relation to the remsens that live near clairmont, in maine, sir?" "why, i shouldn't wonder," answered remsen, with a smile. "i think i've heard my father speak of relatives in maine, but i don't recollect where. why do you ask?" "my mother wrote me to find out. she's very much interested in people's relatives, mr. remsen, and so i thought i'd ask and let her know. you didn't mind my asking you, did you?" "certainly not. tell your mother, march, that i hope those remsens are some of my folks, because i should like to be related to her friends. and say, march, when you're writing to your mother about me you needn't say anything about those explosions, need you?" "i don't think it will be necessary, sir," laughed joel. "very well; then just mention me as a dignified and reverend attorney-at-law, and we'll keep the rest a secret between us." chapter viii. the golf tournament. it was saturday afternoon. the day was bright and sunny, and in the shelter of the grand stand on the campus, where the little east wind could not rustle, it was comfortably warm. the grass still held much of its summer verdancy, and the sky overhead was as deeply blue as on the mildest spring day. after a week of dull or stormy weather yesterday and to-day, with their fair skies, were as welcome as flowers in may, and gladness and light-heartedness were in the very air. on the gridiron westvale grammar school and hillton academy were trying conclusions. on the grand stand all hillton, academy and village, was assembled, and here and there a bright dress or wrap indicated the presence of a mother or sister in the throng. the westvale team had arrived, accompanied by a coterie of enthusiastic supporters, armed with tin horns, maroon-colored banners, and mighty voices, which, with small hopes of winning on the field, were resolved to accomplish a notable victory of sound. on the side-line, with a dozen other substitutes whose greatest desire was to be taken on the first eleven, sat joel. outfield west was sprawled beside him with his caddie bag clutched to his breast, and the two boys were discussing the game. west had arrived upon the scene but a moment before. "we'll beat them by about a dozen points, i guess," joel was prophesying. "they say the score was twenty to nothing last year, but remsen declares the first isn't nearly as far advanced as it was this time last season. just hear the racket those fellows are making! you ought to have seen blair kick down the field a while ago. i thought the ball never would come down, and i guess westvale thought so too. their full-back nearly killed himself running backward, and finally caught it on their five-yard line, and had it down there. then greer walked through, lugging andrews for a touch-down, after westvale had tried three times to move the ball. there's the whistle; half's up. how is the golf getting along?" "somers and whipple were at look off when i came away. i asked billy jones to come over and call me when they got to the hill. i think whipple will win by a couple of strokes. somers is too nervous. i wish they'd hurry up. we'll not get through the last round before dark if they don't finish soon. you'll go round with me, won't you?" "if the game's over. they're playing twenty-minute halves, you know; so i guess it will be. i hope blair will let me on this half. have you seen cloud?" "yes; he's over on the seats. who has his place?" "ned post; and clausen's playing at right. i'm glad that blair is doing such good work to-day. i think he was rather cut up about getting beaten this morning." "yes; wasn't that hard luck? to think of his being downed by a cub of a junior! though that same junior is going to be a fine player some day. he drives just grand. he had too much handicap, he did. remsen didn't know anything about him, and allowed him ten. here they come again." the two elevens were trotting out on the field once more, and joel stood up in the hope that blair might see him and decide to take him on. but joel was doomed to disappointment, for the second half of the game began with practically the same line-up. the score stood six to nothing in favor of hillton. the playing had been decidedly ragged on both sides; and remsen, as he left the team after administering a severe lecture, walked past with a slight frown on his face. "well, i guess i'll go over and see if i can hurry those chumps up some." west swung his bag over his shoulder and turned away. "when the game's done, hurry over, march. you'll find us somewhere on the course." joel nodded, and west sauntered away toward the links. the second half of the game was similar to the first, save in that remsen's scolding had accomplished an awakening, and the first put more snap into its playing. six more points were scored from a touch-down by the hillton right end, after a thirty-yard run, followed by a difficult goal by blair. but the westvale rooters kept up their cheering bravely to the end, and took defeat with smiling faces and upraised voices; and long after the coach containing them had passed from sight their cheers could still be heard in the distance toward the station. the bulk of the spectators turned at the conclusion of the match toward the links, and joel followed in his football togs. at home hole he found whipple and west preparing for the deciding round of the tournament, and the latter greeted him with a shout, and put his clubs into his keeping. then whipple went to the tee and led off with a long drive for the first hole, and the round began. west followed with a shorter shot and the march was taken up. the links at hilton consists of nine holes, five out and four in. the entire length of the course is a trifle over one and a half mile, and although the land is upland meadow and given to growing long grass, yet the course is generally conceded to be excellent. the holes are short, allowing the round to be accomplished by a capable player in thirty-two strokes. the course has thirteen bunkers of varying sizes, besides two water hazards at the inlet and outlet of the lake. the lake itself is spoiled as a hazard by the thick grove of trees on the side nearest the academy. sometimes a poor drive lands a ball in that same grove, and there is much trial and tribulation ere the player has succeeded in dislodging it from the underbrush. while generally level, the course is diversified by slight elevations, upon which are the putting greens, their red and white flags visible from all parts of the links. as has been said, the holes are short, the longest, lake hole, being four hundred and ninety-six yards, and the shortest, the first, but one hundred and thirty-three. outfield west once spent the better part of two weeks, at great cost to his class standing, in making a plan of the links, and, while it is not warranted accurate as to distances, it is reproduced here with his permission as giving a clearer idea of the ground than any verbal description. play had begun this morning at nine o'clock, and by noon only somers, whipple, and west had been left in the match. blair had encountered defeat most unexpectedly at the hands of greene, a junior, of whose prowess but little had been known by the handicapper; for, although blair had done the round in three strokes less than his adversary's gross score, the latter's allowance of six strokes had placed him an easy winner. but blair had been avenged later by west, who had defeated the youngster by three strokes in the net. in the afternoon somers and whipple had met, and, as west had predicted, the latter won by two strokes. and now west and whipple, both excellent players, and sworn enemies of the links, were fighting it out, and on this round depended the possession of the title of champion and the ownership for one year of the handicap cup, a modest but highly prized pewter tankard. medal play rules governed to-day, and the scoring was by strokes. [illustration: plan of hilton academy golf links] whipple reached the first green in one stroke, but used two more to hole-out. west took two short drives to reach a lie, from which he dropped his ball into the hole in one try. and the honors were even. the next hole was forty yards longer, and was played either in two short drives or one long drive and an approach shot. it contained two hazards, track bunker and high bunker, the latter alone being formidable. whipple led off with a long shot that went soaring up against the blue and then settled down as gently as a bird just a few yards in front of high bunker. he had reversed his play of the last hole, and was now relying on his approach shot for position. west played a rather short drive off an iron which left his ball midway between the two bunkers. whipple's next stroke took him neatly out of danger and on to the putting green, but west had fared not so well. there was a great deal of noise from the younger boys who were looking on, much discussion of the methods of play, and much loud boasting of what some one else would have done under existing circumstances. west glanced up once and glared at one offending junior, and an admonitory "_hush!_" was heard. but he was plainly disturbed, and when the little white sphere made its flight it went sadly aglee and dropped to earth far to the right of the green, and where rough and cuppy ground made exact putting well-nigh impossible. professor beck promptly laid down a command of absolute silence during shots, and some of the smaller youths left the course in favor of another portion of the campus, where a boy's right to make all the noise he likes could not be disputed. but the harm was done, and when play for the third hole began the score was: whipple 7, west 8. even to one of such intense ignorance of the science of golf as joel march, there was a perceptible difference in the style of the two competitors. outfield west was a great stickler for form, and imitated the full st. andrews swing to the best of his ability. in addressing the ball he stood as squarely to it as was possible, without the use of a measuring tape, and drove off the right leg, as the expression is. despite an almost exaggerated adherence to nicety of style, west's play had an ease and grace much envied by other golf disciples in the school, and his shots were nearly always successful. whipple's manner of driving was very different from his opponent's. his swing was short and often stopped too soon. his stance was rather awkward, after west's, and even his hold on the club was not according to established precedent. yet, notwithstanding all this, it must be acknowledged that whipple's drives had a way of carrying straight and far and landing well. joel followed the play with much interest if small appreciation of its intricacies, and carried west's bag, and hoped all the time that that youth would win, knowing how greatly he had set his heart upon so doing. there is no bunker between second and third holes, but the brook which supplies the lake runs across the course and is about six yards wide from bank to bank. but it has no terrors for a long drive, and both the players went safely over and won academy hole in three strokes. west still held the odd. two long strokes carried whipple a scant distance from railroad bunker, which fronts ditch hole, a dangerous lie, since railroad bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost meriting the title of hill, directly back of it. but if whipple erred in judgment or skill, west found himself in even a sorrier plight when two more strokes had been laid to his score. his first drive with a brassie had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron. the ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the spectators, but which caused joel to look glum and west to grind the turf under his heel in anger. for, like a thing possessed, that ball fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found lay up to its middle in gravel. west groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and carefully selected a club. whipple meanwhile cleared the bunker in the best of style, and landed on the green in a good position to hole out in two shots. "great gobble!" muttered west as he swung his club, and fixed his eye on a point an inch and a half back of the imbedded ball, "if i don't get this out of here on this shot, i'm a gone goose!" march grinned sympathetically but anxiously, and the onlookers held their breath. then back went the club--there was a scattering of sand and gravel, and the ball dropped dead on the green, four yards from the hole. "excellent!" shouted professor beck, and joel jumped in the air from sheer delight. "good for you, out!" yelled dave somers; and the rest of the watchers echoed the sentiment in various ways, even those who desired to see whipple triumphant yielding their meed of praise for the performance. and, "i guess, out," said whipple ruefully, "you might as well take the cup." but outfield west only smiled silently in response, and followed his ball with businesslike attention to the game. whipple was weak on putting, and his first stroke with an iron failed to carry his ball to the hole. west, on the contrary, was a sure player on the green, and now with his ball but four yards from the hole he had just the opportunity he desired to better his score. the green was level and clean, and west selected a small iron putter, and addressed the ball with all the attention to form that the oldest st. andrews veteran might desire. playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, west gave a long stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view. whipple holed out on his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood fifteen strokes each. the honor was west's, and he led off for end hole with a beautiful brassie drive that cleared the first two bunkers with room to spare. whipple, for the first time in the round, drove poorly, toeing his ball badly, and dropping it almost off of the course and just short of the second bunker. west's second drive was a loft over halfway bunker that fell fairly on the green and rolled within ten feet of the hole. from there, on the next shot, he holed out very neatly in eighteen. whipple meanwhile had redeemed himself with a high lofting stroke that carried past the threatening dangers of masters bunker and back on to the course within a few yards of west's lie. but again skill on the putting green was wanting, and he required two strokes to make the hole. once more the honor was west's, and that youth turned toward home with a short and high stroke. the subsequent hole left the score "the like" at 22, and the seventh gave whipple, 25, west 26. "but here's where mr. west takes the lead," confided that young gentleman to joel as they walked to the teeing ground. "from here to lake hole is four hundred and ninety-six yards, and i'm going to do it in three shots on to the green. you watch!" four hundred and ninety-odd yards is nothing out of the ordinary for an older player, but to a lad of seventeen it is a creditable distance to do in three drives. yet that is what west did it in; and strange to relate, and greatly to that young gentleman's surprise, whipple duplicated the performance, and amid the excited whispers of the onlookers the two youths holed out on their next strokes; and the score still gave the odd to west--29 to 30. "i didn't think he could do it," whispered west to joel, "and that makes it look bad for your uncle out. but never mind, my lad, there's still rocky bunker ahead of us, and--" west did not complete his remark, but his face took on a very determined look as he teed his ball. the last hole was in sight, and victory hovered overhead. now, the distance from lake hole to the home hole is but a few yards over three hundred, and it can be accomplished comfortably in two long brassie drives. midway lies the hill, a small elevation rising from about the middle of the course to the river bluff, and there falling off sheer to the beach below. it is perhaps thirty yards across, and if the ball reaches it safely it forms an excellent place from which to make the second drive. so both boys tried for the hill. whipple landed at the foot of it, while west came plump upon the side some five yards from the summit, and his next drive took him cleanly over rocky bunker and to the right of the home green. but whipple summoned discretion to his aid, and instead of trying to make the green on the next drive, played short, and landed far to the right of the bunker. this necessitated a short approach, and by the time he had gained the green and was "made" within holing distance of the flag, the score was once more even, and the end was in sight. and now the watchers moved about restlessly, and joel found his heart in his throat. but west gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the situation. it was quite possible for a skillful player to hole out on the next stroke from whipple's lie. west, on the contrary, was too far distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in one play. whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in bettering his lie was the question. whipple, west knew, was weak on putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent's weakness. while west pondered, whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for an occasional nervous whisper. then west leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. it was the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but west was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted him. his mind was made up. gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on the shaft and bending far over, west slowly, cautiously swung the club above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant goal. then there was a pause. whipple no longer studied his own play; his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently against the grass. joel leaned breathlessly forward. professor beck muttered under his breath, and then cried "s--sh!" to himself in an angry whisper. and then west's club swung back gently, easily, paused an instant--and-forward sped the ball--on and on--slower--slower--but straight as an arrow--and then--presto! it was gone from sight! a moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that moment professor beck announced: "the odd to whipple. thirty-two to thirty-three." then the group became silent again. whipple addressed his ball. it was yet possible to tie the score. his face was pale, and for the first time during the tournament he felt nervous. a better player could scarce have missed the hole from whipple's lie, but for once that youth's nerve forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole. the game was decided. professor beck again announced the score: "the two more to whipple. thirty-two to thirty-four." again whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng broke silence. and as west and whipple, victor and vanquished, shook hands over the home hole, professor beck announced: "thirty-two to thirty-five. west wins the cup!" chapter ix. an evening call. the last week of october brought chilling winds and flying clouds. life at hillton academy had gone on serenely since west's victory on the links. the little pewter tankard reposed proudly upon his mantel beside a bottle of chow-chow, and bore his name as the third winner of the trophy. but west had laid aside his clubs, save for an occasional hour at noon, and, abiding by his promise to joel, he had taken up his books again with much resolution, if little ardor. hillton had met and defeated two more football teams, and the first eleven was growing gradually stronger. remsen was seen to smile now quite frequently during practice, and there was a general air of prosperity about the gridiron. the first had gone to its training table at "mother" burke's, in the village, and the second ate its meals in the center of the school dining hall with an illy concealed sense of self-importance. and the grinds sneered at its appetites, and the obscure juniors admired reverently from afar. joel had attended both recitations and practice with exemplary and impartial regularity, and as a result his class standing was growing better and better on one hand, and on the other his muscles were becoming stronger, his flesh firmer, and his brain clearer. the friendship between him and outfield west had ripened steadily, until now they were scarcely separable. and that they might be more together west had lately made a proposition. "that fellow sproule is a regular cad, joel, and i tell you what we'll do. after christmas you move over to hampton and room with me. you have to make an application before recess, you know. what do you say?" "i should like to first rate, but i can't pay the rent there," joel had objected. "then pay the same as you're paying for your den in masters," replied west. "you see, joel, i have to pay the rent for number 2 hampton anyhow, and it won't make any difference whether i have another fellow in with me or not. only, if you pay as much of my rent as you're paying now, why, that will make it so much cheaper for me. don't you see?" "yes, but if i use half the room i ought to pay half, the rent." and to this joel stood firm until west's constant entreaties led to a compromise. west was to put the matter before his father, and joel before his. if their parents sanctioned it, joel was to apply for the change of abode. as yet the matter was still in abeyance. richard sproule, as west had suggested rather more forcibly than politely, was becoming more and more objectionable, and joel was not a bit grieved at the prospect of leaving him. of late, intercourse between the roommates had become reduced to rare monosyllables. this was the outcome of a refusal on joel's part to give a portion of his precious study time to helping sproule with his lessons. once or twice joel had consented to assist his roommate, and had done so to the detriment of his own affairs; but the result to both had proved so unsatisfactory that joel had stoutly refused the next request. thereupon sproule had considered himself deeply aggrieved, and usually spent the time when joel was present in sulking. bartlett cloud, since his encounter with joel on the field the afternoon that he was put off the team, had had nothing to say to him, though his looks when they met were always dark and threatening. but in a school as large as hillton there is plenty of room to avoid an objectionable acquaintance, so long as you are not under the same roof with him, and consequently cloud and joel seldom met. the latter constantly regretted having made an enemy of the other, but beyond this regret his consideration of cloud seldom went. so far joel had not found an opportunity to accept the invitation that remsen had extended to him, though that invitation had since been once or twice repeated. but to-night west and he had made arrangement to visit remsen at his room, and had obtained permission from professor wheeler to do so. the two boys met at the gymnasium after supper was over and took their way toward the village. west had armed himself with a formidable stick, in the hope, loudly expressed at intervals, that they would be set upon by tramps. but remsen's lodgings were reached without adventure, and the lads were straightway admitted to a cosey study, wherein, before an open fire, sat remsen and a guest. after a cordial welcome from remsen the guest was introduced as albert digbee. "yes, we know each other," said west, as he shook hands. "we both room in hampton, but digbee's a grind, you know, and doesn't care to waste his time on us idlers." digbee smiled. "it isn't inclination, west; i don't have the time, and so don't attempt to keep up with you fellows." he shook joel's hand. "i'm glad to meet you. i've heard of you before." then the quartet drew chairs up to the blaze, and, as remsen talked, joel examined his new acquaintance. digbee was a year older than west and joel. he was in the senior class, and was spoken of as one of the smartest boys in the school. although a hampton house resident, he seldom was seen with the others save at the table, and was usually referred to among themselves as "dig," both because that suggested his christian name and because, as they said, he was forever digging at his books. in appearance albert digbee was a tall, slender, but scarcely frail youth, with a cleanly cut face that looked, in the firelight, far too pale. his eyes were strikingly bright, and though his smiles were infrequent, his habitual expression was one of eager and kindly interest. joel had often come across him in class, and had long wanted to know him. "you see, boys," remsen was saying, "digbee here is of the opinion that athletics in general and football in particular are harmful to schools and colleges as tending to draw the attention of pupils from their studies, and i maintain the opposite. now, what's your opinion, west? digbee and i have gone over it so often that we would like to hear some one else on the subject." "oh, i don't know," replied west. "if fellows would give up football and go in for golf, there wouldn't be any talk about athletics being hurtful. golf's a game that a chap can play and get through with and have some time for study. you don't have to train a month to play for an hour; it's a sport that hasn't become a business." "i can testify," said joel gravely, "that out is a case in point. he plays golf, and has time left to study--how to play more golf." "well, anyhow, you know i _do_ study some lately, joel," laughed west. joel nodded with serious mien. "i think you've made a very excellent point in favor of golf, west," said digbee. "it hasn't been made a business, at least in this school. but won't it eventually become quite as much of a pursuit as football now is?" "oh, it may become as popular, but, don't you see, it will never become as--er--exacting on the fellows that play it. you can play golf without having to go into training for it." "nevertheless, west," replied the head coach, "if a fellow can play golf without being in training, doesn't it stand to reason that the same fellow can play a better game if he is in training? that is, won't he play a better game if he is in better trim?" "yes, i guess so, but he will play a first-class game if he doesn't train." "but not as good a game as he will if he does train?" "i suppose not," admitted west. "well, now, a fellow can play a very good game of football if he isn't in training," continued remsen, "but that same fellow, if he goes to bed and gets up at regular hours, and eats decent food at decent times, and takes care of himself in such a way as to improve his mental, moral, and physical person, will play a still better game and derive more benefit from it. when golf gets a firmer hold on this side of the atlantic, schools and colleges will have their golf teams of, say, from two to a dozen players. of course, the team will not play as a team, but the members of it will play singly or in couples against representatives of other schools. and when that happens it is sure to follow that the players will go into almost as strict training as the football men do now." "well, that sounds funny," exclaimed west. "digbee thinks one of the most objectionable features of football is the fact that the players go into it so thoroughly--that they train for it, and study it, and spend a good deal of valuable time thinking about it. but to me that is one of its most admirable features. when a boy or a man goes in for athletics, whether football or rowing or hockey, he desires, if he is a real flesh-and-blood being, to excel in it. to do that it is necessary that he put himself in the condition that will allow of his doing his very best. and to that end he trains. he gives up pastry, and takes to cereals; he abandons his cigarettes and takes to fresh air; he gives up late hours at night, and substitutes early hours in the morning. and he is better for doing so. he feels better, looks better, works better, plays better." "but," responded digbee, "can a boy who has come to school to study, and who has to study to make his schooling pay for itself, can such a boy afford the time that all that training and practicing requires?" "usually, yes," answered remsen. "of course, there are boys, and men too, for that matter, who are incapable of occupying their minds with two distinct interests. that kind should leave athletics alone. and there are others who are naturally--i guess i mean-unnaturally--stupid, and who, should they attempt to sandwich football or baseball into their school life, would simply make a mess of both study and recreation. but they need not enter into the question of the harm or benefit of athletics, since at every well-conducted school or college those boys are not allowed to take up with athletics. yes, generally speaking, the boy who comes to school to study can afford to play football, train for football, and think football, because instead of interfering with his studies it really helps him with them. it makes him healthy, strong, wide-awake, self-reliant, and clearheaded. some time i shall be glad to show you a whole stack of careful statistics which prove that football men, at least, rather than being backward with studies, are nearly always above the average in class standing. march, you're a hard-worked football enthusiast, and i understand that you're keeping well up with your lessons. do you have trouble to attend to both? do you have to skimp your studies? i know you give full attention to the pigskin." "i'm hard put some days to find time for everything," answered joel, "but i always manage to make it somehow, and i have all the sleep i want or need. perhaps if i gave up football i might get higher marks in recitations, but i'd not feel so well, and it's possible that i'd only get lower marks. i agree with you, mr. remsen, that athletics, or at least football, is far more likely to benefit a chap than to hurt him, because a fellow can't study well unless he is in good health and spirits." "are you convinced, digbee?" asked remsen. digbee shook his head smilingly. "i don't believe i am, quite. but you know more about such things than i do. in fact, it's cheeky for me to argue about them. why, i've never played anything but tennis, and never did even that well." "you know the ground you argue from, and because i have overwhelmed you with talk it does not necessarily follow that i am right," responded his host courteously. "but enough of such dull themes. there's west most asleep.--march, have you heard from your mother lately?" "yes, i received a letter from her yesterday morning. she writes that she's glad the relationship is settled finally; says she's certain that any kin of the maine remsens is a person of good, strong moral character." when the laugh had subsided, remsen turned to west. "have you ever heard of tommy collingwood?" "wasn't he baseball captain a good many years ago?" "yes, and used to row in the boat. well, tommy was a good deal better at spinning top on academy steps than doing lessons, and a deal fonder of playing shinney than writing letters. but tommy's mother always insisted that tommy should write home once a week, and tommy's father wrote and explained what would happen to tommy if he didn't obey his mother; and as tommy's folks lived just over in albany it was a small thing for tommy's father to run over some day with a strap; so tommy obeyed his parents and every week wrote home. his letters weren't long, nor were they filled with a wealth of detail, but they answered the purpose in lieu of better. each one ran: 'hillton academy, hillton, n.y.,' with the date. 'dear father and mother, i am well and studying hard. your loving son, thomas collingwood.' "well, when christmas recess came, tommy went home. and one day his mother complimented tommy on the regularity of his correspondence. tommy looked sheepish. 'to tell the truth, mother, i didn't write one of those letters each week,' explained tommy. 'but just after school opened i was sick for a week, and didn't have anything to do; so i wrote 'i am well' twelve times, and dated each ahead.'" digbee accompanied the other two lads back to the yard, and he and march discussed studies, while west mooned along, whistling half aloud and thrashing the weeds and rocks with his cudgel, for the tramps refused to appear on the scene. he and digbee went out of their way to see joel safely to his dormitory, and then joel accompanied them on their homeward way as far as academy building. there good-nights were said, and joel, feeling but little inclined for sleep, drew his collar up and strolled to the front of the building, where, from the high steps, the river was visible for several miles in either direction. the moon was struggling out from a mass of somber clouds overhead, and the sound of the waters as they swirled around the rocky point was plainly heard. joel sat there on the steps, under the shadow of the dark building, thinking of many things, and feeling very happy and peaceful, until a long, shrill sound from the north told of the coming of the 9.48 train; then he made his way back to masters, up the dim stairs, and into his room, where dickey sproule lay huddled in bed reading the three guardsmen by the screened light of a guttering candle. chapter x. the broken bell rope. joel arrived at chapel the following morning just as the doors were being closed. duffy, the wooden-legged doorkeeper, was not on duty, and the youth upon whom his duties had devolved allowed joel to pass without giving his name for report as tardy. during prayers there was an evident atmosphere of suppressed excitement among the pupils, but not until chapel was over did joel discover the cause. "were you here when it happened?" asked west. "when what happened?" responded joel. "haven't you heard? why, some one cut the bell rope, and when 'peg-leg' went to ring chapel bell the rope broke up in the tower and came down on his head and laid him out there on the floor, and some of the fellows found him knocked senseless. and they've taken him to the infirmary. you know the rope's as big as your wrist, and it hit him on top of the head. i guess he isn't much hurt, but 'wheels' is as mad as never was, and whoever did it will have a hard time, i'll bet!" "poor old duffy!" said joel. "let's go over and find out if he's much hurt. it was a dirty sort of a joke to play, though i suppose whoever did it didn't think it would hurt any one." at the infirmary they found professor gibbs in the office. "no, boys, he isn't damaged much. he'll be all right in a few hours. i hope that the ones who did it will be severely punished. it was a most contemptible trick to put up on duffy." "i hope so too," answered west indignantly. "you may depend that no upper middle boy did it, sir." the professor smiled. "i hope you are right, west." at noon hour joel was summoned to the principal's office. professor wheeler, the secretary, and professor durkee were present, and as joel entered he scented an air of hostility. the secretary closed the door behind him. "march, i have sent for you to ask whether you can give us any information which will lead to the apprehension of the perpetrators of the trick which has resulted in injury to mr. duffy. can you?" "no, sir," responded joel. "you know absolutely nothing about it?" "nothing, sir, except what i have been told." "by whom?" "outfield west, sir, after chapel. we went to the infirmary to inquire about 'peg'--about mr. duffy, sir." the secretary repressed a smile. the principal was observing joel very closely, and professor durkee moved impatiently in his seat. "i can not suppose," continued the principal, "that the thing was done simply as a school joke. the boy who cut the rope must have known when he did so that the result would be harmful to whoever rang the chapel bell this morning. i wish it understood that i have no intention of dealing leniently with the culprit, but, at the same time, a confession, if made now, will have the effect of mitigating his punishment." he paused. joel turned an astonished look from him to professor durkee, who, meeting it, frowned and turned impatiently away. "you have nothing more to tell me, march?" "why, no, sir," answered joel in a troubled voice. "i don't understand. am i suspected--of--of this--thing, sir?" "dear me, sir," exclaimed professor durkee, explosively, turning to the principal, "it's quite evident that--" "one moment, please," answered the latter firmly. the other subsided.--"you had town leave last night, march?" "yes, sir." "you went with outfield west?" "yes, sir." "what time did you return to your room?" "at about a quarter to ten, sir." "you are certain as to the time?" "i only know that i heard the down train whistle as i left academy building. i went right to my room, sir." "was the door of academy building unlocked last night?" "i don't know. i didn't try it, sir." "what time did you leave mr. remsen's house?" "a few minutes after nine." "you came right back here?" "yes, sir. we came as far as academy building, and west and digbee went home. i sat on the front steps here until i heard the whistle blow. then i went to my room." "why did you sit on the steps, march?" "i wasn't sleepy; and the moon was coming out--and--i wanted to think." "do you hear from home very often?" "once or twice a week, sir." "when did you get a letter last, and from whom was it?" "from my mother, about three days ago." "have you that letter?" "yes, sir. it is in my room." "you sometimes carry your letters in your pocket?" "why, yes, but not often. if i receive them on the way out of the building i put them in my pocket, and then put them away when i get back." "where do you keep them?" "in my bureau drawer." "it is kept locked?" "no, sir. i never lock it." "do you remember what was in that last letter?" "yes, sir." "was any one mentioned in it?" "yes, sir. mr. remsen was mentioned. and outfield west, and my brother, and father." "is this your letter?" professor wheeler extended it across the desk, and joel took it wonderingly. "why, yes, sir. but where--i don't understand--!" again he looked toward professor durkee in bewilderment. "nor do i," answered that gentleman dryly. "march," continued the principal, as he took the letter again, "this was found this morning, after the accident, on the floor of the bell tower. do you know how it came there?" joel's cheeks reddened and then grew white as the full meaning of the words reached him. his voice suddenly grew husky. "no, sir, i do not." the words were spoken very stoutly and rang with sincerity. a silence fell on the room. professor wheeler glanced inquiringly at professor durkee, and the latter made a grimace of impatience that snarled his homely face into a mass of wrinkles. "look here, boy," he snapped, "who do you think dropped that letter there?" "i can't think, sir. i can't understand it at all. i've never been in the tower since i've been in school." "do you know of any one who might like to get you into trouble in such a way as this?" "no, sir," answered joel promptly. then a sudden recollection of bartlett cloud came to him, and he hesitated. professor durkee observed it. "well?" he said sharply. "i know of no one, sir." "humph!" grunted the professor, "you do, but you won't say." "if you suspect any one it will be best to tell us, march," said professor wheeler, more kindly. "you must see that the evidence is much against you, and, while i myself can not believe that you are guilty, i shall be obliged to consider you so until proof of your innocence is forthcoming. have you any enemy in school?" "i think not, sir." the door opened and remsen appeared. "good-morning," he said. "you wished to see me, professor?" "yes, in a moment. sit down, please, remsen." remsen nodded to joel and the secretary, shook hands with professor durkee, and took a chair. the principal turned again to joel. "you wish me to understand, then, that you have no explanation to offer as to how the letter came to be in the bell tower? recollect that shielding a friend or any other pupil will do neither you nor him any service." joel was hesitating. was it right to throw suspicion on bartlett cloud by mentioning the small occurrence on the football field so long before? it was inconceivable that cloud would go to such a length in mere spite. and yet--remsen interrupted his thoughts. "professor, if you will dismiss march for a while, perhaps i can throw some light on the matter. let him return in half an hour or so." professor wheeler nodded. "come back at one o'clock, march," he said. outside joel hesitated where to go. he must tell some one his trouble, and there was only one who would really care. he turned toward hampton house, then remembered that it was dinner hour and that outfield would be at table. he had forgotten his own dinner until that moment. in the dining hall west was still lingering over his dessert. joel took his seat at the training table, explaining his absence by saying that he had been called to the office, and hurried through a dinner of beef and rice and milk. when west arose joel overtook him at the door. and as the friends took their way toward joel's room, he told everything to west in words that tumbled over each other. outfield west heard him in silence after one exclamation of surprise, and when joel had finished, cried: "why didn't you tell about cloud? don't you see that this is his doing? that he is getting even with you for his losing the football team?" "i thought of that, out, but it seemed too silly to suppose that he would do such a thing just for--for that, you know." "well, you may be certain that he did do it; or, at least, if he didn't cut the rope himself, found some one to do it for him. it's just the kind of a revenge that a fellow of his meanness would think of. he won't stand up and fight like a man. here, let's go and find him!" "no, wait. i'll tell professor wheeler about him when i go back; then if he thinks--if he did do it, out, i'll lick him good for it!" "hooray! and when you get through i'll take a hand, too. but what do you suppose remsen was going to tell?" joel shook his head. they found sproule in the room, and to him west spoke as follows: "hello, dickey! you're not studying? it's not good for you; these sudden changes should be avoided." sproule laughed, but looked annoyed at the banter. "joel and i have come up for a chat, dickey," continued west. "now, you take your robinson crusoe and read somewhere else for a while, like a nice boy." sproule grew red-faced, and turned to west angrily. "don't you see i'm studying? if you and march want to talk, why, either go somewhere else, or talk here." "but our talk is private, dickey, and not intended for little boys' ears. you know the saying about little pitchers, dickey?" "well, i'm not going out, so you can talk or not as you like." "oh, yes, you are going out, dickey. politeness requires it, and i shall see that you maintain that delightful courteousness for which you are noted. now, dickey!" west indicated the door with a nod and a smile. sproule bent his head over his book and growled a response that sounded anything but polite. then west, still smiling, seized the unobliging youth by the shoulders, pinioning his arms to his sides, and pushed him away from the table and toward the door. joel rescued the lamp at a critical moment, the chairs went over on to the floor, and a minute later sproule was on the farther side of the bolted door, and west was adjusting his rumpled attire. "i'll report you for this, outfield west!" howled sproule through the door, in a passion of resentment. "report away," answered west mockingly. "and if i miss my latin i'll tell why, too!" "well, you'll miss it all right enough, unless you've changed mightily. but, here, i'll shy your book through the transom." this was done, and the sound of ascending feet on the stairway reaching sproule's ears at that moment, he grabbed his book and took himself off, muttering vengeance. "have you looked?" asked west. "yes; it's not there. but there are no others missing. who could have taken it?" "any one, my boy; bartlett cloud, for preference. your door is unlocked, he comes in when he knows you are out, looks on the table, sees nothing there that will serve, goes to the bureau, opens the top drawer, and finds a pile of letters. he takes the first one, which is, of course, the last received, and sneaks out. then he climbs into the bell tower at night, cuts the rope through all but one small strand, and puts your letter on the floor where it will be found in the morning. isn't that plain enough?" joel nodded forlornly. "but cheer up, joel. your uncle out will see your innocence established, firmly and beyond all question. and now come on. it's one o'clock, and you've got to go back to the office, while i've got a class. come over to my room at four, joel, and tell me what happens." remsen and the secretary were no longer in the office when joel returned. professor durkee was standing with his hat in his hand, apparently about to leave. "march," began the principal, "mr. remsen tells us that you were struck at by bartlett cloud on the football field one day at practice. is that so?" joel replied affirmatively. "does he speak to you, or you to him?" "no, sir; but then i've never been acquainted with him." "do you believe that he could have stolen that letter from your room?" "i know that he could have done so, sir, but i don't like to think--" "that he did? well, possibly he did and possibly he didn't. i shall endeavor to find out. meanwhile i must ask you to let this go no further. you will go on as though this conversation had never occurred. if i find that you are unjustly suspected i will summon you and ask your pardon, and the guilty one will be punished. professor durkee here has pointed out to me that such conduct is totally foreign to his conception of your character, and has reminded me that your standing in class has been of the best since the beginning of the term. i agree with him in all this, but duty in the affair is very plain and i have been performing it, unpleasant as it is. you may go now, march; and kindly remember that this affair must be kept quiet," joel turned with a surprised but grateful look toward professor durkee, but was met with a wrathful scowl. joel hurried to his recitation, and later, before west's fireplace, the friends discussed the unfortunate affair in all its phases, and resolved, with vehemence, to know the truth sooner or later. but joel's cup was not yet filled. when he returned to the dormitory after supper, he found two missives awaiting him. the first was from wesley blair: "dear march" (it read): "please show up in the morning at burke's for breakfast with the first eleven. you are to take the place of post at l.h.b. it will be necessary for you to report at the gym at eleven each day for noon signals; please arrange your recitations to this end. i am writing this because i couldn't see you this afternoon; hope you are all right. yours, "wesley blair." joel read this with a loudly beating heart and flushing cheeks. it was as unexpected as it was welcome, that news; he _had_ hoped for an occasional chance to substitute post or blair or clausen on the first team in some minor game, but to be taken on as a member was more than he had even thought of since he had found how very far from perfect was his playing. he seized his cap with the intention of racing across to hampton and informing west of his luck; then he remembered the other note. it was from the office, and it was with a sinking heart that he tore it open and read: "you are placed upon probation until further notice from the faculty. the rules and regulations require that pupils on probation abstain from all sports and keep their rooms in the evenings except upon permission from the principal. respectfully, "curtis gordon, secretary." chapter xi. two heroes. one afternoon a week later outfield west and joel march were seated on the ledge where, nearly two months before, they had begun their friendship. the sun beat warmly down and the hill at their backs kept off the east wind. below them the river was brightly blue, and a skiff dipping its way up stream caught the sunlight on sail and hull until, as it danced from sight around the headland, it looked like a white gull hovering over the water. above, on the campus, the football field was noisy with voices and the pipe of the referee's whistle; and farther up the river at the boathouse moving figures showed that some of the boys were about to take advantage of the pleasant afternoon. "some one's going rowing," observed outfield. "can you row, joel?" "i guess so; i never tried." west laughed. "then i guess you can't. i've tried. it's like trying to write with both hands. while you're looking after one the other has fits and runs all over the paper. if you pull with the left oar the right oar goes up in the air or tries to throw you out of the boat by getting caught in the water. paddling suits me better. say, you'll see a bully race next spring when we meet eustace. last spring they walked away from us. but the crew is to have a new boat next year. look! those two fellows row well, don't they? remsen says a chap can never learn to row unless he has been born near the water. that lets me out. in iowa we haven't any water nearer than the mississippi--except the red cedar, and that doesn't count. by the way, joel, what did remsen say to you last night about playing again?" "he said to keep in condition, so that in case i got off probation i could go right back to work. he says he'll do all he can to help me, and i know he will. but it won't do any good. 'wheels' won't let me play until he's found out who did that trick. it's bad enough, out, to be blamed for the thing when i didn't do it, but to lose the football team like this is a hundred times worse. i almost wish i _had_ cut that old rope!" continued joel savagely; "then i'd at least have the satisfaction of knowing that i was only getting what i deserved." west looked properly sympathetic. "it's a beastly shame, that's what i think. what's the good of 'believing you innocent,' as 'wheels' says, if he goes ahead and punishes you for the affair? what? why, there isn't any, of course! if it was me i'd cut the pesky rope every chance i got until they let up on me!" joel smiled despite his ill humor. "and i've lost half my interest in lessons, out. i try not to, but i can't help it. i guess my chance at the scholarship is gone higher than a kite." "oh, hang the scholarship!" exclaimed west. "but there's the st. eustace game in three weeks. if you don't play in that, joel, i'll go to 'wheels' and tell him what i think about it!" "it's awfully rough on a fellow, out, but professor wheeler is only doing what is right, i suppose. he can't let the thing go unnoticed, you see, and as long as i can't prove my innocence i guess he's right to hold me to blame for it." "tommyrot!" answered west explosively. "the faculty's just trying to have us beaten! why--say, don't tell a soul, joel, but blair's worried half crazy. they had him up yesterday, and 'wheels' told him that if he didn't get better marks from now on he couldn't play. what do you think of that? they're not _decent_ about it. they're trying to put us _all_ on probation. why, how do i know but what they'll put _me_ on?" outfield hit his shoe violently with the driver he held until it hurt him. for although joel was debarred from playing golf there was nothing to keep him from watching west play, and this afternoon the two had been half over the course together, west explaining the game, and joel listening intently, and all the while longing to take a club in hand and have a whack at the ball himself. "that's bad," answered joel thoughtfully. "it would be all up with us if blair shouldn't play." "and that's just what's going to happen if 'wheels' keeps up his present game," responded outfield. "who are those chaps in that shell, joel? one looks like cloud, the fellow in front." joel watched the approaching craft for a moment. "it is cloud," he answered. "and that looks like clausen with him. why isn't he practicing, i wonder?" "haven't you heard? he was dropped from the team yesterday. wills has his place. post says, by the way, that he's sorry you're in such a fix, but he's mighty glad to get back on the first. he's an awfully decent chap, is post. did you see that thing he has in this month's hilltonian about cooke? says the fac's going to establish a class in bakery and put cooke in as teacher because he's such a fine _loafer_! say, what's the matter down there?" the shell containing cloud and clausen had reached a point almost opposite to where west and joel were perched, and as the latter looked toward it at west's exclamation he saw cloud throw aside his oars and stand upright in the boat. clausen had turned and was looking at his friend, but still held his oars. "by jove, joel, she's sinking!" cried outfield. "look! why doesn't clausen get out? there goes cloud over. i wonder if clausen can swim? swim? come on!" and half tumbling, half climbing, west sped down the bank on to the tiny strip of rocks and gravel that lay along the water. joel followed. cloud now was in the water at a little distance from the shell, which had settled to the gunwales. clausen, plainly in a state of terror, was kneeling in the sinking boat and crying to the other lad for help. the next moment he was in the water, and his shouts reached the two lads on the beach. cloud swam toward him, but before he could reach him clausen had gone from sight. "what shall we do?" cried west. "he's drowning! can you swim?" for joel had already divested himself of his coat and vest, and was cutting the lacings of his shoes. west hesitated an instant only, then followed suit. "yes." off went the last shoe, and joel ran into the water. west, pale of face, but with a determined look in his blue eyes, followed a moment later, a yard or two behind, and the two set out with desperate strokes to reach the scene of the disaster. as he had taken the water joel had cast a hurried glance toward the spot where clausen had sunk, and had seen nothing of that youth; only cloud was in sight, and he seemed to be swimming hurriedly toward shore. joel went at the task hand over hand and heard behind him west, laboring greatly at his swimming. presently joel heard his name cried in an exhausted voice. "i--can't make--it--joel!" shouted west. "i'll--have to--turn--back." "all right," joel called. "go up to the field and send some one for help." then he turned his attention again to his strokes, and raising his head once, saw an open river before him with nothing in sight between him and the opposite bank save, farther down stream, a floating oar. he had made some allowance for the current, and when in another moment he had reached what seemed to him to be near the scene of the catastrophe, yet a little farther down stream, he trod water and looked about. under the bluff to the right cloud was crawling from the river. west was gone from sight. about him ran the stream, and save for its noise no sound came to him, and nothing rewarded his eager, searching gaze save a branch that floated slowly by. with despair at his heart, he threw up his arms and sank with wide-open eyes, peering about him in the hazy depths. above him the surface water bubbled and eddied; below him was darkness; around him was only green twilight. for a moment he tarried there, and then arose to the surface and dashed the water from his eyes and face. and suddenly, some thirty feet away, an arm clad in a white sweater sleeve came slowly into sight. with a frantic leap through the water joel sped toward it. a bare head followed the upstretched arm; two wild, terror-stricken eyes opened and looked despairingly at the peaceful blue heavens; the white lips moved, but no sound came from them. and then, just as the eyes closed and just as the body began to sink, as slowly as it had arisen, and for the last time, joel reached it. there was no time left in which to pause and select a hold of the drowning boy, and joel caught savagely at his arm and struck toward the bank, and the inert body came to the surface like a water-logged plank. "clausen!" shouted joel. "clausen! can you hear? brace up! strike out with your right hand, and don't grab me! do you hear?" but there was no answer. clausen was like stone in the water. joel cast a despairing glance toward the bluff. then his eyes brightened, for there sliding down the bank he saw a crowd of boys, and as he looked another on the bluff threw down a coil of new rope that shone in the afternoon sunlight as it fell and was seized by some one in the throng below. nerved afresh, joel took a firm grasp on clausen's elbow and struck out manfully for shore. it was hard going, and when a bare dozen long strokes had been made his burden so dragged him down that he was obliged to stop, and, floundering desperately to keep the white face above water, take a fresh store of breath into his aching lungs. then drawing the other boy to him so that his weight fell on his back, he brought one limp arm about his shoulder, and holding it there with his left hand started swimming once more. a dozen more strokes were accomplished slowly, painfully, and then, as encouraging shouts came from shore, he felt the body above him stir into life, heard a low cry of terror in his ear, and then--they were sinking together, clausen and he, struggling there beneath the surface! clausen had his arm about joel's neck and was pulling him down--down! and just as his lungs seemed upon the point of bursting the grasp relaxed around his neck, the body began to sink and joel to rise! with a deafening noise as of rushing water in his ears, joel reached, caught a handful of cloth, and struggled, half drowned himself, to the surface. and then some one caught him by the chin--and he knew no more until he awoke as from a bad dream to find himself lying in the sun on the narrow beach, while several faces looked down into his. "did you get him?" he asked weakly. "yep," answered outfield west, with something that sounded like a sob in his voice. "he's over there. he's all right. don't get up," he continued, as joel tried to move. "stay where you are. the fellows are bringing a boat, and we'll take you both back in it." "all right," answered joel. "but i guess i'll just look around a bit." and he sat up. at a little distance a group among which joel recognized the broad back of professor gibbs were still working over clausen. but even as he looked joel was delighted to see clausen's legs move and hear his weak voice speaking to the professor. then the boat was rowed in, the occupants panting with their hurried pull from the boathouse, and joel clambered aboard, disdaining the proffered help of west and others, and clausen was lifted to a seat in the bow. on the way up river joel told how it happened, west throwing in an eager word here and there, and clausen in a low whisper explaining that the shell had struck on a sunken rock or snag when passing the island, and had begun to sink almost immediately. "and cloud?" asked professor gibbs. there was no reply from either joel or clausen or-west. only one of the rowers answered coldly: "he's safe. i saw him on the path near the society building. he was running toward warren." a silence followed. then-"you've never learned to swim, clausen?" "no, sir." "but it is the rule that no boy is allowed on the river who can not swim. how is that?" "i--i said i could, sir." "humph! your lie came near to costing you dear, clausen." then no more was said in the boat until the float was reached, although each occupant was busy with his thoughts. clausen was helped, pale and shaking, to his room, and west and joel, accompanied by several of their schoolmates, trotted away to the gymnasium, where joel was put through an invigorating bath and a subsequent rubbing that left him none the worse for his adventure. the story had to be told over and over to each new group that came in after practice, and finally the two friends escaped to west's room, where they discussed the affair from the view-point of participants. "when i got back to the bluff with the other fellows you weren't to be seen, joel," west was saying, "and i thought it was all up with poor old joel march." "that's just what i thought a bit later," responded joel, "when that fellow had me round the neck and was trying to show me the bottom of the river." "and then, when they brought you in, whipple and christie, and you were all white and--and ghastly like, you know"--outfield west whistled long and expressively--"then i thought you _were_ a goner." joel nodded. "and cloud?" he asked presently. "cloud has settled himself," responded west. "when he thought clausen was drowning he just cut and ran--i mean swam--to shore. the fellows are madder than hornets. as whipple said, you can't insist on a fellow saving another fellow from drowning, but you can insist on his not running away. they're planning to show cloud what they think of him, somehow. they wouldn't talk about it while i was around. i wonder why?" outfield stopped suddenly and frowned perplexedly. "why, a month or six weeks ago i would have been one of the first they would have asked to help! i'm afraid it's associating with you, joel. you're corrupting me! say, didn't i make a mess of it this afternoon? i got about ten yards off the beach and just had to give up and pull back--and pull hard. blessed if i didn't begin to wonder once if i'd make it! the fact is, joel, i'm an awful dab at swimming. and i ought to be punched for letting you go out there all alone." "nonsense, out! you couldn't help getting tired, especially if you aren't much of a swimmer. and now you speak of it i remember you saying once that you couldn't--" joel stopped short and looked at west in wondering amazement. and west grew red and his eyes sought the floor, and for almost a minute there was silence in the room. then joel arose and stood over the other lad with shining eyes. "out," he muttered huskily, "you're a brick!" west made no reply, but his feet shuffled nervously on the hearth. "to think of you starting out there after me! why, you're the--the hero, out; not me at all!" "oh, shut up!" muttered west. "i'll not! i'll tell every one in school!" cried joel. "i'll--" "if you do, joel march, i'll thrash you!" cried west. "you can't!--you can't, out!" then he paused and laid a hand affectionately on the other's shoulder as he asked softly: "and it's really so, out? you can't--" west shook his head. "i'm afraid it's so, joel," he answered apologetically. "you see out in iowa there isn't much chance for a chap to learn, and--and so before this afternoon, joel, i never swam a stroke in my life." chapter xii. the probation of blair. wallace clausen's narrow escape from death and joel's heroic rescue were nine-day wonders in the little world of the academy and village. in every room that night the incident was discussed from a to z: clausen's foolhardiness, march's grit and courage, west's coolness, cloud's cowardice. and next morning at chapel when joel, fearing to be late, hurried in and down the side aisle to his seat, his appearance was the signal for such an enthusiastic outburst of cheers and acclamations that he stopped, looked about in bewilderment, and then slipped with crimson cheeks into his seat, the very uncomfortable cynosure of all eyes. older boys, who were supposed to know, stoutly averred that such a desecration of the sacred solitude of chapel had never before been heard of, and "peg-leg," long since recovered from his contact with the bell rope, shook his gray head doubtfully, and joined his feeble tones with the cheers of the others. and then professor wheeler made his voice heard, and commanded silence very sternly, yet with a lurking smile, and silence was almost secured when, just as the door was being closed, outfield west slipped through, smiling, his handsome face flushed from his tear across the yard. and again the applause burst forth, scarcely less great in volume or enthusiasm, and west literally bolted back to the door, found it closed, was met with a grinning shake of the head from duffy, looked wildly about for an avenue of escape, and finding none, slunk to his seat at joel's side, while the boys joined laughter at his plight to their cheers for his courage. "you promised not to tell!" hissed west with blazing cheek. "i didn't, out; not a word," whispered joel. many eyes were still turned toward the door, but their owners were doomed to disappointment, for bartlett cloud failed to appear at chapel that morning, preferring to accept the penalty of absence rather than face his fellow-pupils assembled there in a body. but he did not escape public degradation; for, although he waited until the last moment to go to breakfast, he found the hall filled, and so passed to his seat amid a storm of hisses that plainly told the contempt in which his schoolmates held him. and then, as though scorning to remain in his presence, the place emptied as though by magic, and he was left with burning cheeks to eat his breakfast in solitude. joel and outfield were publicly thanked and commended by the principal, and every master had a handshake and a kind and earnest word for them. the boys learned that clausen had taken a severe cold from his immersion in the icy water, and had gone to the infirmary. thither they went and made inquiry. he would be up in a day or two, said mrs. creelman; but they could not see him, since professor gibbs had charged that the patient was not to be disturbed. and so, leaving word for him when he should awake, joel and west took themselves away, relieved at not having to receive any more thanks just then. but three days later clausen left the infirmary fully recovered, and joel came face to face with him on the steps of academy building. a number of fellows on their way to recitations stopped and watched the meeting. clausen colored painfully, appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then went to joel and held out his hand, which was taken and gripped warmly. "march, it's hard work thanking a fellow for saving your life, and--i don't know how to do it very well. but i guess you'll understand that--that--oh, hang it, march! you know what i'd like to say. i'm more grateful than i could tell you--ever. we haven't been friends, but it was my fault, i know, and if you'll let me, i'd like to be--to know you better." "you're more than welcome, clausen, for what i did. i'm awfully glad west and i happened to be on hand. but there wasn't anything that you or any fellow couldn't have done just as well, or better, because i came plaguey near making a mess of it. anyhow, it's well through with. as for being friends, i'll be very glad to be, clausen. and if you don't mind climbing stairs, and have a chance, come up and see me this evening. will you?" "yes, thanks. er--well, to-night, then." and clausen strode off. after supper west and clausen came up to joel's room, and the four boys sat and discussed all the topics known to school. richard sproule was at his best, and strove to do his share of the entertaining, succeeding quite beyond joel's expectations. when the conversation drew around to the subject of the upsetting on the river, clausen seemed willing enough to tell his own experiences, but became silent when cloud's name was mentioned. "i've changed my room, and haven't seen cloud since to speak to," he said. and so cloud's name was omitted from discussion. "i'm sorry," said clausen, "that i made such a dunce of myself when you were trying to get me out. i don't believe i knew what i was doing. i don't remember it at all." "i'm sure you didn't," answered joel. "i guess a fellow just naturally wouldn't, you know. but i was glad when you let go!" "yes, you must have been. the fellows all say you were terribly plucky to keep at it the way you did. when they got you it was all they could do to make you let go of me, they say." "the queerest thing," said west, with a laugh, "was to see post standing on shore and trying to throw a line to you all. it never came within twenty yards of you, but he kept on shouting: 'catch hold--catch hold, can't you? why don't you catch hold, you stupid apes?'" "and some one told me," said sproule, "that whipple took his shoes, sweater, and breeches off, and swam out there with his nose-guard on." "used it for a life-preserver," suggested west.--"did you get lectured, clausen?" "yes, he gave it to me hard; but he's a nice old duffer, after all. said i had had pretty near punishment enough. but i've got to keep in bounds all term, and can't go on the river again until i learn how to swim." "shouldn't think you'd want to," answered sproule. "are you still on probation, march?" asked clausen. "yes, and it doesn't look as though i'd ever get off. if i could find out who cut that rope i'd--i'd--" "well, i must be going back," exclaimed clausen hurriedly. "i wish, march, you'd come and see me some time. my room's 16 warren. i'm in with a junior by the name of bowler. know him?" joel didn't know the junior, but promised to call, and west and clausen said good-night and stumbled down the stairway together. the next morning joel dashed out from his history recitation plump into stephen remsen, who was on his way to the office. "well, march, congratulations! i'm just back from a trip home and was going to look you up this afternoon and shake hands with you. i'll do it now. you're a modest-enough-looking hero, march." "i don't feel like a hero, either," laughed joel in an endeavor to change the subject. "i'm just out from greek history, and if i could tell mr. oman what i think--" "yes? but tell me, how did you manage--but we'll talk about that some other time. you're feeling all right after the wetting, are you?" and as joel answered yes, he continued: "do you think you could go to work again on the team if i could manage to get you off probation?" "try me!" cried joel. "do you think they'll let up on me?" "i'm almost certain of it. i'm on my way now to see professor wheeler, and i'll ask him about you. i have scarcely any doubt but that, after your conduct the other day, he will consent to reinstate you, march, if i ask him. and i shall be mighty glad to do so. to tell the truth, i'm worried pretty badly about--well, never mind. never cross a river until you come to it." "but, mr. remsen, sir," said joel, "do you mean that he will let me play just because--just on account of what happened the other day?" "on account of that and because your general conduct has been of the best; and also, because they have all along believed you innocent of the charge, march. you know i told you that when cloud and clausen were examined each swore that the other had not left the room that evening, and accounted for each other's every moment all that day. but, nevertheless, i am positive that professor wheeler took little stock in their testimony. and as for professor durkee, why, he pooh-pooed the whole thing. you seem to have made a conquest of professor durkee, march." "he was very kind," answered joel thoughtfully. "i don't believe, mr. remsen, that i want to be let off that way," he went on. "i'm no less guilty of cutting the bell rope than i was before the accident on the river. and until i can prove that i am not guilty, or until they let me off of their own free wills, i'd rather stay on probation. but i'm very much obliged to you, mr. remsen." and to this resolve joel adhered, despite all remsen's powers of persuasion. and finally that gentleman continued on his way to the office, looking very worried. the cause of his worry was known to the whole school two days later when the news was circulated that wesley blair was on probation. and great was the consternation. the football game with st. eustace academy was fast approaching, and there was no time to train a satisfactory substitute for blair's position at full-back, even had one been in reach. and whipple as temporary captain was well enough, but whipple as captain during the big game was not to be thought of with equanimity. the backs had already been weakened by the loss of cloud, who, despite his poor showing the first of the season, had it in him to put up a rattling game. and now to lose blair! what did the faculty mean? did it want hillton to lose? but presently hope took the place of despair among the pupils. he was going to coach up and pass a special exam the day before the game. professor ludlow was to help him with his modern languages and remsen with his mathematics, while digbee, that confirmed old grind, had offered to coach him on greek. and so it would be all right, said the school; you couldn't down blair; he'd pass when the time came! but remsen--and blair himself, had the truth been known--were not so hopeful. and remsen went to west and besought him to induce joel to allow him (remsen) to ask for his reinstatement. and this west very readily did, bringing to bear a whole host of arguments which slid off from joel like water from a duck's back. and remsen groaned and shook his head, but always presented a smiling, cheerful countenance in public. those were hard days for the first eleven. despair and discouragement threatened on all sides, and, as every thoughtful one expected, there was such a slump in the practice as kept remsen and whipple and poor blair awake o' nights during the next week. but whipple toiled like a trojan, and remsen beamed contentment and scattered tongue-lashings alternately; and blair, ever armed with a text-book, watched from the side-line whenever the chance offered. joel seldom went to the field those days. the sight of a canvas-clad player made him ready to weep, and a soaring pigskin sent him wandering away by himself along the river bluff in no enviable state of mind. but one day he did find his way to the gridiron during practice, and he and blair sat side by side, or raced down the field, even with a runner, and received much consolation in the sort of company that misery loves, and, deep in discussion of the faults and virtues of the players, forgot their troubles. "why, it wouldn't have mattered if you were playing, march," said blair. "for there's no harm in telling you now that we were depending on you for half the punting. remsen thinks you are fine and so do i. 'with march to take half the punting off your hands,' said he one day, 'you'll have plenty of time to run the team to the queen's taste.' why, we had you running on the track there, so you would get your lungs filled out and be able to run with the ball as well as kick it. if you were playing we'd be all right. but as it is, there isn't a player there that can be depended on to punt twenty yards if pushed. some of 'em can't even catch the ball if they happen to see the line breaking! st. eustace is eight pounds heavier in the line than we are, and three or four pounds heavier back of it. so what will happen? why, they'll get the ball and push us right down the field with a lot of measly mass plays, and we won't be able to kick and we won't be able to go through their line. and it's dollars to doughnuts that we won't often get round their ends. it's a hard outlook! of course, if i can pass--" but there blair stopped and sighed dolefully. and joel echoed the sigh. the last few days before the event of the term came, and found the first eleven in something approaching their old form. blair continued to burn the midnight oil and consume page after page of greek and mathematics and german, which, as he confided despondently to digbee, he promptly forgot the next moment. remsen made up a certain amount of lost sleep, and whipple gained the confidence of the team. joel studied hard, and refound his old interest in lessons, and dreamed nightly of the goodwin scholarship. west, too, "put in some hard licks," as he phrased it, and found himself climbing slowly up in the class scale. and so the day of the game came round. the night preceding it two things of interest happened: the eleven and substitutes assembled in the gymnasium and listened to a talk by remsen, which was designed less for instruction than to take the boys' mind off the morrow's game; and wesley blair took his examination in the four neglected studies, and made very hard work of it, and finally crawled off to a sleepless night, leaving the professors to make their decision alone. and as the chapel bell began to ring on thanksgiving day morning, digbee entered blair's room, and finding that youth in a deep slumber, sighed, wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, placed this in plain sight upon the table, and tiptoed noiselessly out. and the message read: "we failed on the greek. i'm sorrier than i can tell you.--digbee." chapter xiii the game with st. eustace. there is a tradition at hillton, almost as firmly inwrought as that which credits professor durkee with wearing a wig, to the effect that thanksgiving day is always rainy. to-day proved an exception to the rule. the sun shone quite warmly and scarce a cloud was to be seen. at two o'clock the grand stand was filled, and late arrivals had perforce to find accommodations on the grass along the side-lines. some fifty lads had accompanied their team from st. eustace, and the portion of the stand where they sat was blue from top to bottom. but the crimson of hillton fluttered and waved on either side and dotted the field with little spots of vivid color wherever a hilltonian youth or ally sat, strolled, or lay. yard and village were alike well-nigh deserted; here was the staid professor, the corpulent grocer, the irrepressible small boy, the important-looking senior, the shouting, careless junior, the giggling sister, the smiling mother, the patronizing papa, the crimson-bedecked waitress from the boarding house, the--the--band! yes, by all means, the band! there was no chance of overlooking the band. it stood at the upper end of the field and played and played and played. the band never did things by halves. when it played it played; and, as outfield west affirmed, "it played till the cows came home!" there were plenty of familiar faces here to-day; professor gibbs's, old "peg-leg" duffy's, professor durkee's, the village postmaster's, "old joe" pike's, and many, many others. on the ground just outside the rope sat west and a throng of boys from hampton house. there were cooke and cartwright and somers and digbee--and yes, wesley blair, looking very glum and unhappy. he had donned his football clothes, perhaps from force of habit, and sat there taking little part in the conversation, but studying attentively the blue-clad youths who were warming-up on the gridiron. a very stalwart lot of youngsters, those same youths looked to be, and handled the ball as though to the manner born, and passed and fell and kicked short high punts with discouraging ease and vim. but one acquaintance at least was missing. not bartlett cloud, for he sat with his sister and mother on the seats; not clausen, for he sat among the substitutes; not sproule, since he was present but a moment since. but joel march was missing. in his room at masters hall joel sat by the table with a greek history open before him. i fear he was doing but little studying, for now and then he arose from his chair, walked impatiently to the window, from which he could see in the distance the thronged field, bright with life and color, turned impatiently away, sighed, and so returned again to his book. but surely we can not tarry there with joel when hillton and st. eustace are about to meet in gallant if bloodless combat on the campus. let us leave him to sigh and sulk, and return to the gridiron. a murmur that rapidly grows to a shout arises from the grand stand, and suddenly every eye is turned up the river path toward the school. they are coming! a little band of canvas-armored knights are trotting toward the campus. the shouting grows in volume, and the band changes its tune to "hilltonians." nearer and nearer they come, and then are swinging on to the field, leaping the rope, and throwing aside sweaters and coats. big greer is in the lead, good-natured and smiling. then comes whipple, then warren, and the others are in a bunch--post, christie, fenton, littlefield, barnard, turner, cote, wills. the st. eustace contingent gives them a royal welcome, and west and cooke and somers and others take their places in front of the seats and lead the cheering. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, hillton!" the mighty chorus sweeps across the campus and causes more than one player's heart to swell within him. "s-e-a, s-e-a, s-e-a, saint eustace!" what the cheer lacks in volume is atoned for by good will, and a clapping of hands from the hostile seats attests admiration. hillton is warming for the fray. greer and whipple are practicing snapping-back, the latter passing the ball to warren, who seizes it and runs a few steps to a new position, where the play is repeated. the guards and tackles are throwing themselves on to the ground and clutching rolling footballs in a way that draws a shudder of alarm from the feminine observer. stephen remsen is talking with the ends very earnestly under the goal posts, and post and wills are aiming balls at the goal with, it must be acknowledged, small success. then a whistle blows, the two teams congregate in the center of the field, the opposing captains flip a coin, the referee, a yates college man, utters a few words of warning, and the teams separate, st. eustace taking the ball and the home team choosing the northern goal. then the cheering lessens. st. eustace spreads out; cantrell, their center, places the ball; the referee's whistle sounds, the pigskin soars aloft, and the game is on. in charity toward hillton let us pass over the first half as soon as may be. suffice to tell that the wearers of the crimson fought their best; that whipple ran the team as well as even remsen could desire; that post made a startling run of forty yards, had only the st. eustace full-back between him and the goal--and then ran plump into that full-back's arms; that greer and barnard and littlefield stood like a stone wall--and went down like one; that wills kicked, and post kicked, and warren kicked, and none of them accomplished aught save to wring groans from the souls of all who looked on. in short, it was st. eustace's half from kick-off to call of time, and all because hillton had never a youth behind the line to kick out of danger or gain them a yard. for st. eustace was heavier in the line than hillton and heavier back of it, and with the ball once in her possession st. eustace had only to hammer away at center, guard, or tackle with "guards back" or "tandem," to score eventually. and that is what she did. and yet four times did hillton hold st. eustace literally on her goal-line and take the ball. and each time by hook or crook, by a short, weak punt or a clever, dashing run around end, did hillton win back a portion of her lost territory, only to lose it again at the second or third attempt to advance the ball. the halves were twenty-five minutes long, and in that first twenty-five minutes st. eustace scored but once, though near it thrice that many times. allen, st. eustace's right half-back, had plunged over the line for a touch-down at the end of fifteen minutes of play and terrill had missed an easy goal. then the grand stand was silent save for one small patch, whereon blue flags went crazy and swirled and leaped and danced up and down as though possessed of life. and over the field sped, sharp and triumphant, the st. eustace cheer. and the score stood: st. eustace 5, hillton o. the first half ended with the leather but ten yards from the north goal, and a great murmuring sigh of relief went up from the seats and from along the side-lines when the whistle sounded. then the hillton players, pale, dirty, half defeated, trotted lamely off the field and around the corner of the stand to the little weather-beaten shed which served for dressing room. and the blue-clad team trotted joyfully down to their stage, and there, behind the canvas protections were rubbed down and plastered up, and slapped on the back by their delighted coach and trainer. in the hillton quarters life was less cheerful during the ten minutes of intermission. after the fellows had rubbed and redressed, remsen talked for a minute or two. there was no scolding, and no signs of either disappointment or discouragement. but he cautioned the team against carelessness, predicted a tied score at the end of fifteen minutes, and called for three-times-three for hillton, which was given with reviving enthusiasm. a moment later the team trotted back to the field. "touch her down, touch her down, touch her down again! h-i-double-l-t-o-n!" chanted the wearers of the crimson; and--"st. eustace! st. eustace! st. eustace!" shouted the visitors as they waved their bright blue banners in air. the whistle piped merrily, the ball took its flight, and it was now or never for old hillton! stephen remsen joined the string of substitutes and found a seat on the big gray blanket which held browne and clausen. from there he followed the progress of the game. outwardly he was as happy and contented, as cool and disinterested, as one of the goal posts. inwardly he was railing against the fate that had deprived hillton of both the players who, had they been in the team, could have saved the crimson from defeat. wesley blair joined him, and with scarce a word they watched st. eustace revert to her previous tactics, and tear great gaping holes in the hillton line, holes often large enough to admit of a coach and four, and more than large enough to allow allen or jansen to go tearing, galloping through, with the ball safe clutched, for three, five? or even a dozen yards! no line can long stand such treatment, and, while the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound greer still held out, barnard, the big right-guard, was already showing signs of distress. st. eustace's next play was a small wedge on tackle, and although barnard threw himself with all his remaining strength into the breach he was tossed aside like a bag of feathers and through went the right and left half-backs, followed by full with the ball, and pushed onward by left-end and quarter. when down was called the ball was eight yards nearer hillton's goal, and barnard lay still on the ground. whipple held up his hand. thistelweight--a youth of some one hundred and forty pounds--struggled agitatedly with his sweater and bounded into the field, and barnard, white and weak, was helped limping off. for awhile st. eustace fought shy of right-guard, and then again the weight of all the backs was suddenly massed at that point, and, though a yard resulted, the crimson wearers found cause for joy, and a ringing cheer swept over the field. but littlefield at left-guard was also weakening, and the tackle beside him was in scarce better plight. and so, with tandem on tackle, wedge, or guard back, st. eustace plowed along toward the hillton goal, and a deep silence held the field save for the squad of blue-decked cheerers on the seats. remsen looked at his watch. "eighteen minutes to play," he announced quietly. blair nodded. he made no attempt to disguise his dejection. clausen heard, and suddenly turned toward the coach. he was pale, and remsen wondered at his excitement. "can't we tie them, sir?" he asked breathlessly. "i'm afraid not. and even if we could they'd break loose." clausen paid no heed to the sorry joke. "but they'll win, sir! isn't there anything to do?" remsen stared. then he smiled. "failing an extraordinary piece of luck, my lad, we're already beaten. our line can't hold them; we have no one to kick, even should we get a chance, and--" "but if blair was there, sir, or march?" "it might make a difference. hello! there they go through tackle-guard hole again. lord, six yards if an inch!" blair groaned and rolled over in despair. the whistle sounded, and as the pile of writhing youths dissolved it was seen that tom warren was hurt. out trotted the rubber. the players sank exhausted to the ground and lay stretched upon the sward, puffing and panting. two minutes went by. then whipple called for clausen. "clausen," cried remsen turning, "go in and--" but clausen was not to be seen. "clausen!" cried a dozen voices. there was no response, and browne was taken on instead, and warren, with an ankle that failed him at every step, struggled off the field. "what's become of clausen?" asked remsen. but no one could answer. the play went on. with the ball on hillton's twenty-yard line a fumble gave it to the home team, and on the first down browne gathered it in his arms and tried to skirt st. eustace's left end, but was thrown with a loss of a yard. a similar play with wills as the runner was tried around the other end and netted a yard and a half. it was the third down and four and a half yards to gain. back went the ball to post and he kicked. but it was a poor performance, that kick, and only drove the pigskin down the side-line to the forty-yard line, where it bounded in touch. but it delayed the evil moment of another score for st. eustace, and the seats cheered. "twelve minutes left," announced remsen. relentless as fate the st. eustace forwards surged on toward the opposing goal. two yards, three yards, one yard, five yards, half a yard, always a gain, never a check, until once more the leather reposed just in front of the hillton goal and midway between the ten and fifteen-yard line. then a plunge through the tackle-guard hole, followed by a tandem on guard, and another five yards was passed. the cheering from the wearers of the blue was now frantic and continuous. there was two years of defeat to make up for, and victory was hovering over the azure banner! "eight minutes to play," said remsen. "if we can only keep them from scoring again!" suddenly there was a murmur from the seats, then a cry of surprise from remsen's side, then a shout of exultation that gathered and grew as it traveled along the line. and around the corner of the stand came a youth who strove to lace his torn and tattered canvas jacket as he ran. remsen leaped to his feet, dropping his pipe unnoticed, and hastened toward him. they met and for a moment conversed in whispers. "it's joel march!" cried blair. "he's going to play!" exclaimed a dozen voices. "but he can't," cried a dozen others. "he's on probation." "he is! he is! he's going on! he's going to play!" and so he was. whipple had already seen him, and had sunk to the ground nursing an ankle which had suddenly gone lame. "time!" he cried, and obedient to his demand the referee's whistle piped. "give your place to post, wills!" he commanded, and then, limping to joel, he led that youth apart. "can you play?" he asked hoarsely. "yes." "then get in there at full-back, and, o march, kick us out of this bloody place! i'll give you the ball on the next down. kick it for all you're worth." he gave joel a shove. "all right, mr. referee!" the whistle sounded. forward charged st. eustace. but, gathering encouragement from the knowledge that back of them stood a full who would put them out of danger if the opportunity were given him, hillton stood fast. "second down, five yards to gain!" cried the umpire. again the wearers of bedraggled blue stockings surged and broke against the line. and again there was no gain. back of hillton, less than eight yards away, lay the goal-line. desperation lends strength. huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, the backs bracing from behind, the crimson-clad youths awaited the next charge. it was "the thin red line" again. then back went the ball, there was a moment of grinding canvas, of muttered words and smothered gasps, of swaying, clutching, falling, and "down!" was heard. "hillton's ball; first down," announced the umpire. what a cheer went up from the grand stand! what joy was in remsen's heart as the st. eustace full-back went trotting up the field and greer stooped over the ball! then came a pause, a silence. every one knew what to look for. squarely between the posts and directly under the cross-bar stood joel march, his left foot on the goal-line. back came the ball, straight and low into joel's outstretched hands. the line blocked long and hard. one step forward, an easy, long swing of his right leg, and joel sent the ball sailing a yard over the upstretched hands of the opposing line and far and high down the field. there it was gathered into the arms of the st. eustace full-back, but ere that player had put his foot twice to ground he was thrown, and the teams lined up on st. eustace's forty-five-yard line. then it was that the god of battle befriended hillton; for on the next play st. eustace made her first disastrous fumble, and christie, hillton's right end, darted through, seized the rolling spheroid, and started down the field. five, ten, fifteen, twenty yards he sped, the st. eustace backs trailing after him. "a touch-down!" cried remsen. "no, the half's gaining! he's got him! no, missed him, by jove! a-ah!" the run was over, and christie lay panting on the ground, with the triumphant st. eustace half-back sitting serenely on his head; for, although the latter had missed his tackle, christie had slipped in avoiding him. but cheers for christie and hillton filled the afternoon air, and the two elevens lined up near st. eustace's twenty-five-yard line, yet well over toward the side of the field. "if it was only in the middle of the field," groaned blair, "a place-kick would tie the score. how much time is there, mr. remsen?" "about two and a half minutes," answered remsen. "but i've an idea that, middle or no middle, whipple's going to signal a kick." "it can't be done," answered blair with conviction, "drop or placement! march is only fair at goals, and at that angle--" "what's the matter with the man?" cried remsen; "what's he up to?" for the hillton backs were clustered well up behind the line as though for a wedge attack. and as remsen wondered, the ball was put in play, the line blocked sharply, and christie left his place at right end, and skirting behind the backs received the ball by a double pass _via_ right half-back and ran for the middle of the field, the backs helping the end and tackle to hold the st. eustace right line. christie gained the center of the gridiron and advanced a yard toward the opponent's goal ere the st. eustace right half-back reached him. then there was a quick line-up, and joel took up his position for a kick. "well done, whipple!" cried remsen and blair in a breath. "but the time!" muttered remsen, "does he know--" "one minute to play!" came the ominous announcement. then, while a snap of the fingers could have been heard the length of the field, whipple glanced deliberately around at the backs, slapped the broad back of the center sharply, seized the snapped ball, and made a swift, straight pass to joel. then through the hillton line went the st. eustace players, breaking down with vigor born of desperation the blocking of their opponents. with a leap into the air the st. eustace left-guard bore down straight upon joel; there was a concussion, and the latter went violently to earth, but not before his toe had met the rebounding ball; and the latter, describing a high arc, sailed safely, cleanly over the bar and between the posts! and then, almost before the ball had touched the ground, the whistle blew shrilly, and apparent defeat had been turned into what was as good as victory to the triumphant wearers of the hillton crimson! hillton and st. eustace had played a tie. and over the ropes, rushing, leaping, shouting, broke the tide of humanity, crimson flags swirled over a sea of heads, and pandemonium ruled the campus! and on the ground where he had fallen lay joel march. chapter xiv. the goodwin scholarship. "but how did it all happen?" asked outfield west breathlessly. he had just entered and was seated on the edge of the bed whereon joel lay propped up eating his thanksgiving dinner from a tray. it was seven o'clock in the evening, and dickey sproule was not yet back. the yard was noisy with the shouts of lads returning from the dining hall, and an occasional cheer floated up, an echo of the afternoon's event. joel moved a dish of pudding away from outfield's elbow as he answered between mouthfuls of turkey: "i was up here studying at the table there when i heard some one coming up stairs two steps at a time. it was clausen. he threw open the door and cried: 'they're winning, march, they're winning! come quick! remsen says we can tie them if you play. it's all right, march. we'll go to the office and i'll tell everything. only come, hurry!' well, of course i thought first he was crazy. then i guessed what was up, because i knew that eustace had scored--" "you couldn't have known; you were studying." "well, i--i wasn't studying all the time, out. so up i jumped, and we raced over to the office and found professor wheeler there asleep on the leather couch under the window. 'it was cloud and i, sir, that cut the rope!' said clausen. 'i'm very sorry, sir, and i'll take the punishment and glad to. but march hadn't anything to do with it, sir; he didn't even know anything about it, sir!' professor wheeler was about half awake, and he thought something terrible was the matter, and it took the longest time to explain what clausen was talking about. then he said he was glad to learn that i was innocent, and i thanked him, and he started to ask clausen a lot of questions. 'but st. eustace is winning, sir!' i cried. he looked at me in astonishment. 'indeed, i'm very sorry to hear it,' he said. 'but it isn't too late now, sir,' said clausen. 'for what?' asked 'wheels.' 'for me to go on the team,' said i. 'you know, sir, you put me on probation and i can't play.' 'oh,' said he, 'but you were put on probation by the faculty, and the faculty must take you off.' 'but meanwhile hillton will be beaten!' said clausen. 'can't he play, sir? he can save the day!' wheels thought a bit. 'what's the score?' he asked. clausen told him. 'yes,' he said at last, 'run and get to work. i'll explain to the faculty. and by the way, march, remember that a kick into touch is always the safest.'" "isn't he a rummy old guy?" exclaimed west. "and then?" "then i struck out for the gym, got into my canvas togs somehow or other, and reached the field just about in time. luckily i knew the signals. and then after i'd kicked that goal that big eustace chap struck me like a locomotive, and i went down on the back of my head; and that's all except that they brought me up here and professor gibbs plastered me up and gave me a lot of nasty sweet water to take." "and clausen?" "from the little i heard i think cloud cut the rope and made clausen promise not to tell. and he kept his promise until he saw hillton getting beaten yesterday, and then he couldn't stand it, and just up and told everything, and saved us a licking." "didn't i tell you cloud did it? didn't i--" there came a knock on the door and in response to joel's invitation professor wheeler and stephen remsen entered. west leaped off the bed--there is a rule at hillton forbidding occupying beds save for sleep--and upset joel's tea. professor wheeler smiled as he said: "west, you're rather an uneasy fellow to have in a sick-room. get something and dry that off the floor there, please.--well, march, i understand you got there in the nick of time to-day. mr. remsen says you saved us from defeat." "indeed he did, professor; no one else save blair could have done it to-day. that goal from the twenty-five-yard line was as pretty a performance as i've ever seen.--how are you feeling, lad?" "all right," answered joel. "i've got a bit of a headache, but i'll be better in the morning." "your appetite doesn't seem to have failed you," said the principal. "no, sir, i was terribly hungry." "that's a good sign, they say.--west, you may take your seat again." the professor and stephen remsen occupied the two chairs, and west without hesitation sat down again on the bed. "march, i have learned the truth of that affair. bartlett cloud, it appears, cut the bell rope simply in order to throw suspicion on you. he managed to secure a letter of yours through--hem!--through your roommate, who, it seems, also bears you a grudge for some real or fancied slight. clausen, while a party to the affair, appears to have taken no active part in it, and only remained silent because threatened with bodily punishment by cloud. these boys will be dealt with as they deserve. "but i wish to say to you that all along it has been the belief of the faculty, the entire faculty, that you had no hand in the matter, and we are all glad to have our judgments vindicated. an announcement will be made to-morrow which will set you right again before the school. and now, in regard to richard sproule; do you know of any reason why he should wish you harm?" "no, sir. we don't get along very well, but--" "i see. now, it will be best for you to change either your room or your roommate. have you any preference which you do?" "i should like to change my room, sir. i should like to go in with west. he has a room to himself in hampton, and wants to have me join him." "but do you realize that the rent will be very much greater, march?" "yes, sir, but west wants me to pay only what i have paid for this room, sir. he says he'd have to pay for the whole room if i didn't go in with him, and so it's fair that way. do you think it is, sir?" "what would your father say, west?" "i've asked him, sir. he says to go ahead and do as i please." the principal smiled as he replied: "well, march, then move over to west's room to-morrow. it will be all fair enough. and i shall be rather glad to have you in hampton house. digbee is an example of splendid isolation there; it will be well to have some one help him maintain the dignity of study amid such a number of--er--well, say lilies of the field, west; they toil not, if you remember, and neither do they spin. don't get up in the morning if your head still hurts, march; we don't want you to get sick.--keep a watch on him, west; and, by the way, if he wants more tea, run over to the dining hall and tell the steward i said he was to have it. good-night, boys." "good-night, sir." remsen shook hands with joel. "march, i hope i shall be able to repay you some day for what you did this afternoon. it meant more to me, i believe, than it did to even you fellows. i'm going thursday next. come and see me before then if you can. good-night." when the door had closed outfield shouted, "hurrah!" in three different keys and pirouetted about the room. "it's all fixed, joel. welcome to hampton, my lad! welcome to the classic shades of donothing hall! we will live on pickles and comb-honey, and feast like the romans of old! we--" he paused. "say, joel, i guess cloud will be expelled, eh?" joel considered thoughtfully with a spoonful of rice pudding midway between saucer and mouth. then he swallowed the delicacy. "yes," he replied, "and i'm awful glad of it." but joel was mistaken; for cloud was not to be found the next morning, and the condition of his room pointed to hasty flight. he had taken alarm and saved himself from the degradation of public dismissal. and so he passed from hillton life and was known there no more. clausen escaped with a light punishment, for which both joel and west were heartily glad. "because when you get him away from cloud," said west, "clausen's not a bad sort, you know." richard sproule was suspended for the balance of the fall term, and was no longer monitor of his floor. perhaps the heaviest punishment was the amount of study he was required to do in order to return after christmas recess, entailing as it did a total relinquishment of mayne reid, scott, and cooper. and when he did return his ways led far from joel's. very naturally that youth had now risen to the position of popular hero, and unapproachable seniors slapped him warmly on the shoulder--a bit of familiarity joel was too good-natured to resent--and wide-eyed little juniors admired him open-mouthed as he passed them. but joel bore himself modestly withal, and was in no danger of being spoiled by a state of things that might well have turned the head of a more experienced lad than he. it is a question if outfield did not derive more real pleasure and pride out of joel's popularity than did joel himself. every new evidence of the liking and admiration in which the latter was held filled outfield's heart with joy. at last joel found time to begin his course in golf, and almost any day the two lads might have been seen on the links, formidably armed with a confusing assortment of clubs, outfield quite happy to be exhibiting the science of his favorite sport, and joel plowing up the sod in a way to cause a green-tender, had there been such a person on hand, the most excruciating pain. but joel went at golf as he went at everything else, bending all his energies thereto, and driving thought of all else from his mind, and so soon became, if not an expert, at least a very acceptable player who won commendation from even west--and where golf was concerned outfield was a most unbiased and unsympathetic judge. one afternoon whipple and blair, the latter once more free from probation, played a match with joel and west, and were fairly beaten by three holes--a fact due less, it is true, to joel's execution with the driver than west's all-around playing. but joel, nevertheless, derived not a little encouragement from that result, and bade fair to become almost if not quite as enthusiastic a golfer as west. at first, in the earlier stages of his initiation, joel was often discouraged, whereupon west was wont to repeat the famous reply of the old st. andrews player to the college professor, who did not understand why, when he could teach latin and greek, he failed so dismally at golf. "ay, i ken well ye can teach the latin and greek," said the veteran, "but it takes _brains_, mon, to play the gowf!" and joel more than half agreed with him. remsen departed a week after thanksgiving, being accompanied to the train by almost as enthusiastic a throng as had welcomed him upon his arrival. he had consented to return to hillton the following year and coach the eleven once more. "i had expected to make this the last year," he said, "but now i shall coach, if you will have me, until we win a decisive victory from st. eustace. i can't break off my coaching career with a tie game, you see." and christie occasioned laughter and applause by replying, "i'm afraid you're putting a premium on defeat, sir, because if we win next year's game you won't come back." he shook hands cordially with joel, and said: "when the election of next year's captain comes off, my boy, it's a pretty sure thing that you'll have a chance at it. but if you'll take my advice you'll let it alone. i tell you this because i'm your friend all through. next fall will be time enough for the honors; this year should go to hard work without any of the trouble that falls to the lot of captain." "thank you, mr. remsen," joel answered. "i hadn't thought of their doing such a thing. i don't see why they should want me. but if it's offered you may be sure i'll decline. i'd be totally unfitted for it; and, besides, i haven't got the time!" and so, when two weeks later the election was held in the gymnasium one evening, joel did decline, to the evident regret of all the team, and the honor went to christie, since both blair and whipple were seniors and would not be in school the next autumn. and christie made a very manly, earnest speech, and subsequently called for three times three for blair, and three times three for remsen, and nine times three for hillton, all of which were given with a will. as the christmas recess approached, joel spent a great deal of valuable time in unnecessary conjecture as to his chance of winning the goodwin scholarship, and undoubtedly lessened his chance of success by worrying. the winners were each year announced in school hall on the last day of the term. the morning of that day found outfield west very busy packing a heap of unnecessary golf clubs and wearing apparel into his trunk and bags, and found joel seated rather despondently on the lounge looking on. for west was to spend his vacation with an uncle in boston, and joel, although outfield had begged him to go along, asserting positively that his uncle would be proud and happy to see him (joel), was to spend the recess at school, since he felt he could not afford the expense of the trip home. west hesitated long over a blue-checked waistcoat and at length sighed and left it out. "isn't it most time to go over?" asked joel. "no; don't you be in a hurry. there's a half hour yet. and if you're going to get the goodwin you'll get it, and there isn't any use stewing over it," replied west severely. "as for me, i'm glad i'm not a grind and don't have to bother my head about such tommyrot. just sit on the lid of this pesky thing, joel, will you? i'm afraid that last coat was almost too much for it." but even suspense comes to an end, and presently joel found himself seated by west in the crowded hall, and felt his face going red and pale by turns, and knew that his heart was beating with unaccustomed violence beneath his shabby vest. professor wheeler made his speech--and what a long one it seemed to many a lad!--and then the fateful list was lifted from the table. "senior class scholarships have been awarded as follows," announced the principal. "the calvin scholarship to albert park digbee, waltham, massachusetts." joel forgot his unpleasant emotions while he clapped and applauded. but they soon returned as the list went on. every announcement met with uproarous commendation, and boy after boy arose from his seat and more or less awkwardly bowed his recognition. the principal had almost completed the senior list. "ripley scholarships to george simms lennox, new york city; john fiske, brookville, mississippi; carleton sharp eaton, milton, massachusetts; william george woodruff, portland, maine. masters scholarships to howard mcdonnell, indianapolis, indiana; thomas grey, yonkers, new york; stephen lutger williams, connellsville, rhode island; barton hobbs, farmington, maine; walter haskens browne, denver, colorado; and justin thorp smith, chicago, illinois." joel's hands were cold and his feet just wouldn't keep still. the principal leaned down and took up the upper middle class list. west nudged joel smartly in the ribs, and whispered excitedly: "now! keep cool, my boy, keep cool!" then joel heard professor wheeler's voice reading from the list, and for a moment it seemed to come from a great distance. "upper middle class scholarships have been awarded as follows:" there was a pause while he found his place. "goodwin scholarship to harold burke reeves, saginaw, michigan." west subsided in his seat with a dismal groan. joel did not hear it. it is doubtful if he heard anything until several minutes later, when the pronouncement of his name awoke him from the lethargy into which he had fallen. "masters scholarships to joel march, marchdale, maine--" "it's better than nothing, joel," whispered outfield. "it's fifty dollars, you know." but joel made no reply. what was a masters to him who had set his heart on the first prize of all? presently, when the lists were over, he stole quietly out unnoticed by his chum, and when west returned to the room he found joel at the table, head in hands, an open book before him. west closed the door and walked noiselessly forward in the manner of one in a sick-room, at length he asked in a voice which strove to be natural and unconcerned: "what are you doing, joel?" the head over the book only bent closer as its owner answered doggedly: "studying greek!" chapter xv. the boat race. the balance of that school year was a season of hard study for joel. it was not in his nature to remain long despondent over the loss of the goodwin scholarship, and a week after the winter term commenced he was as cheerful and light-hearted as ever. but his failure served to spur him on to renewed endeavors, and as a result he soon found himself at the head of the upper middle. rightly or wrongly--and there is much to be said on both sides--he gave up sports almost entirely. now and then west persuaded him to an afternoon on the links, but this was infrequent. the hockey season opened with the first hard ice on the river, and west joined the team that met and defeated st. eustace in january. there was one result of his application to study that joel had not looked for. outfield west, perhaps from a mere desire to be companionable, took to lessons, and, much to his own pretended dismay, began to earn the reputation of a diligent student. "you won't talk," growled west, "you won't play chess, you won't eat things. you just drive a chap to study!" as spring came in the school talk turned to baseball and rowing. for the former joel had little desire, but rowing attracted him, and he began to allow himself the unusual pleasure of an hour away from lessons in the afternoon that he might go down to the boathouse with west, and there, in a sunny angle of the building, watch the crews at work upon the stream. hillton was trying very hard to turn out a winning crew, and whipple, who was captain of the first eight, toiled as no captain had toiled before in the history of hillton aquatics. the baseball season ended disastrously with a severe drubbing for the hillton nine at the hands of st. eustace on the latter's home ground. the fellows said little, but promised to atone for it when the boat race came off. this occurred two days before class day, which this year came on june 22d, and very nearly every pupil traveled down the river to marshall to witness it. the day away from school came as a welcome relief after the worry and brain-aching of the spring examination, and joel, although he knew for a certainty that he had passed with the highest marks, was glad to obey outfield's stern decree and accompany that youth to the scene of the race. they went by train and arrived at the little town at noon. after a regal repast of soup and sandwiches, ice cream and chocolate ã©clairs, the two set out for the river side. the hillton crew had come down the day before with their new shell, and had spent the night at the only hotel in the village. the race was to be started at three, and west and joel spent the intervening time in exploring the river banks for a mile in each direction from the bridge, and in getting their feet wet and their trousers muddy. by the hour set for the start the river sides were thronged with spectators, and rival cheers floated across the sparkling stream from bank to bank. that side of the river whereon st. eustace academy lies hidden behind a hill held the st. eustace supporters, while upon the other bank the hillton lads and their friends congregated. but the long bridge, something more than a mile below, was common ground, and here the foes mingled and strove to outshout each other. the river is broad here below marshall, and forms what is almost a basin, hemmed in on either side by low wooded bluffs. from where joel and west, with a crowd of hillton fellows, stood midway upon the bridge, the starting point, nearly a mile and a half up stream was plainly visible, and the finish line was a few rods above them. west was acquainted with several of the st. eustace boys, and to these joel was introduced and was welcomed by them with much cordiality and examined with some curiosity. he had accomplished the defeat of their eleven, and they would know what sort of youth he was. while they were talking, leaning against the railing of the bridge, joel suddenly caught west's arm and drew his attention to a boy some distance away who was looking toward the starting point through a pair of field glasses. west indulged in a long whistle, plainly indicative of amazement. "who's that fellow over there?" he asked. one of the st. eustace boys followed the direction of his gaze. "well, you ought to know him. he knows you. that's bartlett cloud. he was at hillton last term, and left because he was put off the eleven; or so he says." "humph!" ejaculated outfield west. "he left to keep from being expelled, he did. he left because he was mixed up in some mighty dirty work, and knew that, even if they let him stay in school, no decent fellow would associate with him. and you can tell him from me that if he says i know him he's a liar. i don't know him from--from mud! i should think you'd be proud of him at eustace." "we didn't know that," answered the st. eustace boy in perplexity. "we thought--" "what?" demanded west as the other paused. "well, he said that the coach was down on him, and gave his place to your friend here, and--" "no," answered joel quietly. "i didn't take his place. he tried to strike me one day at practice, and remsen, our coach, put him off. that was all. afterward he--he--but it isn't worth talking about." "but i didn't know that st. eustace made a practice of taking in cast-off scamps from other schools," said west. the other lad flushed as he answered apologetically: "we didn't know, west. he said he was a friend of yours and so--but the other fellows shall know about him." then there was a stir on the bridge and a voice cried, "there they go to the float!" up the stream at the starting point two shells were seen leisurely paddling toward a float anchored a few yards off the right bank. the colors were easily distinguishable, and especially did the crimson of hillton show up to the eager watchers on the bridge. every eye was turned toward the two boats, and a silence held the throng, a silence which lasted until sixteen oar-blades caught the water almost together, and the two boats began to leave the float behind. then cries of "they're off!" were raised, and there was a general shoving and pushing for places of observation on the up-stream side of the structure, while along the banks the crowds began to move about again. it was joel's first sight of a boat race, and he found himself becoming very excited, while west, veteran though he was, breathed a deal faster, and talked in disjointed monosyllables. "side by side!... no, hillton's ahead!... isn't she?... eh ... you can't... see from here ... which is ... leading.... get another hold on my ... arm, ... joel; that one's black ... and blue! ... hillton's ahead! hillton's ahead by a half length!" but she wasn't. side by side the two shells swept on toward the first half-mile mark. they were both rowing steadily, with no endeavor to draw away, hillton at thirty strokes, st. eustace at thirty-two. the course was two miles, almost straight away down the river. the half-mile buoy was not distinguishable from where joel stood, but the mile was plainly in sight. some one who held a stop-watch behind joel uttered an impatient growl at the slow time the crews were making. "there'll be no record broken to-day," he said. "they're eight seconds behind already for the first quarter." but joel didn't care about that. if only those eight swaying forms might pass first beyond the finish line he cared but little what the time might be. the cheering, which had ceased as the boats left the start, now began again as they approached the finish of the first quarter of the course. "rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah; rah-rah-rah, hillton!" rang out from the right bank. "s, e, a; s, e, a; s, e, a; saint eustace!" replied the left bank with a defiant roar of sound that was caught by the hills and flung back in echoes across the water. "saint eustace! saint eustace! saint eustace!" "hillton! hillton! hillton!" then the cheering grew louder and more frenzied as, boat to boat, the rival eights passed the half-mile buoy, swinging along with no perceptible effort over the blue, dancing water. "anybody's race," said outfield west, as he lowered his glasses. "but hillton's got the outside course on the turn." the turn was no more than a slight divergence from the straight line at the one-mile mark, but it might mean from a half to three quarters of a length to the outside boat should they maintain their present relative positions. for the next half mile the same moderate strokes were used until the half-course buoy was almost reached, when hillton struck up to thirty-two and then to thirty-four, and st. eustace increased her stroke to the latter number. it was a race for the position nearest the buoy, and st. eustace won it, hillton falling back a half length as the course was changed. then the strokes in both boats went back to thirty-two, hillton seemingly willing to keep in the rear. on and on they came, the oars taking the water in unison, and shining like silver when the sun caught the wet blades. and back, the wakes seemed like two ruled marks, so straight they were. there was no let up of the cheering now. back and forth went challenge and reply across the stream, while the watchers on the bridge fairly shook that iron-trussed structure with the fury of their slogans. as the boats neared the three-quarter buoy it was plain to all who looked that the real race was yet to come. hillton suddenly hit up her stroke to thirty-four, to thirty-six, to thirty-eight, and, a bit ragged perhaps, but nevertheless at a beautiful speed, drew up to st. eustace, shoved her nose a quarter length past, and hung there, despite st. eustace's best efforts to shake her off. both boats were now straining their uttermost, and from now on to the finish it was to be the stiffest rowing of which each was capable. hillton _was_ ragged on the port side, and bow was plainly tuckered. but st. eustace also showed signs of wear, and there was an evident disposition the length of the boat to hurry through the stroke. joel was straining his eyes on the crimson backs, and west was vainly and unconsciously endeavoring to see through the glasses from the wrong end. the three-quarter mark swept past the boats, and hillton still maintained her lead. the judges' boat, a tiny, saucy naphtha launch, had steamed down to the finish, and now quivered there as though from impatience and excitement, and awaited the victor. suddenly there was a groan of dismay from the st. eustace supporters. and no wonder. their boat had suddenly dropped behind until its nose was barely lapping the rival shell. number four was rowing "out of time and tune," as joel shouted triumphantly, and although he soon steadied down, the damage was hard to repair, for hillton, encouraged by the added lead, was rowing magnificently. but with strokes that brought cries of admiration even from her foes st. eustace struggled gloriously to recover her lost water. little by little the nose of her boat crept up and up, until it was almost abreast with number three's oar, while cries of encouragement from bridge and shore urged her on. but now green, the hillton coxswain, turned his head slightly, studied the position of the rival eight, glanced ahead at the judges' boat, and spoke a short, sharp command. and instantly, ragged port oars notwithstanding, the crimson crew seemed to lift their boat from the water at every stroke, and st. eustace, struggling gamely, heroically, to the last moment, fell farther and farther behind. a half length of clear water showed between them, then a length, then--and now the line was but a stone-throw away--two fair lengths separated the contestants. and amid the deafening, frenzied shrieks of their schoolmates, their crimson-clad backs rising and falling like clock-work, all signs of raggedness gone, the eight heroes swept over the line winners by two and a half lengths from the st. eustace crew, and disappeared under the bridge to emerge on the other side with trailing oars and wearied limbs. and as they went from sight, joel, stooping, yelling, over the railing, saw, with the piercing shriek of the launch's whistle in his ears, the upraised face of green, the coxswain, smiling placidly up at him. chapter xvi. good-by to hillton. joel took the preliminary examination for harwell university in june, and left class day morning for home. he had the satisfaction of seeing his name in the list of honor men for the year, having attained a or b in all studies for the three terms. the parting with outfield west was shorn of much of its melancholy by reason of the latter's promise to visit joel in august. the suggestion had been made by outfield, and joel had at once warmly pressed him to come. "only, you know, out," joel had said, "we don't live in much style. and i have to work a good deal, so there won't be much time for fun." "what do you have to do?" asked west. "well, milk, and go to mill, and perhaps there will be threshing to do before i leave. and then there's lots of other little things around the farm that i generally do when i'm home." "that's all right," answered west cheerfully. "i'll help. i milked a cow once. only--say, what do you hit a cow with when you milk her?" "i don't hit her at all," laughed joel. "do you?" "i _did_. i hit her with a plank and she up and kicked me eight times before i could move off. perhaps i riled her. i thought you should always hit them before you begin." joel had not seen his parents since he had left home in the preceding fall, and naturally a warm welcome awaited him. mr. march, to joel's relief, did not appear to regret the loss of the goodwin scholarship nearly as much as joel himself had done, and seemed rather proud than otherwise of the lad's first year at the academy. in august outfield west descended at the little station accompanied by two trunks, a golf-bag, a photograph camera, and a dress-suit case; and farmer march regarded the pile of luggage apprehensively, and undoubtedly thought many unflattering thoughts of west. but as no one could withstand that youth for long, at the end of three days both joel's father and mother had accepted him unreservedly into their hearts. as for joel's brother ezra, and his twelve-year-old sister, they had never hesitated for a single instant. mr. march absolutely forbade joel from doing any of the chores after west arrived at the farm, and sent the boys off on a week's hunting and fishing excursion with black betty and the democrat wagon. west took his camera along, but was prevailed on to leave his golf clubs at the farm; and the two had eight days of ideal fun in the maine woods, and returned home with marvelous stories of adventure and a goodly store of game and fish. west was somewhat disappointed in the golfing facilities afforded by the country about marchdale, but politely refrained from allowing the fact to be known by joel. outside of the "pasture" and the "hill-field" the ground was too rocky and broken to make driving a pleasure, and after losing half a dozen balls outfield restricted himself to the pasture, where he created intense interest on the part of the cows. he found that he got along much more peaceably with them when he appeared without his red coat. in september, happy, healthy, and well browned, the two boys returned to hillton with all the dignity becoming the reverend senior. west had abandoned his original intention of entering yates college, and had taken with joel the preliminary examination for harwell; and they were full of great plans for the future, and spent whole hours telling each other what marvelous things awaited them at the university. joel's senior year at hillton was crowded with hard work and filled with incident. but, as it was more or less a repetition of the preceding year, it must needs be told of briefly. if space permitted i should like to tell of joel's first debate in the senior debating society, in which he proved conclusively and to the satisfaction of all present that the political privileges of a citizen of athens under the constitution of cleisthenes were far superior to those of a citizen of rome at the time of the second punic war. and i should like to tell of the arduous training on the football field and in the gymnasium, by means of which joel increased his sphere of usefulness on the eleven, and learned to run with the ball as well as kick it, so proving the truth of an assertion made by stephen remsen, who had said, "with such long legs as those, march, you should be as fine a runner as you are a kicker." and i should like to go into tiresome detail over the game with st. eustace, in which joel made no star plays, but worked well and steadily at the position of left half-back, and thereby aided in the decisive victory for hillton that remsen had spoken of; for the score at the end of the first half was, hillton 5, st. eustace 0; and at the end of the game, hillton 11, st. eustace 0. joel and remsen became fast and familiar friends during that term, and when, a few days after the st. eustace game, remsen took his departure from the academy, no more to coach the teams to glorious victory or honorable defeat, joel of all the school was perhaps the sorriest to have him go. but remsen spoke hopefully of future meetings at harwell, and joel and west waved him farewell from the station platform and walked back to the yard in the manner of chief mourners at a funeral. outfield west again emerged triumphant from the golf tournament, and the little pewter mug remained securely upon his mantel, a receptacle for damaged balls. for some time the two missed the familiar faces of digbee and blair and whipple and some few others. somers and cooke still remained, the latter with radiant hopes of graduation the coming june, the former to take advanced courses in several studies. clausen was a frequent visitor to number four hampton, and both west and joel had conceived a liking for him which, as the year went by, grew into sincere friendship. those who had been intimate with wallace clausen when he was under the influence of bartlett cloud saw a great difference in the lad at this period. he had grown manlier, more earnest in tone and attainments, and had apparently shaken off his old habit of weak carelessness as some insects shed their skins. he, too, was to enter harwell the coming fall, a fact which strengthened the bond between the three youths. one resolve was uppermost in joel's heart when he began his last year at hillton, and that was to gain the goodwin scholarship. his failure the year before had only strengthened his determination to win this time; and win he did, and was a very proud and happy lad when the lists were read and the name of "joel march, marchdale, maine," led all the rest. and it is to be supposed that there was much happiness in the great rambling snow-covered farmhouse up north when joel's telegram was received; for joel could not wait for the mail to carry the good news, but must needs run at once to the village and spend a bit of his prospective fortune on a "night message." despite this fortune of two hundred and forty dollars, joel elected to spend his christmas holidays again at hillton, and outfield, when he learned of the intention, declined his uncle's invitation and remained also. the days passed quickly and merrily. there was excellent skating on the river, and joel showed west the methods of ice-fishing, though with but small results of a finny nature. cicero's orations gave place to de senectute, the greek testament to herodotus, and plane geometry to solid; and spring found joel with two honor terms behind him, and as sure as might be of passing his final examination for college. again in june st. eustace and hillton met on the river, and, as though to atone for her defeat on the gridiron, fate gave the victory to st. eustace, the wearers of the blue crossing the finish a full length ahead of the hillton eight. the baseball team journeyed down to marshall and won by an overwhelming majority of runs, and journeyed home again in the still of a june evening, bringing another soiled and battered ball to place in the trophy case of the gymnasium. and finally, one bright day in early summer, joel put on his best clothes and, accompanied by west and clausen, took his way to the chapel, where, amid an eloquent silence, professor wheeler made his farewell address, and old, gray-haired dr. temple preached the valedictory sermon. then the diplomas were presented, and, save for the senior class exercises in the school hall in the afternoon, class day was over, and joel march's school days were past. joel was graduated at the head of the class, an honor man once more; and outfield west, greatly to every one's amazement, not excepting his own, was also on the honor list. cooke passed at last, and later confided to west that he didn't know what he'd do now that they wouldn't let him stay longer at hillton; he was certain he would feel terribly homesick at harwell. west playfully suggested that he stay at hillton and take an advanced course, and cooke seemed quite in the notion until he found that he would be obliged to make the acquaintance of both livy and horace. a lad can not stay two years at a school without becoming deeply attached to it, and both joel and west took their departures from hillton feeling very melancholy as the wooded hill, crowned by the sun-lit tower, faded from sight. west went directly to his home, although joel had tried to persuade him to visit at marchdale for a few weeks. in july joel received a letter from outfield asking him to visit him in iowa, and, at the solicitation of his parents, he decided to accept the invitation. the west was terra incognita to joel, and he found much to interest and puzzle him. the methods of farming were so different from those to which he had been accustomed that he spent the first week of his stay in trying to revolutionize them, much to the amusement of both outfield and his father. he at length learned that eastern ways are not western ways, and so became content to see wheat harvested by machinery and corn cultivated with strange, new implements. he received one day a letter forwarded from marchdale which bore the signature of the captain of the harwell varsity football eleven. it asked him to keep in practice during the summer, and, if convenient, to report on the field two days before the commencement of the term. remsen's name was mentioned and joel knew that he had him to thank for the letter. the friends had decided to take a room together, and had applied for one in the spring. much to their gratification they were given a third floor room in mayer, one of the best of the older college dormitories. when the time came for going east both west and joel were impatient to be on the way. mrs. west accompanied the boys, and the little party reached the old, elm-embowered college town four days before the opening of the term. agreeably to the request of the football captain, joel reported on the field in football togs the day after reaching town, and was given a cordial welcome. captain button was not there, but returned with the varsity squad from a week's practice at a neighboring village two days later. mrs. west meanwhile toiled ceaselessly at furnishing the boys' room, and the result was a revelation to joel, to whom luxurious lounges and chairs, and attractive engravings, were things hitherto admired and longed for from a distance. and then, bidding a farewell to the lads, outfield's mother took her departure for home, and they were left practically rulers of all they surveyed, and, if the truth were told, a trifle sobered by the suddenness of their plunge into independence. and one warm september day the college bell rang for chapel and the two lads had begun a new, important, and to them exciting chapter of their lives. chapter xvii. the sacred order of hullabalooloo. picture a mild, golden afternoon in early october, the yellowing green of sailors' field mellow and warm in the sunlight, the river winding its sluggish way through the broad level marshes like a ribbon of molten gold, and the few great fleecy bundles of white clouds sailing across the deep blue of the sky like froth upon some placid stream. imagine a sound of fresh voices, mellowed by a little distance, from where, to and fro, walking, trotting, darting, but ever moving like the particles in a kaleidoscope, many squads of players were practicing on the football field. such, then, is the picture that would have rewarded your gaze had you passed through the gate and stood near the simple granite shaft which rises under the shade of the trees to commemorate the little handful of names it bears. had you gone on across the intervening turf until the lengthened shadow of the nearest goal post was reached you would have seen first a squad--a veritable awkward squad--arranged in a ragged circle and passing a football with much mishandling and many fumbles. further along you would have seen a long line of youths standing. their general expression was one of alertness bordering on alarm. the casual observer would have thought each and every one insane, as, suddenly darting from the line, one after another, they flung themselves upon the ground, rolled frantically about as though in spasms, and then arose and went back into the rank. but had you observed carefully you would have noticed that each spasm was caused by a rolling ball, wobbling its erratic way across the turf before them. around about, in and out, forms darted after descending spheroids, or seized a ball from outstretched hands, started desperately into motion, charged a few yards, and then, as though reconsidering, turned and trotted back, only to repeat the performance the next moment. and footballs banged against broad backs with hollow sounds, or rolled about between stoutly clad feet, or ascended into the air in great arching flights. and a babel of voices was on all sides, cries of warning, sharp commands, scathing denouncements. "straighten your arm, man; that's not a baseball!" "faster, faster! put some ginger into it!" "get on your toes, smith. start when you see the ball coming. this isn't a funeral!" "don't stoop for the ball; fall on it! the ground will catch you!" "jones, what _are_ you doing? wake up." "no, _no_, no! great scott, the ball won't _bite_ you!" the period was that exasperating one known as "the first two weeks," when coaches are continually upon the border of insanity and players wonder dumbly if the game is worth the candle. to-day joel, one of a squad of unfortunates, was relearning the art of tackling. it was joel's first experience with that marvelous contrivance, "the dummy." one after another the squad was sent at a sharp spurt to grapple the inanimate canvas-covered bag hanging inoffensively there, like a body from a gallows, between the uprights. there are supposed to be two ways to tackle, but the coach who was conducting the operations to-day undoubtedly believed in the existence of at least thrice that number; for each candidate for varsity honors tackled the dummy in a totally different style. the lift tackle is performed by seizing the opponent around the legs below the hips, bringing his knees together so that further locomotion is an impossibility to him, and lifting him upward off the ground and depositing him as far backward toward his own goal as circumstances and ability will permit. the lift tackle is the easiest to make. the dive tackle pertains to swimming and suicide. running toward the opponent, the tackler leaves the ground when at a distance of a length and a half and dives at the runner, aiming to tackle a few inches below the hips. a dive tackle well done always accomplishes a well-defined pause in the runner's progress. joel was having hard work of it. time and again he launched himself at the swaying legs, bringing the canvas man to earth, but always picking himself up to find the coach observing him very, very coldly, and to hear that exasperating gentleman ask sarcastically if he (joel) thinks he is playing "squat tag." and then the dummy would swing back into place, harboring no malice or resentment for the rough handling, and joel would take his place once more and watch the next man's attempt, finding, i fear, some consolation in the "roast" accorded to the latter. it was toward the latter part of the second week of college. joel had practiced every day except sundays, and had just arrived at the conclusion that football as played at harwell was no relation, not even a distant cousin to the game of a similar name played at hillton. of course he was wrong, since intercollegiate football, whether played by schoolboys or college students, is still intercollegiate football. the difference lies only in the state of development. at hillton the game, very properly, was restricted to its more primary methods; at harwell it is developed to its uttermost limits. it is the difference between whist over the library table and whist at the whist club. but all things come to an end, and at length the coach rather ungraciously declared he could stand no more and bade them join the rest of the candidates for the run. that run was two miles, and joel finally stumbled into the gymnasium tuckered out and in no very good temper just as the five o'clock whistle on the great printing house sounded. after dinner in the dining hall that evening joel confided his doubts and vexations to outfield as they walked back to their room. "i wouldn't care if i thought i was making any progress," he wailed, "but each day it gets worse. to-day i couldn't seem to do a start right, and as for tackling that old dummy, why--" "well, you did as well as the other chaps, didn't you?" asked outfield. "i suppose so. he gave it to us all impartially." "well, there you are. he can't tell you you're the finest young tacklers that ever happened, because you'd all get swelled craniums and not do another lick of work. i know the sort of fellow he is. he'll never tell you that you are doing well; only when he's satisfied with you he'll pass you on. you see. and don't you care what he says. just go on and do the best you know how. blair told me to-day that if you tried you could make the varsity before the season is over. what do you think of that? he says the coaches are puzzling their brains to find a man that's fit to take the place of dangfield, who was left-half last year." "i dare say," answered joel despondently, "but durston will never let me stop tackling that dummy arrangement. i'll be taking falls out of it all by myself when the yates game is going on. who invented that thing, anyhow?" but, nevertheless, joel's spirits were very much better when the two lads reached the room and west had turned on the soft light of the argand. and taking their books in hand, and settling comfortably back in the two great cozy armchairs, they were soon busily reading. hazing has "gone out" at harwell, and so, when at about nine the two boys beard many footfalls outside their door, and when in response to west's loud "come" five mysterious and muffled figures in black masks entered they were somewhat puzzled what to think. "march?" asked a deep voice. "yes," answered joel with a wondering frown. "west?" "yep. what in thunder do you want? and who in thunder are you?" "freshies, aren't you?" continued the inexorable voice. the maskers had closed and locked the door behind them, and now stood in rigid inquisitorial postures between it and the table. "none of your business," answered west crossly. "get out, will you?" "not until our duties are done," answered the mask. "you are freshies, nice, new, tender little freshies. we are here to initiate you into the mysteries of the sacred order of hullabalooloo. stand up!" neither moved; they were already standing, west puzzled and angry, joel wondering and amused. "well, sit down, then," commanded the voice. joel looked meaningly at outfield, and as the latter nodded the two rushed at the members of the sacred order of hullabalooloo. but the latter were prepared. over went the nearest armchair, down from the wall with a clatter came a rack of books, and this way and that swayed the forms of the maskers and the two roommates. the battle was short but decisive, and when it was done, joel lay gasping on the floor and outfield sprawled breathless on the couch. "will you give up?" asked the first mask. "yes," growled west, and joel echoed him. "then you may get up," responded the mask. "but, mind you, no tricks!" joel thought he heard the sound of muffled laughter from one of the masks as he arose and arranged his damaged attire. "freshman march will favor us with a song," announced the mask. "i can't sing a word," answered joel. "you must. hullabalooloo decrees it." "then hullabalooloo can come and make me," retorted joel stubbornly. "what," asked the mask in a deep, grewsome voice, "what is the penalty for disobedience?" "tossed in the blanket," answered the other four in unison. "you hear, freshman march?" asked the mask. "choose." "i'll sing, i guess," answered joel, with a grin. but west jumped up. "don't you do it, joel! they can't make you sing! and they can't make me sing; and the first one that comes in reach will get knocked down!" "oh, well, i don't mind singing," answered joel. "that is, i don't mind trying. if they can stand it, i can. what shall i sing?" "what do you know?" "i only know one song. i'll sing that, but on one condition." "name it?" answered the mask. "that you'll join in and sing the chorus." there was a moment of hesitation; then the masks nodded, and joel mounted to a chair and with a comical grimace of despair at west, who sat scowling on the couch, he began: "there is a flag of crimson hue, the fairest flag that flieth, whose folds wave over hearts full true, as nobody denieth. here's to the school, the school so dear; here's to the soil it's built on! here's to the heart, or far or near, that loves the flag of hillton.'" joel was not much of a singer, but his voice was good and he sang as though he meant it. outfield sat unresponsive until the verse was nearly done; then he moved restlessly and waited for the chorus, and when it came joined in with the rest; and the strains of hilltonians rang triumphantly through the building. "hilltonians, hilltonians, your crimson banner fling unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! hilltonians, hilltonians, our loyalty we'll prove beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!" the knights of the sacred order of hullabalooloo signified their approval and demanded the next verse. and joel sang it. and when the chorus came the maskers lost much of their dignity and waved their arms about and shouted the refrain so loud that doors up and down the hall opened and wondering voices shouted "shut up!" or "more! m-o-r-e!" for two minutes after. as the last word was reached joel leaned quickly forward toward an unsuspicious singer, and, snatching the mask from his face, revealed the countenance of louis whipple. and then, amid much laughter, the other masks were slipped off, and the remaining members of the sacred order of hullabalooloo stood revealed as blair, cartwright, somers, and cooke. and outfield, joining in the laugh at his own expense, was seized by cooke and waltzed madly around the table, while the rest once more raised the strains of hilltonians: "hilltonians, hilltonians, your crimson banner fling unto the breeze, and 'neath its folds your anthem loudly sing! hilltonians, hilltonians, we stand to do or die, beneath the flag, the crimson flag, that waves for victory!" chapter xviii. visitors from marchdale. despite joel's dark forebodings, he was at last released from tackling practice. and with that moment he began to take hope for better things. under the charge of kent, one of the coaches and an old harwell half, joel was instructed in catching punts till his arms ached and his eyes watered, and in kicking until he seemed to be one-sided. starting with the ball he no longer dreaded, since he had mastered that science and could now delight the coach by leaping from a stand as though shot from the mouth of a cannon. signals he had no trouble with. his memory was excellent, and he possessed the faculty of rapid computation; though as yet his brain had been but little taxed, since the practice code was still in use. at the end of the third week both varsity and scrub teams were at length selected, and joel, to his delight, found himself playing left-half on the latter. two match games a week was now the rule for the varsity, and joel each wednesday and saturday might have been found seated under the fence dividing the gridiron from the grand stand wrapped nearly from sight, if the afternoon was chilly, in a great gray blanket, and watching the play with all the excited ardor of the veriest schoolboy on the stand behind. one saturday prince, the varsity left-half, twisted his ankle, and joel was taken on in his place. they were playing amherst, and joel has ever since held that college in high esteem, for that it was against its eleven he made his _dã©but_ into harwell football life. and how he played! the captain smiled as he watched him prance down the field after a punt, never content to be there in time, but always striving to get there first, and not seldom succeeding. once he succeeded too well. it was in the second half. blair--it was his first year on the team--was playing full-back. on a first down he punted the ball a long and rather low kick into amherst's territory. joel bowled over an amherst end who was foolish enough to get in the way and started down the field like an indian warrior on the war path. the harwell ends were a little in advance but off to the sides, and joel sprinted hard and easily passed them both. kingdon, the right half, gave him a good run, but he too was passed, and joel reached the amherst full-back just as that gentleman turned for the ball, which had passed unexpectedly over his head. the goal line was but thirty yards distant. joel saw only the full-back, the ball, and the goal line. he forgot everything else. a small cyclone struck the full, and when he picked himself up it was to see a crimson-legged player depositing the pigskin back of goal and to hear a roar of laughter from the seats! then he yelled "off side!" at the top of his lungs and tore down on joel, and, much to that young gentleman's surprise, strove to wrest the ball from him. it was quite uncalled for, and joel naturally resented it to the extent of pushing violently, palms open, against the amherst man's jacket, with the result that the amherst gentleman sat down backward forcibly upon the turf at some distance. and again the stands laughed. but joel gravely lifted the ball and walked back to the thirty-yard line with it. the center took it with a grin, and, as the five yards of penalty for off side was paced, joel was rewarded for his play with the muttered query from the captain: "what were you doing, you idiot?" but too great zeal is far more excusable than too small, and joel was quickly forgiven, and all the more readily, perhaps, since amherst was held for downs, and the ball went over on the second next play. but joel called himself a great many unpleasant names during the rest of the game, and for a long while after could not think of his first touch-down without feeling his cheeks redden. nevertheless, his manner of getting down the field under kicks undoubtedly impressed the coaches favorably, for when the scrub was further pruned to allow it to go to training table joel was retained. one bright october day joel and outfield went into town to meet the former's parents at the station; for mr. and mrs. march had long before made up their minds to the visit, and the two boys had been looking forward to it for some time. it was worth going a long way to see the pleasure with which the old farmer and his wife greeted the great long-legged youth who towered so far above them there on the station platform. joel kissed his mother fondly, patted his father patronizingly but affectionately on the back, and asked fifty questions in as many minutes. and all his mother could do was to gaze at him in reverent admiration and sigh, over and over: "land sakes, joel march, how you do grow!" it must not be thought that west was neglected. farmer march, in especial, showed the greatest pleasure at meeting him again, and shook hands with him four times before the street was reached and the car that was to carry them to the college town gained. the boys conducted the visitors to their room, and made lunch for them on a gas stove, outfield drawing generously on his private larder, situated under the foot of his bed. then the four hunted up a pleasant room in one of the student boarding houses, and afterward showed the old people through the college. there was a good deal to see and many questions to answer, since joel's father was not a man to leave an object of interest until he had learned all there was to be told about it. the elms in the yard were fast losing their yellow leaves, but the grass yet retained much of its verdancy, and as for the sky, it was as sweetly blue as on the fairest day in spring. up one side of the yard and down the other went the sightseers, poking into dark hallways, reading tablets and inscriptions, the latter translated by west into the most startling english, pausing before the bulletins to have the numerous announcements of society and club meetings explained, drinking from the old pump in the corner, and so completing the circuit and storming the gymnasium, where at last joel's powers of reply were exhausted and outfield promptly sprang into the breech, explaining gravely that the mattresses on the floor were used by doctor major, the director of the gymnasium, who invariably took a cat-nap during the afternoon, that the suspended rings were used to elevate sophomores while corporeal punishment was administered by freshmen, and that the queer little weights in the boxes around the walls were reserve paper weights. then the line of march was taken up toward sailors' field, where they arrived just in time to see the beginning of the practice game between the varsity and the scrub. joel had been excused from attendance that day, and so he took his seat beside the others on the grand stand and strove to elucidate the philosophy of football. "you see the scrubs have the ball. they must get it past the varsity down to the end of the field, where they can either put it down over the line or kick it over that cross-piece there. that's center, that fellow that's arranging the ball. he kicks off. there it goes, and a good kick, too. sometimes the center-rush isn't a good kicker; then some one else kicks off. blair has the ball. look, see him dodge with it. he gained ten yards that time." "oh!" it was joel's mother who exclaimed. "why, joel, that other man threw him down." "that's part of the game, mother. he did that to keep blair from getting the ball any nearer the scrub's goal. he isn't hurt, you see." "and do you mean that they do that all the time?" "pretty often." "and do _you_ get thrown around that way, joel?" "sometimes, mother; when i'm lucky enough to get the ball." "well, i never." "football's not a bad game, mr. march," west was saying. "but it doesn't come up to golf, you know. it's too rough." "it does look a little rough," answered mr. march. "do they often get hurt? seems as though when a boy had another fellow on his head, and another on his stomach, and another on his feet, and the whole lot of them banging away at once, seems like that boy would be a little uncomfortable." west laughed. "sometimes a fellow has his ankle sprained or a knee twisted, or a shoulder-bone bust, or something like that. but it isn't often anything worse occurs." "well, i suppose it's all right then. only when i was a boy we never went round trying to get our ankles sprained or our collar-bones broke; you young fellows are tougher than we were, i guess." "i shouldn't wonder, sir. i believe joel has been feeling pretty bad for a long time because he's got nothing worse than a broken finger." "what? broke his finger, did he? eh? he didn't write anything about it; what's he mean, getting broken to pieces and not telling his parents about it?" west glanced apprehensively at joel, but the latter had missed the conversation, being busy following the progress of barton, of the scrub, who was doing a long run along the side line. "well, it wasn't much of a break, sir. it's all right now, and i think he thought you'd be worried, you know. i'm sure if it had been anything important he would have written at once." "humph," grunted joel's father. "if he's going to break himself in pieces he'd better stop football. i won't have him taking risks. i'll tell him so!" the fifteen-minute half had come to an end, and the players were either resting on the ground or going through some pass or start under the tuition of a coach. suddenly joel looked down to see briscom, the scrub captain, climbing the seats. he ducked his bare head to the others and sank into the seat at joel's side. "look here, march, can you help us out the next half? they've taken webster on the varsity, and"--he lowered his voice to a confidential roar--"we want to make a good showing to-day." "of course," answered joel, "i'll come at once. can i get some togs from some fellow?" "yes. i'll ask whitman to find some. i'm sorry to take you away from your folks, but it's only fifteen minutes, you know." so when the whistle blew joel was at left half-back on the scrub, attired in borrowed plumage that came far from fitting him. and mrs. march was in a tremor of dismay lest some one should throw joel down as she had seen blair thrown. mr. march had not quite recovered from his resentment over his son's failure to apprise him of the broken finger, which, after all, was only broken in west's imagination, and viewed his advent on the field with disfavor. outfield began to wonder if his pleasant fiction regarding joel's finger was to lead to unpleasant results, when mr. march relieved his mind somewhat by suddenly taking interest in the career of his son, who was trying to make an end run inside dutton with half the scrub hauling, pushing, pulling, shoving him along. "er--isn't that likely to be bad for that finger of his?" "oh, no, sir," answered west. "he looks out for his finger all right enough. there, he made the distance. bully work. good old joel." "did he do well then, mr. west?" asked joel's mother. "of course he did, mother," answered mr. march disdainfully. "didn't you see him lugging all those fellows along with him? how much does that count, west?" "well, that doesn't score anything, but it helps. the scrub has to pass that line down there before it can score. what they're trying to do now is to get down there, and joel's helping. you watch him now. i think they're going to give him the ball again for another try around end." west was right in his surmise. kicks were barred to-day save as a last resort, and the game was favoring the scrub as a consequence. the ball was passed to the right half-back; joel darted forward like an arrow, took the ball from right, made a quick swerve as he neared the end of the line, and ran outside of the varsity right end, captain dutton, who had been playing pretty well in, in the expectation of another try through tackle-end hole. as joel got safely by it is more than likely that he found added satisfaction in the feat as he recalled that remark of dutton's the week before: "what were you doing, you idiot?" joel got safely by dutton, and fooled the sprightly prince, but very nearly ran into the arms of kingdon, who missed his tackle by a bare six inches. then the race began. joel's path lay straight down by the side line. the field followed him at a distance, and the most he could hope for was a touch-down near the corner of the field, which would require a punt-out. "ain't that joel?" cried mr. march, forgetting his grammar and his dignity at one and the same moment, and jumping excitedly to his feet. "ain't that joel there running? hey? they can't catch him. i'll lay joel to outrun the whole blame pack of 'em. every day, sir. hey? what?" "i think he's all right, sir, for a touch-down," answered west gayly. "hello, there's blair leaving the bunch. tally-ho!" "i don't care if it's a steam-engine," shouted mr. march, "he can't--i don't know but as he's gaining a little, that fellow. eh?" "looks like it," answered west, while mrs. march, with her hand on her husband's arm, begged him to sit down and "stop acting so silly." "geewhillikins!" cried mr. march, "joel's caught! no, he's not--yet--eh?--too bad, too bad. run, joel, he's got ye!" suddenly mr. march, who had almost subsided on his seat, jumped again to his feet. "here! stop that, you fellow! hi!" he turned angrily to outfield, his eyes blazing. "what'd he knock him down for? eh? what's he sitting on my boy for? is that fair? eh?" west and mrs. march calmed him down and explained that tackling was quite within the law, and that he only sat on him to prevent him from going on again; for blair had cut short joel's triumph fifteen yards from the goal line, and the spectators of the soul-stirring dash down the field were slowly settling again in their seats. mr. march was presently relieved to see joel arise, shake himself like a dog coming out of water, and trot back to his position. another five minutes, during which the scrub tried desperately to force the ball over the varsity's goal line, but without success, and the match was over, and briscom was happy; for the varsity had scored but once, and that on a fumble by the scrub quarter-back. joel trotted off with the teams for a shower and a rub-down, and west conducted his parents back to the gate, where they awaited him. on the way mr. march confided to west that "football wasn't what he'd call a parlor game, but on the whole it appeared to be rather interesting." in the evening the quartet went into town to the theater and joel's mother cried happily over the homely pathos of the old homestead, and outfield laughed uproariously upon the slightest provocation, and every one was extremely happy. and afterward they "electriced" back to college, as west put it, and the two boys stayed awake very, very late, laughing and giggling over the humors of the play and joel's broken finger. mr. and mrs. march left the next day at noon, and joel accompanied them to the depot, west having a golf engagement which he could not break. and when good-by had been said, and the long train had disappeared from sight, joel returned to college on foot, over the long bridge spanning the river, busy with craft, past the factories noisy with the buzz of wheels and the clang of iron, and on along the far-stretching avenue until the tower of the dining hall loomed above the tops of the autumn branches, entering the yard just as the two o'clock bell was ringing. chapter xix. a varsity sub. give a boy the name of being a hero and it will stick. joel was still pointed out by admiring hillton graduates to their friends at harwell as "march, the fellow who kicked the winning goal-from-field in the st. eustace game two years ago." and while joel had performed of late no doughty deed to sustain his reputation for valor, the freshman class accepted him in all faith as a sort of class hero, off duty for the moment, perchance, but ever ready to shed glory upon the class by some soul-stirring act. consequently when it was told through college that joel march had been taken on to the varsity eleven as substitute left half-back no one was surprised, unless it was joel himself. the freshman class wagged its head knowingly and said: "i told you they couldn't get on without march," and held its head higher for that one of its members was a varsity player. it is not a frequent thing to find a freshman on the varsity team, even as substitute, and joel's fame grew apace and many congratulations were extended to him, in classroom and out. blair was one of the first to climb the stairs of mayer and express pleasure at the event. he found joel seated in the window, propped up with half a dozen crimson pillows, attempting to sketch the view across the yard to send home to his sister. west was splicing a golf shaft and whistling blithely over the task. "hello, sophy," cried that youth, "have you come to initiate us into the sacred order of hullabalooloo? dump those books off the chair and be seated. march is such a beastly untidy chap," he sighed; "he _will_ leave his books around that way despite all i can say!" "these books, out," replied blair, "bear the name of one west on their title pages, and, in fact, on a good many other pages, too. what say you?" a look of intense surprise overspread the face of outfield. "how passing strange," he muttered. "and is there a chemistry note-book among them?" "i think so. here is one that contains mention of c2h6o, h2so4, and other mystic emblems which appear very tiresome; it also contains several pages filled with diagrams of the yard and plans of pompeii before the devastation." "yes," answered west, "that's my chem. note-book. it's been missing ever since tuesday. but those are not diagrams of the yard, my sophomoric friend; they're plans of the golf course." "well, just as you say. catch! say, march, i've just heard that you've made the varsity. i'm most splendidly glad, my young friend. you make three hillton fellows on the team. there's selkirk, and you, and yours tenderly; and we'll show them what's what when yates faces us. and i'll tell you a little fact that may interest you. prince won't last until the yates game, my lad. he's going silly in his ankle. but don't say i told you, for of course it's a dead secret. and if he gives out you'll get the posish. and then if you can make another one of those touch-downs in the yates game--" "shut up, please, blair!" groaned joel. "nonsense, you're all right. i heard button saying last week that nothing short of a ten-story house could have stopped you that day." "he must think me an awful fool," responded joel. "the idea of not remembering that i was off-side!" "pshaw; why, the first time i played against eustace at hillton i tackled the referee in mistake for the man with the ball! and threw him, too! and sat on his head!" west grinned. "and they _did_ say, blair, that you were feeling aggrieved against that referee because he had called you down for holding. and i _have_ heard that you weren't such a fool as you looked." "nothing in it, my boy," answered wesley blair airily. "mere calumny. am i one to entertain feelings of anger and resentment against my fellow men? verily, very much not. but he put me off, did that referee chap. he was incapable of accepting the joke. what is more depressing than a fellow who can't see a joke, march?" "two fellows who can't see--et cetera," answered joel promptly. "wrong, very wrong. i don't know what the answer is, but i'm quite certain it isn't that. well, i must be going. _i_ have studies. _i_ don't waste the golden moments in idleness. i grind, my young and thoughtless friends, i grind. well, i only came up to congratulate you, mr. march, of maine. i have done so. i now depart. farewell! never allow the mere fact of being off-side interfere with--" blair slammed the door just in front of a whizzing golf ball and clattered downstairs. presently he appeared on the walk beneath the window and wiggled his fingers derisively with the thumb against a prominent feature of his face. but at the first squeak of the window being pushed up he disappeared around the corner. joel's days were now become very busy ones. every morning he was awakened at seven, and at eight was required to be on hand at the training table for breakfast. the quarters were at old's, a boarding house opposite the college yard, and here in a big, sunny front room the two long tables were laid with numerous great dishes of oatmeal or hominy, platters of smoking steak, chops or crisp bacon, plates of toast, while potatoes, usually baked, flanked the meat. the beverage was always milk, and tall pitchers of it were constantly filled and emptied during this as well as the other meals. and then there were eggs--eggs hard boiled, eggs soft boiled, eggs medium, eggs poached--until, at the end of the season, the mere mention of eggs caused joel's stomach to writhe in disgust. during breakfast disabilities were inquired after, men who were known to have nerves were questioned as to their night's rest, and orders for the day were given out. this man was instructed to see the doctor, another to interview the trainer, a third to report to the head coach. the meal over, save for a half hour of practice for the backs behind the gymnasium the men were free to give all their energies to lessons, and so hurried away to recitation hall or room. at one o'clock the team assembled again for lunch, with books in hand, and at break-neck speed devoured the somewhat elaborate repast, each man rushing in, eating, and rushing out, with no attempt at sociability or heed to the laws of digestion. afternoon practice was at four o'clock. individual practice was followed by team practice against an imaginary foe, and this in turn gave place to a line-up against the second eleven. two stiff twenty-minute halves were played. then again individuals were seized on by captain and coaches and put through paces to remedy some fault or other. and then the last player trots off the field, and the coaches, conversing earnestly among themselves, follow, and the day's work is done. there are still the bath and the rub-down and the weighing; but these are gone through with leisurely while the day's work is discussed and the coaches, circulating among the fellows, inflict an epilogue of criticism and instruction. there remained usually the better part of an hour before dinner, and this period joel spent in his room, where with the lamp throwing its glow over his shoulder, he strove to take his mind from the subject of tackling and starting, of punting and passing, and fix it upon his studies for the morrow. for life was far from being all play that fall--if hard practice and strict training can be called play!--and joel found it necessary to occupy every moment not taken up by eating, sleeping, and practicing on the gridiron with hard study. it can scarcely be truthfully asserted that joel's lessons suffered by reason of his adherence to athletics, though a lecture now and then was slighted that he might use the time in pursuing some study that lack of leisure had necessitated his neglecting. but a clear head, a good digestion, and racing blood render studying a pleasure rather than a task, and joel found that, while giving less time than before to lessons, he learned them fully as well. one thing is certain: his standing in class did not suffer, even when the coaches were more than usually severe. joel's experience that fall, and many a time later, led him to conclude that the amount of outdoor athletics indulged in and the capability for study are in direct ratio. west, too, was a most studious young gentleman that term, and began to pride himself on his recently discovered ability to learn. to be sure, golf was a hard taskmaster, but with commendable self-denial he did not allow it to interfere with his progress in class. both he and joel had earned the name of being studious ere the end of the fall term, and neither of them resented it. unlike the preceding meal, dinner at the training table was a sociable and cheerful affair, when every man at the board tried his best to be entertaining, and when "shop," either study or football, was usually tabooed. the menu was elaborate. there were soup, two or three kinds of meat, a half dozen vegetables, sauces, the ever-present toast, pudding or cream, and plenty of fruit; and for drinkables, why, there was the milk, and sometimes light ale in lesser quantities. at one end of the table--whether head or foot is yet undecided--sat the captain, at the other end the head coach. other coaches were present as well, and the trainer sat at the captain's left. there was always lots of noise, for weighty things were seldom touched upon in the conversation, and jokes were given and taken in good part. when all other means of amusement failed there were still the potatoes to throw; and a butter chip, well laden, can be tossed upward in such a manner that it will remain stuck more or less securely to the ceiling. this is a trick that comes only with long practice, but any one may try it; and the ceiling above the training table that year was always well studded with suspended disks of crockery. bread fights--so named because the ammunition is more likely to be potatoes--were extremely popular, and the dinner often came to an end with a pitched battle, in which coats were decorated from collar to hem with particles of that clinging vegetable. his evenings usually belonged to joel to spend as he wished, though not unfrequently a blackboard talk by the head coach or a lecture by some visiting authority curtailed them considerably. he had always to be in bed by ten o'clock. but sleep sometimes, especially after a day of hard practice, did not readily come, and he often laid awake until midnight had sounded out on the deep-toned bell in the old church tower thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what fate, in the person of the head coach, held in view for him. and one night he awoke to find outfield shaking him violently by the shoulder. "wh-what's the row?" he asked sleepily. "you," answered outfield. "you've been yelling '4, 9; 5, 7; 8, 6' for half an hour. what's the matter with you, anyhow?" "the signals," muttered joel, turning sleepily over, "that's a run around left end by left half-back. and don't forget to start when the ball's snapped. and jump high if you're blocked. and--don't--forget--to--" snore--snore! "well," muttered west as he stumbled against an armchair and climbed into bed, "of all crazy games--" but west was not in training and so possessed the faculty of going to sleep when his head struck the pillow. as a consequence the rest of his remark was never heard. chapter xx. an old friend. "march! joel march!" joel was striding along under the shadow of the chapel on his way from a recitation to mayer and his room. the familiar tones came from the direction of the library, and turning he saw stephen remsen trotting toward him with no regard for the grass. joel hurdled the knee-high wire barrier and strode to meet him. the two shook hands warmly, almost affectionately, in the manner of those who are glad to meet. "march, i'm delighted to see you again! i was just going to look you up. which way were you going?" "up to the room. can't you come up for a while? when'd you arrive? are you going to stay now?" "third down!" laughed remsen. "no gain! what a fellow you are for questions, march! i got in this morning, and i'm going to stay until after the yates game. they telegraphed me to come and coach the tackles. instead of going to your room let's go to mine. i've taken a suite of one room and a closet at dixon's on the avenue. i haven't unpacked my toothbrush yet. come over with me and take lunch, and we'll talk it all over." so joel stuck his books under his arm and the two crossed the yard, traversing the quadrangle in front of university and debouching on to the avenue near where the tall shaft of the soldiers' monument gleams in the sunlight. but they did not wait until remsen's room was gained to "talk it all over." joel had lots to tell about the hillton fellows whom he had not lost sight of: of how clausen was captain of the freshman eleven and was displaying a wonderful faculty for generalship; how west was still golfing and had at last met foemen worthy of his steel; how dicky sproule was in college taking a special course, and struggling along under popular dislike; how whipple and cooke were rooming together in peck, the former playing on the sophomore class team and going in for rowing, and the latter still the same idle, good-natured ignoramus, and liked by every fellow who knew him; how digbee was grinding in lanter with somers; how cartwright had joined the glee club; and how christie had left college and gone into business with his father. "and cloud?" asked remsen. "have you seen him?" "yes, once or twice. i've heard that he was very well liked when he left st. eustace last year. i dare say he has turned over a new leaf since his father died." "indeed? i hadn't heard of that." "west heard it. he died last spring, and left cloud pretty near penniless, they say. i have an idea that he has taken a brace and is studying more than he used to." "the chap has plenty of good qualities, i suppose. we all have our bad ones, you know. perhaps it only needed some misfortune to wake up the lad's better nature. they say virtue thrives best on homely fare, and, like lots of other proverbs, i guess it's sometimes true." then remsen told of his visit to hillton a few weeks previous. the eleven this year was in pretty good shape, he thought; greene, an upper middle man, was captain; they expected to have an easy time with st. eustace, who was popularly supposed to be in a bad way for veteran players. that same greene was winning the golf tournament when he was there, remsen continued, and the golf club was in better shape than ever before, thanks to the hard work of west, whipple, blair, and a few others in building it up. the two friends reached the house, and remsen led the way into his room, and set about unpacking his things. joel took up a position on the bed and gave excellent advice as to the disposal of everything from a pair of stockings to a typewriter. "it's a strange fact," said remsen as he thrust a suit of pajamas under the pillow, "that outfield west is missed at hillton more than any fellow who has graduated from there for several years past. perhaps i don't mean exactly strange, either, for of course he's a fellow that every one naturally likes. what i do mean is that one would naturally suppose fellows like blair or whipple would leave the most regrets behind them, for blair was generally conceded to be the most popular fellow in school the last two years of his stay, and whipple was surely running him a close second. and certainly their memories are still green. but everywhere i went it was: 'have you heard from outfield west?' 'how's west getting on at college?' and strange to say, such inquiries were not confined to the fellows alone. professor wheeler asked after west particularly, and so did briggs, and several others of the faculty; and mrs. cowles as well. "but you are still the hero there, march. the classic history of hillton still recounts the prowess of one joel the first, who kicked a goal from field and defeated thereby the hosts of st. eustace. and professor durkee shakes his head and says he will never have another so attentive and appreciative member of his class. and now tell me, how are you getting on with dutton?" so joel recited his football adventures in full, not omitting the ludicrous touch-down, which received laughing applause from his listener, and recounting his promotion to the position of varsity substitute. "yes, i saw in the paper last week that you had been placed on the sub list of the varsity. i hope you'll have a chance to play against yates, although i don't wish prince any harm. he's a good fellow and a hard worker. hello, it's one-fifteen. let's get some lunch." a half hour later they parted, joel hurrying off to recitation and remsen remaining behind to keep an appointment with a friend. after this they met almost every day, and remsen was a frequent caller at joel's room, where he with joel and outfield held long, cosy chats about every subject from enameling golf balls to the philosophy of kant and the original protoplasm. meanwhile the season hurried along. harwell met and defeated the usual string of minor opponents by varying scores, and ran up against the red and blue of keystone college with disastrous results. but one important contest intervened between the present time and the game with yates, and the hardest sort of hard work went on daily inside the inclosed field. a small army of graduates had returned to coach the different players, and the daily papers were filled, according to their wont, with columns of sensational speculation and misinformation regarding the merits of the team and the work they were performing. out of the mass of clashing "facts" contained in the daily journals but one thing was absolutely apparent: to wit, the work of the harwell eleven was known only to the men and the coaches, and neither would tell about it. at last, when chill november had been for a few days in the land, the game with the red and white clad warriors from ithaca took place on a wet and muddy field, and joel played the game through from start to finish, prince being engaged in nursing his treacherous ankle, which had developed alarming symptoms with the advent of wet weather. the game resulted in a score of twenty-four to five, the ithacans scoring a neat, but inexcusable, goal from field in the first half. joel played like a trojan, and went around the left end of the opposing line time and again for good gains, until the mere placing of the ball in his hands was accepted by the spectators as equal to an accomplished gain. wesley blair made a dashing charge through a crowded field for twelve yards and scored a touch-down that brought the onlookers to their feet cheering. dutton, the captain, played a steady brilliant interfering game, and kingdon, at right half-back, plunged through the guard-tackle holes time and again with the ball hugged to his stomach, and kept his feet in a manner truly marvelous until the last inch had been gained. but critics nevertheless said unkind things of the team work as they wended their way back over the sodden turf, and shook their heads dubiously over the field-goal scored by the opponents. there would be a general shaking up on the morrow, they predicted, and we should see what we should see. and the coaches, too, although they dissembled their feelings under cheerful countenances, found much to condemn, and the operations of bathing, dressing, and weighing that afternoon were less enjoyable to the breathless, tattered men. the next day the team "went into executive session," as joel called it, and the predicted shake-up took place. murdoch, the left guard, was deemed too slight for the place, and was sent to the side line, from where he presently crawled to a seat on the great empty stand, and hiding his blanketed head wept like a child. and there were other changes made. joel kept his place at left half, pending the bettering of prince's ankle, and blair was secure at full. but when the practice game began, many of the old forms were either missing or to be seen in the second eleven's line, and the coaches hovered over the field of battle with dark, forbidding looks, and said mean things whenever the opportunity presented itself, and were icily polite to each other, as men will be when they know themselves to be in the right and every one else in the wrong. and so practice that thursday was an unpleasant affair, and had the desired effect; for the men played the game for all that was in them and attended strictly to the matter in hand, forgetting for the time the intricacies of latin compositions and the terrors of coming examinations. when it was over joel crawled off of the scale with the emotions of a weary draught horse and took his way slowly toward home. in the square he ran against outfield, who, armed with a monstrous bag of golf requisites, had just leaped off a car. "hello, joel," he cried. "what's happened? another off-sider? have you broken that finger again? honest injun, what's up?" "nothing, out; i'm just kind of half dead. we had two thirty-minute halves, with forty-'leven coaches yelling at us every second, and a field like a turnip patch just before seeding. oh, no, there's nothing the matter; only if you know of any quiet corner where i can die in peace, lead me there, out. i won't keep you long; it will soon be over." "no, i don't, my flippant young friend, but i know something a heap better." "nothing can be better any more, out. still--well, what is it?" "a couple of hot lemonades and a pair of fat sandwiches at noster's. come along." "you're not so bad, out," said joel as they hurried up the street. "you have _moments_ of almost human intelligence!" chapter xxi. the departure. the backs and substitute backs, together with story, the quarter, captain dutton, and one or two assistant coaches, including stephen remsen, were assembled in bancroft 6. the head coach was also present, and with a long pointer in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other was going through a sequence for the benefit of the backs, who had been called a half hour ahead of the rest of the eleven. the time was a half hour after dinner. on the blackboard strange squares and lines and circles confronted the men in the seats. the head coach placed the tip of the pointer on a diagram marked "no. 2. criss-cross." "this is the second of the sequence, and is an ordinary criss-cross from left half-back to right half-back. if you don't understand it readily, say so. i want you to ask all the questions you can think of. the halves take positions, as in the preceding play, back of the line behind the tackle-guard holes. the ball goes to left half, who runs just back of quarter. right half starts a moment after the ball is put in play, also going back of quarter and outside of left half and receiving the ball at a hand pass from the latter, and continuing on through the hole between left end and tackle. right end starts simultaneously with left half, taking the course indicated, in front of quarter and close to the line, and interfering through the line for the runner." [illustration: 2nd play] "left end blocks opposing end outward. quarter clears the hole out for the runner. full-back does not start until the pass from quarter to left half is made. he must then time himself so as to protect the second pass. in case of a fumble the ball is his to do the best he can with through the end-tackle hole. if the pass is safe he follows left half through, blocking opposing left end long enough to keep him out of the play. "you will go through this play to-morrow and you will get your slips to-morrow evening here. now is there anything not clear to you?" apparently there was a great deal, for the questions came fast and furious, the coaches all taking a hand in the discussion, and the diagram being explained all over again very patiently by the head. then another diagram was tackled. [illustration: 3rd play] "the third of this sequence is from an ordinary formation," began the head coach. "it is intended to give the idea of a kick, or, failing that, of a run around left end. it will very probably be used as a separate play in the last few minutes of a half, especially where the line-up is near the side line, right being the short side of the field. you will be given the signal calling this as a separate play to-morrow evening. "full-back stands as for a kick, and when the signal is given moves in a step or two toward quarter as unnoticeably as possible; position 2 in the diagram. he must be careful to come to a full stop before the ball is snapped back, and should time himself so that he will not have to stay there more than a second. the instant the ball is snapped full-back runs forward to the position indicated here by 3, and receives the ball on a short pass from quarter. left half starts at the same instant, and receives the ball from full as he passes just behind him, continuing on and around the line outside of right end. it is right half's play to make the diversion by starting with the ball and going through the line between left tackle and guard; he is expected to get through and into the play on the other side. left end starts when the ball is snapped, and passing across back of the forwards clears out the hole for the runner. quarter interferes, assisted by full-back, and should at all costs down opposing half. right end helps right tackle throw in opposing end. much of the success of this play depends on the second pass, from full-back to left half, and it must be practiced until there is no possibility of failure. questions, fellows." after the discussion of the last play a half hour's talk on interference was given to the rest of the eleven and substitutes, who had arrived meanwhile. remsen and joel left bancroft together and crossed the yard toward the latter's room. the sky was bright with myriads of stars and the buildings seemed magnified by the wan radiance to giant castles. under the shadow of university remsen paused to light his pipe, and, without considering, the two found themselves a moment later seated on the steps. from the avenue the clang-clang of car gongs sounded sharp and clear, and red and white and purple lights flitted like strange will-o'-wisps through the half light, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the common. the lights in the stores beamed dimly. a green shade in pray's threw a sickly shaft athwart the pavement. but even as they looked a tall figure, weariness emanating from every movement, stepped between window and light, book in hand, and drew close the blinds. "poor devil!" sighed remsen. "three hours more of work, i dare say, before he stumbles, half blind, into bed. and all for what, joel? that or--that?" he pointed with his pipe-stem to where jupiter shone with steady radiance high in the blue-black depths; then indicated a faint yellow glow that flared for an instant in the darkness across the yard where a passer had paused to light his pipe. "we can't all be jupiters, remsen," answered joel calmly. "some of us have to be little sticks of wood with brimstone tips. but they're very useful little things, matches. and, after all, does it matter as long as we do what we have to do as well as we can? old jupiter up there is a very fine chap undoubtedly, and if he shirked a minute or two something unpleasant would probably occur; but he isn't performing his task any better than the little match performed his. 'scratch--pouf' and the match's work's done. but it has lighted a fire. can you do better, mr. jupiter?" remsen made no reply for a moment, but joel knew that he was smiling there beside him. a little throng of students passed by, humming softly a song in time with their echoing footsteps, and glanced curiously at the forms on the steps. then remsen struck a match on the stone. "'scratch--pouf!'" he said musingly, relighting his pipe. in the act of tossing the charred splinter away he stopped; then he laid it beside him on the step. "good little match," he muttered. joel laughed softly. "march," asked remsen presently, "have you changed your mind yet about studying law?" "no; but sometimes i get discouraged when i think of what a time it will take to arrive anywhere. and sometimes, too, i begin to think that a fellow who can't talk more readily than i ought to go into the hardware business or raise chickens for a living instead of trying to make a lawyer out of himself." "it isn't altogether talk, march," answered remsen, "that makes a good lawyer. brains count some. if you get where you can conduct a case to a successful result you will never miss the 'gift o' the gab.' talking's the little end of the horn in my profession, despite tradition. "i asked for a reason, march," he went on. "what do you say to our forming a partnership? when you get through the law school you come to me, if you wish, and tell me that you are ready to enter my office, and i'll answer 'i'm very glad to have you, mr. march.' of course we could arrange for a regular partnership a year or so later. meanwhile the usual arrangement would be made. it may be that you know of some very much better office which you would prefer to go to. if you do, all right. if you don't, come to me. what do you say?" "but--but what good would i do you?" joel asked, puzzled at the offer. "i'd like it very much, of course, but i can't see--" "i'll tell you, march. i have a good deal of faith in your future, my boy. you have a great deal of a most valuable thing called application, which i have not, worse luck. you are also sharp-witted and level-headed to a remarkable degree. and some day, twenty or thirty years from now, you'll likely be _hard_-headed, but i'll risk that. by the time you're out of college i shall be wanting a younger man to take hold with me. there will be plenty of them, but i shall want a good one. and that is why i make this offer. it is entirely selfish, and you need not go searching for any philanthropy in it. i'm only looking a bit ahead and buttering my toast while it's hot, march. what do you say? or, no, you needn't say anything to-night. think it over for a while, and let me know later." "but i don't want to think it over," answered joel eagerly. "i'm ready to sign such a partnership agreement now. if you really believe that i would--could be of use to you, i'd like it mightily. and i know all about your 'selfishness,' and i'm very grateful to you for--for buttering your toast." later, when they arose and went on, remsen consented to accompany joel to his room, bribed thereto with a promise of hot chocolate. they found outfield diligently poring over a greek history. but he immediately discarded it in favor of a new book on the royal game which lay in his lap hidden under a note book. "you see," he explained, "old pratt has taken a shine to me, and i expected him to call this evening. and i thought at first that you were he--or him--which is it? and of course i didn't want to disappoint the old gentleman; he has such a fine opinion of me, you know." while outfield boiled the water and laid bare the contents of the larder, joel told him of remsen's offer. a box of biscuits went down with a crash, and outfield turned indignantly. "that's all very fine," he exclaimed. "but where do i come in? how about mr. west? where does he get his show in this arrangement? you promised that if i studied law, too, joel, you'd go into partnership with _me_. now, didn't you?" "but it was all in fun," protested joel, distressedly. "i didn't suppose you meant it, you know." "meant it!" answered outfield indignantly. "of course i meant it. don't you expect i appreciate level-headedness and sharp-wittedness and applicationousness just as much as remsen? why, i had it all fixed. we were to have an office fitted with cherry railings and revolving bookcases near--near--" "a good links?" suggested remsen smilingly. "well, yes," admitted outfield, "that wouldn't be a half bad idea. but now you two have gone and spoiled it all." "well, i tell you, west," suggested remsen, "you come in with us and supply the picturesque element of the business. you might look after the golf cases, you know; injuries to bald-headed gentlemen by gutties; trespassing by players; forfeiting of leases, and so forth. what do you say?" "all right," answered outfield cheerfully. "but it must be understood that the afternoons belong to the links and not to the law." so stephen remsen and joel march sealed their agreement by shaking hands, and outfield grinned approval. one afternoon a few days later outfield pranced into the room just as dusk was falling brandishing aloft a silver-plated mug, and uttering a series of loud cheers for "me." joel, who had returned but a moment before from a hard afternoon's practice, and was now studying in the window seat by the waning light, looked languidly curious. "a trophy, joel, a trophy from the links!" cried west. "won by the great me by two holes from jenkins, jenkins the previously great, jenkins the defeated and devastated!" he tossed the mug into joel's lap. "i'm very glad, out," said the latter. "won't it help you with the team?" "it will, my discerning friend. it will send me to new york next month to represent harwell. and lapham says i must go to lakewood for the open tournament. oh, little outie is some pumpkins, my lad! it was quite the most wonderful young match to-day. jenkins led all the way to the fifteenth hole. then he foozled like a schoolboy, and i holed out in one and went on to the cheese box in two." "i'm awfully glad," repeated joel, smiling up into the flushed and triumphant face of his chum. "if you go to new york it will be after the big game, and, if you like, i'll go with you and shout." outfield west executed a war-dance and whooped ecstatically. "will you, joel? honest injun? cross your heart and hope to die? then shake hands, my lad; it's a bargain! now, where's my chemistry?" the days flew by and the date of the yates game rapidly approached. the practice was secret every afternoon, and the coaches lost weight eluding the newspaper reporters. prince disappointed joel by returning to the varsity with his ankle apparently as well as ever, although he was generally "played easy," and joel often took his place in the second half of the practice games. and at last the thursday preceding the big game arrived, and the team and substitutes, together with the trainer and the manager and the head coach and two canine mascots, assembled in the early morning in the square and were hustled into coaches and driven into town to their train. and half the college heroically arose phenomenally early and stood in the first snow storm of the year and cheered and cheered for the team individually and collectively, for the head coach and the trainer, for the rubbers and the mascots, and, between times, for the college. the players went to a little country town a few miles distant from the seat of yates university, and spent the afternoon in practicing signals on the hotel grounds. the next day, friday, was a day of rest, save for running through a few formations and trick plays after lunch and taking a long walk at dusk. the yates glee club journeyed over in the evening and gave an impromptu entertainment in the parlor, a courtesy well appreciated by the harwell team, whose nerves were now beginning to make themselves felt. and the next morning the journey was continued and the college town was reached at half past eleven. the men were welcomed at the station by a crowd of harwell fellows who had already arrived, and the harwell band did its best until the team was driven off to the hotel. there for the first time the men were allowed to see the line-up for the game. it was a long list, containing the names, ages, heights, and weights of thirty-six players and substitutes, and was immediately the center of interest to all. "thunder!" growled joel ruefully, as he finished reading the list over blair's shoulder, "it's a thumpin' long ways down to _me!_" chapter xxii. before the battle. "harwell, harwell, harwell! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell!" the lobby grew empty on the instant, and outside on the steps and on the sidewalk the crowd spread itself. the procession had just turned the corner, the college band leading. "the freshmen won!" cried a voice on the edge of the throng, and the news was passed along from man to man until it swept up the steps, through the lobby and to the dining room upstairs where the football men of the varsity team were impatiently awaiting lunch. "a good omen," said the head coach. below in the street admonitory thumps upon the great drum, with its college coat-of-arms on the head, were heard, and a moment later the shouts of the exuberant freshmen and their allies were drowned in the first strains of the college song. off came the silk hats of the frock-coated graduates and the plaided golf caps of the students, and side by side there in the sun-swept street they lifted their voices in the sweet, measured strains of the dear familiar hymn. and stout, placid-faced men of fifty, with comfortable bank accounts and incipient twinges of gout, felt the unaccustomed dimming of the sight that presages tears, and boyish, carefree students, to whom the song was as much an everyday affair as d marks and unpaid bills, felt strange stirrings in their breasts, and with voices that stumbled strangely over the top notes sang louder and louder. and upstairs in the dining room many a throat grew hard and "lumpy" as the refrain came in at the open windows. but, as the trainer muttered presently, it was only the freshmen who had won, and the real battle of the day was yet to come. and soon the band and the shouting parade wheeled away from beneath the windows and swung off up the street to make known far and wide the greatness of harwell, her freshmen, and the grandeur of their victory over the youngsters of yates. and, as the last cheer floated up from the procession as it disappeared around a far corner, lunch was served, and player and coach, trainer and rubber, substitute and mascot, drew up to the last meal before--what? victory or defeat? it was not a merry repast, that lunch before the fray. some men could not bring themselves to eat at all until the coaches commanded with dire threats. others, as though nothing out of the ordinary was about to take place, ate heartily, hungrily, of everything set before them. at the far end of the room joel march played with his steak and tried to delude himself into thinking he was eating. he felt rather upset, and weak in the joints, and as for the lad's stomach it had revolted at sight of the very first egg. but luckily the last meal before a game has little effect one way or the other upon the partaker, since he is already keyed up, mentally and physically, to a certain pitch, and nothing short of cold poison can alter it. in the streets below, for blocks in all directions, the crowds surged up and down, and shouts for harwell and yells for yates arose like challenges in the afternoon air. friends met who had not done so for years, enemies accorded enemies bows of recognition ere they remembered their enmity. the deep blue and the deeper crimson passed and counterpassed, brushed and fluttered side by side, and lighted up the little college city till it looked like a garden of roses and violets. and everywhere, over all, was the tensity that ever reigns before a battle. the voices of the ticket speculator and of the merchant of "offish'l score cards" were heard upon every side. the street cars poked their blunt noses through the crowd which closed in again behind them like water about the stern of a ship. violets blossomed or crimson chrysanthemums bloomed upon every coat and wrap, or hung pendant from the handle of cane and umbrella. the flags of harwell and yates, the white h and white y, were everywhere. shop windows were partisan to the blue, but held dashes of crimson as a sop to the demands of hospitality and welcome. at one o'clock the exodus from town began. along the road that leads to the football field hurried the sellers of rush cushions and badges, of score cards and pencils, of blue and crimson flags and cheap canes, of peanuts and sandwiches, of soda water and sarsaparilla, bent upon securing advantageous stands about the entrance. a quarter of an hour later the spectators were on the way. the cars, filled in and out with shouting humanity, crept slowly along, a bare half block separating them. roystering students swung arm in arm in eccentric dance from side to side across the street. ladies with their escorts hurried along the sidewalks. carriages, bright with fluttering flags, rolled by. bicycles darted in and out, their riders throwing words of salutation over their shoulders to friends by the way. in the windows along the route was displayed the bravery of blue banners. a window in a college hall was piled high with great comfortable-looking pillows, each bearing a great challenging y in white ribbon or embroidery. and overhead the sky arched a broad blue expanse from horizon to horizon. in this manner on some fair morning, centuries ago, did all greece wend its way to the stadium and the games of olympia. in the hotel the lunch was over and that terrible age between it and the arrival of the coaches was dragging its weary length along. joel and blair were standing by the window talking in voices that tried to be calm, cool and indifferent, but which were neither. "they're offering bets of ten to nine downstairs that yates wins," remarked blair with elaborate composure. "are they?" responded joel absent-mindedly, thinking the while of the signal for the second sequence. "i thought the odds were even." "they were until the news about chesney's shoulder got about." "but there isn't really anything the matter with his shoulder, is there?" "no. no one knows how the story got out. whipple was taking all he could get a while ago." "some one wants to see you at the door, march," called the trainer, and joel found outfield west, smiling and happy, waiting there. "how are you?" he whispered. "all right? how are the rest? great gobble, joel, but these yates johnnies are so sure of winning that they can't keep still! there's a rumor here in the lobby that yates's center is sick. know anything about it?" joel shook his head. "well, i'll see you out at the field. we're going out now; cooke, and caldwell, and some of the others. so long, my valiant lad. keep a stiff upper lip and never say die, and all that, you know. adios!" there was a cheer below, and blair, at the window, announced the arrival of the conveyances. instantly the lethargy of a minute before was turned to excited bustle and confusion. pads and nose-guards, jerseys and coats, balls and satchels were seized and laid aside and grabbed up again. cries for missing apparel and paraphernalia were heard on every side, and only a loud, peremptory command to "shut up!" from the head coach restored order and quietude. then the door was thrown open and down the narrow stairs they trooped, through the crowded lobby where friends hemmed them about, patting the broad backs, shouting words of cheer into their ears, and delaying them in their passage. into the coaches they hurried, and as the crowd about the hotel burst into loud, ringing cheers, the whips were cracked and the journey to the field began. the route lay along quiet, unfrequented streets where only an occasional cheer from a college window met their advent. restraint had worn off now, and the fellows were chatting fast and furiously. joel looked out at the handsome homes and sunny street, and was aware only of a longing to be in the fray, an impatient desire to be doing. briscom, the substitute centre, a youth of twenty-one summers and one hundred and ninety-eight pounds, sat beside him. "i was here two years ago with the freshman team," he was saying. "we didn't do a thing to them, we youngsters, although the varsity was licked badly. and all during the afternoon game we sat together and cheered, until at five o'clock i couldn't speak above a whisper. that was a great game, that freshman contest! it took three hours and a half to settle it. at the beginning of the second half there were only three men on our team who had played in the first. i was one of them. i was playing left guard. story there was another. he gave up before the game was through, though. i held out and when the whistle sounded, down i went on the grass and didn't stir for ten minutes. we had two referees that day. the first chap got hurt in a rush, and it took us half an hour to find a fellow brave enough to take his place. that _was_ a game. football's tame nowadays." across the coach rutland, the right guard, a big bronze-haired chap of one hundred and ninety-six, was deep in a discussion with "judge" chase, right end, on an obscure point of ruling. "if you're making a fair catch and a player on the other side runs against you intentionally or otherwise, you're interfered with, and the rules give your side fifteen yards," declared rutland. "not if the interference is accidental and doesn't hurt your catch," replied chase. "if the other fellow is running and can't stop in time--" "shut up, you fellows," growled captain button. "you play the game, and the referee will look after the rules for you." "if you go on," said briscom, "you must be careful about holding. de farge (the referee) is awfully down on holding and off-side plays. last year he penalized us eight times during the game. but he's all right, just the same. he's the finest little ref that ever tossed a coin." "i fear i won't get a show," mourned joel. "you can't tell," answered briscom knowingly. "last year there were two fellows ahead of me and i got on for twenty minutes of the last half. trueland bent his ankle, chesney hurt his knee, and condon got whacked on the head. watch the game every minute of the time, march, and learn how the yates halves play the game. then if you do go on you won't be in the dark." the coaches rolled up to the players' entrance to the field, and the fellows hopped out and disappeared into the quarters. the time was two o'clock. the gates were still thronged, although to the people already on the stands it was a puzzle where the newcomers were going to find seats. on the east side of the field yates held open house. from end to end, and overflowing half way around both north and south stands, the blue of yates fluttered in the little afternoon breeze till that portion of the field looked like a bank of violets. on the west stand tier after tier of crimson arose until it waved against the limitless blue of the sky. countless flags dipped and circled, crimson bonnets gleamed everywhere, and great bunches of swaying chrysanthemums nodded and becked to each other. all collegedom with its friends and relations was here; all collegedom, that is, within traveling distance; beyond that, eager eyes were watching the bulletin boards from maine to mojave. the cheering had begun. starting at one end of the west stand the slogan sped, section by section, growing in volume as it went, and causing the crimson flags and banners to dance and leap in the sunlight. across the field answering cheers thundered out and the bank of violets trembled as though a wind ruffled it. in front of the north stand the yates college band added the martial strains of the stars and stripes forever to the general pandemonium of enthusiasm. then along the west stand a ripple of laughter which grew into a loud cheer traveled, as a bent and decrepit figure attired in a long black frock coat and high silk hat, the latter banded with crimson ribbon, came into sight down the field. it was the old fruit seller of harwell, whose years are beyond reckoning, and who is remembered by the oldest graduates. on he came, his old, wrinkled face grimacing in toothless smiles, his ribboned cane waving in his trembling hand, and his well-nigh bald head bowing a welcome to the watchers. for it was not he who was the guest, for from time almost immemorial the old fruit seller has presided at the contests of harwell, rejoicing in her victories, lamenting over her defeats. down the line he limped, while gray-haired graduates and downy-lipped undergrads cheered him loyally, calling his name over and over, and so back to a seat in the middle of the stand, from where all through the battle his crimson-bedecked cane waved unceasingly. he was not the only one welcomed by the throng. a great jurist, chrysanthemumed from collar to waist, bowed jovial acknowledgment of the applause his appearance summoned. the governor of a state came too to see once more the crimson of his alma mater clashing with the blue of her old enemy. professors, who had put aside their books, beamed benevolently through their glasses as they walked somewhat embarrassedly past the grinning faces of their pupils. old football players, former captains, bygone masters of rowing, commanders of olden baseball teams, all these and many more were there and were welcomed heartily, tumultuously, by the wearers of the red. and through it all the cheers went on, the college songs were sung, and the hearts of youth and age were happy and glad together. then the cry of "here they come!" traveled along the field, and the blue-clad warriors leaped into the arena at the far end, and the east stand went delirious, and flags waved, and a tempest shook the bank of violets. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, yates!" and almost simultaneously the west stand arose and its voice arose to the sky in wild, frenzied shouts of: "har-well, har-well, har-well, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, har-well! har-well! har-well!" for over the fence came the head coach, and big chesney, and captain dutton, story, the little quarter-back, and all the others, a long line of crimson-stockinged warriors, with joel march, briscom, bedford, and the other substitutes flocking along in the tag end of the procession. over the field the two elevens spread, while cheer after cheer met in mid-field, clashed, and rolled upward to the blue. then came a bare five minutes of punting, dropping, passing, snapping, ere the officials appeared from somewhere and gathered the opposing captains to them. a coin flashed in the sunlight, spun aloft, descended, and was caught in the referee's palm. "heads!" cried ferguson, the yates captain. "heads it is!" announced the referee. the substitutes retreated unwillingly to the side lines, the harwell men spread themselves over the north end of the gridiron, elton, the yates full-back, ground his heel into the turf and pointed the ball, the cheering ceased, the whistle piped merrily, the bright new ball soared aloft on its arching flight, and the game of the year was on. chapter xxiii. harwell _vs_. yates--the first half. that game will live in history. it was a battle royal between giant foes. on one hand was the confidence begat of fifteen years of almost continuous victory over the crimson; on the other the desperation that such defeat brings. yates had a proud record to sustain, harwell a decade of worsting to atone for. and twenty-five thousand persons watched and hoped and feared as the battle raged. down settled the soaring ball into the arms of kingdon, who tucked it under his arm and started with it toward the distant goal. but eight yards was all he found ere a yates forward crashed down upon him. then came a quick line-up on harwell's forty yards, and first prince, then kingdon, then blair was put through the line, each for a small gain, and the harwell benches shouted their triumph. again the pigskin was given to prince for a try through the hole between tackle and guard, but this time he was hurled back for a loss. the next try was kingdon's, and he made a yard around the yates left end. it was the third down and five yards were lacking. back went the ball for a kick, and a moment later it was yates's on her thirty-five yards, and again the teams were lining up. it was now the turn of the east stand to cheer, and mightily the shout rolled across the field. through came the yates full, the ball safely stowed in the crook of his elbow, the whole force of the backs shoving him on. three yards was his. another line-up. again the yates full-back was given the ball, and again he gained. and it was the first down on yates's forty-five-yard line. then began a rout in which harwell retreated and yates pursued until the leather had crossed the middle of the field. the gains were made anywhere, everywhere, it seemed. allardyce yielded time and again, and selkirk beside him, lacking the other's support, was thrust aside almost at will. the yates shouters were wild with joy, and the cheers of harwell were drowned beneath the greater outbursts from the supporters of the blue. harwell appeared to be outclassed, so far as her rush line was concerned. past the fifty-yard line went the ball, and between it and the next white streak, harwell at last made a desperate stand, and secured the ball. at the first play it was sent speeding away from blair's toe to the yates mid-field, a long, clean, high kick, that led the forwards down under it in time to throw the waiting back ere he had taken a step, and that brought shouts of almost tearful delight from the harwell sympathizers. back to her line-bucking returned yates, and slowly, but very surely, the contest moved over the lost ground, back toward the harwell goal. the fifty-five-yard line was passed again, the fifty, the forty-five, and here or there holes were being torn in the harwell line, and the crimson was going down before the blue. at her forty-yard line harwell stayed again for a while the onslaught of the enemy, and tried thrice to make ground through the yates line. then back to the hands of wilkes went the oval and again the heart-breaking rout began. yates. full-back elton, 184 right left half-back half-back thompson, 153 cushing, 157 birch, 140 quarter-back right right right left left left end tackle guard center guard tackle end o'callaghan, ferguson, morris, wilkes, allison, galt, fraser, 163 203 197 204 194 189 150 left left left center right right right end tackle guard guard tackle end dutton, selkirk, allardyce, chesney, rutland, burbridge, chase, 150 186 189 229 196 179 156 quarter-back story, 144 prince, 157 kingdon, 182 left right half-back half-back blair, 179 full-back harwell. harwell made her last desperate rally on her twenty-five yards. the ball was thrown to blair, who kicked, but not soon enough to get it out of the way of the opposing forwards, who broke through as the ball rose. it struck against the upstretched hand of the yates right guard and bounded toward the crimson's goal. the yates left half fell upon it. from there, without forfeiting the ball, yates crashed down to the goal line, and hurled elton, her crack full-back, through at last for a touch-down. for five minutes chaos reigned upon the east stand. all previous efforts paled into nothingness beside the outbursts of cheers that followed each other like claps of thunder up and down the long bank of fluttering color. upon the other side of the field no rival shouts were heard. it was useless to try and drown that niagara of sound. but here and there crimson flags waved defiantly at the triumphant blue. the goal was an easy one, though it is probable that it would have been made had it been five times more difficult; for elton was the acknowledged goal kicker par excellence of the year. then back trotted the teams, and as the harwell eleven lined up for the kick-off allardyce at left guard gave place to murdoch. the big fellow had given out and had limped white-faced and choking from the field. the whistle sounded and the ball rose into air, corkscrewing toward the yates goal. down the field under it went the harwell runners like bolts from a bow, and the yates half who secured the pigskin was downed where he caught. the two teams lined up quickly. then back, foot by foot, yard by yard, went the struggling harwell men. yet the retreat was less like a rout than before, and yates was having harder work. her players were twice piled up against the harwell center, and she was at last forced to send a blue-clad youth around the left end, an experiment which netted her twelve yards and which brought the east stand to its feet, yelling like mad. but here the crimson line at length braced and the ball went to its center on three downs, and the tide turned for a while. the backs and the right end were hurled, one after another, at the opposing line, and shouts of joy arose from the crimson seats as gain after gain resulted. thrice in quick succession captain dutton shot through the left end of the blue's line, the second time for a gain of five yards. the cheering along the west side of the great field was now continuous, and the leaders, their crimson badges fluttering agitatedly, were waving their arms like tireless semaphores and exciting the supporters of harwell to greater and greater efforts. nearer and nearer to the coveted touch-down crept the crimson line. with clock-work precision the ball was snapped, the quarter passed, the half leaped forward, the rush line plunged and strove, and then from somewhere a faint "down!" was cried; and the panting players staggered to their feet, leaving the ball yet nearer to the threatened goal line. on the blue's twenty-three yards the whistle shrilled, and a murmur of dismay crept over the yates seats as it was seen that captain ferguson lay motionless on the ground. but a moment's rubbing brought him to his feet again. "he's not much hurt," explained the knowing ones. "he wants to rest a bit." a minute later, while the ball still hovered about the twenty-yard line, yates secured it on a fumbled pass, and the tide ebbed away from the beleagured posts. back as before were borne the crimson warriors, while the yates forwards opened holes in the opposing line and the yates halves dashed and wormed through for small gains. then fate again aided the crimson, and on the blue's forty-seven-yard line a fake kick went sadly aglee and the runner was borne struggling back toward his own goal before he could cry "down!" and big chesney grinned gleefully as he received the leather and bent his broad back above it. canes, crysanthemums, umbrellas, flags, carnations, hats, all these and many other things waved frantically above the great bank of crimson as the little knot of gallant knights in moleskin crept back over their recent path of retreat and took the war again into the enemy's country. every inch of the way was stubbornly contested by the defenders, but slowly they were pushed back, staggering under the shocks of the crimson's attack. chesney, rutland, and murdoch worked together, side by side, like one man--or forty!--and when time was called for an instant on the yates twenty-five yards it was to bring galt, the blue's left tackle, back to consciousness and send him limping off the gridiron. his place in the line was taken by an old hilltonian, one dunsmore, and the game went on. and now it was the blue that was in full retreat and the crimson that pursued. nearer and nearer to the yates goal line went the resisting besieged and the conquering besiegers, and the great black score-board announced but eight more minutes of the first half remaining. but even eight were three more than were needed. for harwell crossed the twenty yards by tandem on tackle, gained the fifteen in two downs by wedges between tackle and guard, and from there on until the much-desired goal line was reached never paused in her breathless, resistless onslaught. it was wesley blair who at last put the ball over for a touch-down, going through between center and left guard with all the weight of the harwell eleven behind him. his smothered "down!" was never heard, for the west stand was a swaying, tumultuous unit of thunderous acclaim. up went the flags and banners of crimson hues, loud sounded the paean of praise and thanksgiving from thousands of straining throats, while below on the side lines the coaches leaped for joy and strained each other to their breasts in unspeakable delight. and while the shouting went on as though never would the frenzied shouters cease, the grim, panting yates players lined up back of their goal line, on tiptoe, ready at the first touch of the ball to the earth to spring forward and, leaping upward, strive to arrest the speeding oval. prone upon the ground, the ball in his hands, lay story. a yard or two distant blair directed the pointing of it. the goal was a most difficult one, from an angle, and long the full-back studied and directed, until faint groans of derision arose from the impatient east stand and the men behind the goal line moved restively. "lacing to you," said blair quietly. story shifted the ball imperceptibly. "more." the quarter-back obeyed. "cock it." higher went the end toward the goal. "not so much." it was lowered carefully, slowly. "steady." blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and stepped forward again. "down!" story's left hand touched the grass, the yates men surged forward, there was a thud, and-upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent. but the nearly silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon the face of the scoreboard appeared the momentous word, "goal!" again the ball was put in play, but the half was soon over and the players, snatching their blankets, trotted to the dressing rooms. and the score-board announced: "opponents, 6. yates, 6." as the little swinging door closed behind him joel found himself in a seething mass of players, rubbers, and coaches, while a babel of voices, greetings, commands, laughter, and lament, confused him. it was a busy scene. the trainer and his assistants were working like mad. the doctor and the head coach were talking twenty to the second. everybody was explaining everything, and the indefatigable coaches were hurrying from man to man, instructing, reminding, and scolding. joel had only to look on, save when he lent a hand at removing some torn and stubborn jersey, or at finding lost shin-guards and nose masks, and so he found a seat out of the way, and, searching the room with his gaze, at length found prince. that gentleman was having a nice, new pink elastic bandage put about his ankle. he was grinning sturdily, but at every clutch of the web his lips twitched and his brow puckered. joel watching him wondered how much more he would stand, and whether his (joel's) chance would come ere the fatal whistle piped the end of the match. "time's up!" cried the head coach suddenly, and the confusion redoubled until he mounted to a bench and clapped his hands loudly above the din. comparative silence ensued. "fellows," he began, "here's the list for the next half. answer to your names, please. and go over to the door. fellows, you'll have to make less noise. dutton, selkirk, murdoch--murdoch?" "right!" the voice emerged from the folds of a woolen sweater which had stubbornly refused to go on or off. with a smile the head coach continued the list, each man responding as his name was announced and crowding to the doorway. "chesney, rutland, burbridge, barton--" a murmur arose from the listening throng, and chase, a tall, pale-faced youth, his cheek exhibiting the marks of a contact with some one's shoe cleats, groaned loudly and flung himself on to a bench, where he sat looking blindly before him until the list was finished. "story, prince--" "here!" called the latter, jumping from his seat. then a sharp, agonized cry followed, and prince toppled over, clutching vainly at the air. the head coach paused. the doctor and the trainer pushed toward the fallen man, and a moment later the former announced quietly: "he's fainted, sir." "can he go on?" asked the head coach. "he is out of the question. ankle's too painful. i couldn't allow it." "very well," answered the other as he amended the list. "kingdon, blair, march." joel's heart leaped as he heard his name pronounced, and he tried to answer. "march?" demanded the head coach impatiently; and "here, sir!" gulped joel, rushing to the door. "all right," continued the head coach. "there isn't time for any fine phrases, fellows, and if there was i couldn't say them so that they'd do any good. you know what you've got to do. go ahead and do it. you have the chance of wiping out a good many defeats, more than it's pleasant to think about. the college expects a great deal from you. don't disappoint it. play hard and play together. don't give an inch; die first. tackle low, run high, _and keep your eyes on the ball!_ and now, fellows, _three times three for harwell!_" and what a cheer that was! the little building shook, the men stood on their toes; the head coach cheered himself off the bench; and joel yelled so desperately that his breath gave out at the last "rah!" and didn't come back until the little door was burst open and he found himself leaping the fence into the gridiron. and what a burst of sound greeted their reappearance! the west stand shook from end to end. crimson banners broke out on the breeze, every one was on his feet, hats waved, umbrellas clashed, canes swirled. a youth in a plaid ulster went purple in the face at the small end of a five-foot horn; and for all the sound it seemed to make it might as well have been a penny whistle. the ushers waved their arms, but to no purpose, since the seats heeded them not at all, but shouted as their hearts dictated and as their throats and lungs allowed. joel, gazing about him from the field, felt a shiver of emotion pass through him. they were cheering _him_! he was one of the little band in honor of which the flags waved, the voices shouted, and the songs were sung! he felt a lump growing in his throat, and to keep down the tears that for some reason were creeping into his eyes, he let drive at a ball that came bumping toward him and kicked it so hard that selkirk had to chase it half down the field. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell! harwell! harwell! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell!" the leaders of the cheering had again gotten control of their sections, and the long, deliberate cheer, majestic in its intensity of sound, crashed across the space, rebounded from the opposite stand, and went echoing upward into the clear afternoon air. "harwell!" muttered joel. "_you bet_!" then he gathered with the others about dutton to listen to that leader's last instructions. and at the same moment the east stand broke into cheers as the gallant sons of yates bounded on to the grass. back and forth rolled the mighty torrents of sound, meeting in midair, breaking and crashing back in fainter reverberations. they were singing the college songs now, and the merits and virtues of both colleges were being chanted defiantly to the tunes of popular airs. thousands of feet "tramp-tramped," keeping time against the stands. the yates band and the harwell band were striving, from opposite ends of the field, to drown each other's strains. and the blue and crimson fluttered and waved, the sun sank lower toward the western horizon, and the shadows crept along the ground. "there will be just one more score," predicted the knowing ones as they buttoned their ulsters and overcoats up at the throat and crouched along the side lines, like so many toads. "but who will make it i'm blessed if i know!" then harwell lined up along the fifty-five-yard line, with the ball in their possession, and the south goal behind them. and yates scattered down the field in front. and the linesmen placed their canes in the turf, the referee and the umpire walked into the field, and the stands grew silent save for the shrill voice of a little freshman on the west stand who had fallen two bars behind in "this is harwell's day," and needs must finish out while his breath lasted. "are you all ready?" asked the referee. there was no reply. only here and there a foot moved uneasily as weights were thrown forward, and there was a general, almost imperceptible, tightening of nerves and muscles. and then the whistle blew. chapter xxiv. harwell _vs_. yates--a fault and a requital. the kick-off came into blair's ready arms, the interference formed quickly, and the full-back sped down the field. one white line passed under foot--another; joel felt blair's hand laid lightly upon his shoulder, and ran as though life itself depended upon getting that precious ball past the third mark. but the yates ends were upon them. joel gave the shoulder to one, but the second dived through kingdon, and the runner came to earth on the twenty-three-yard line, with joel tugging at him in the hope of advancing the pigskin another foot. "line up quickly, fellows!" called story. the players jumped to their places. "_1--9--9!_" joel crept back a bare yard. "_1--9--9!_" kingdon leaped forward, snugged the ball under his arm, and followed by joel tried to find a hole inside left end. but the hole was not there, and the ball was instantly in the center of a pushing, grinding mass. "down!" no gain. story, worming his way through the jumble, clapped his hands. chesney was already stooping over the ball. joel ran to his position, and the quarter threw a rapid glance behind him. "_2--8--9_!" he placed his hand on the center's broad back. "_2--8_--!" the ball was snapped. joel darted toward the center, took the leather at a hand pass, crushed it against the pit of his stomach, and followed the left end through a breach in the living wall. strong hands pushed him on. then he came bang! against a huge shoulder, was seized by the yates right half, and thrown. he hugged the ball as the players crashed down upon him. "third down," called the referee. "three yards to gain." "line up, fellows, line up!" called the impatient story, and joel jumped to his feet, upsetting the last man in the pile-up, and scurried back. "_2--9--9_!" "_2--9_--!" back sped blair. up ran joel and kingdon. the line blocked desperately. a streak of brown flew by, and a moment later joel heard the thud as the full-back's shoe struck the ball. then down the field he sped, through the great gap made by the yates forwards. the harwell ends were well under the kick and stood waiting grimly beside the yates full-back as the ball settled to earth. as it thudded against his canvas jacket and as he started to run three pairs of arms closed about him, and he went down in his tracks. the ball lay on yates's fifty-three-yard line. the field streamed up. the big yates center took the ball. joel crept up behind the line, his hands on the broad canvas-covered forms in front, dodging back and forth behind murdoch and selkirk. "_26--57--38--19--_!" the, opposing left half started across, took the ball, and then--why, then joel was at the very bottom of some seven hundred pounds of writhing humanity, trying his best to get his breath, and wondering where the ball was! "second down. three and a half yards to gain." again the lines faced. joel was crouched close to quarter, obeying that player's gesture. they were going to try murdoch again. joel heard the breathless tones of the yates quarter as he stooped behind the opposing line. "a tandem on guard," whispered joel to himself. the next moment there was a crash, the man in front of him gave; then joel and story, gripping the turf with their toes, braced hard; there was a moment of heaving, panting suspense; then a smothered voice cried "down!" "third down," cried the referee. "three and a half yards to gain." "look out for a fake kick," muttered story, as joel fell back. the opposing line was quickly formed, and again the signal was given. the rush line heaved, joel sprang into the air, settling with a crash against the shoulders of chesney and murdoch, who went forward, carrying the defense before them. but the ball was passed, and even as the yates line broke the thud of leather against leather was heard. joel scrambled to his feet, assisted by chesney, and streaked up the field. the ball was overhead, describing a high, short arch. blair was awaiting it, and kingdon was behind and to the right of him. down it came, out shot blair's hands, and catching it like a baseball he was off at a jump, kingdon beside him. joel swung about, gave a shoulder to an oncoming blue-clad rusher, ran slowly until the two backs were hard behind him, and then dashed on. surely there was no way through that crowded field. yet even as he studied his path a pair of blue stockings went into the air, and a threatening obstacle was out of the way, bowled over by a harwell forward. the ends were now scouting ahead of the runners, engaging the enemy. the fifty-five-yard line was traversed at an angle near the east side of the field, and joel saw the touch line growing instantly more imminent. but a waiting yates man, crouchingly running up the line, was successfully passed, and the trio bore farther infield, putting ten more precious yards behind them. the west stand was wild with exultant excitement, and joel found himself speeding onward in time with the rhythmic sway of the deep "rah-rah-rah!" that boomed across from the farther side. but the enemy was fast closing in about them. the yates right half was plunging down from the long side, a pertinacious forward was almost at their heels. and now the yates full was charging obliquely at them with his eyes staring, his jaw set, and determination in every feature and line. the hand on joel's shoulder dropped, blair eased his pace by ever so little, and joel shot forward in the track of the full, his head down, and the next moment was sprawling on the turf with the enemy above him. but he saw and heard blair and kingdon hurdling over, felt a sharp pain that was instantly forgotten, and knew that the ball was safely by. but the run was over at the next line. kingdon made a heroic effort to down the half, and would have succeeded had it not been for the persevering forward, who reached him with his long arms and pulled him to earth. and blair, the ball safe beneath him, lay at the yates thirty-five yards, the half-back holding his head to earth. joel arose, and as he trotted to his position he looked curiously at the first finger of his left hand. it bore the imprint of a shoe-cleat, and pained dully. he tried to stretch it, but could not. then he shook his hand. the finger wobbled crazily. joel grinned. "bust!" he whispered laconically. his first impulse was to ask for time to have it bound. then he recollected that some one had said the doctor was very strict about injuries. perhaps the latter would consider the break sufficient cause for joel's leaving the field. that wouldn't do; better to play with a broken arm than not to play at all. so he tried to stick the offending hand in his pocket, found there was no pocket there, and put the finger in his mouth instead. then he forgot all about it, for harwell was hammering the blue's line desperately and joel had all he could do to remember the signals and play his position. for the next quarter of an hour the ball hovered about yates's danger territory. twice, by the hardest kind of line bucking, it was placed within the ten-yard line, and twice, by the grimmest, most desperate resistance, it was lost on downs and sent hurtling back to near mid-field. but yates was on the defensive, even when the oval was in her possession, and harwell experienced the pleasurable--and, in truth, unaccustomed--exultation that comes with the assurance of superiority. harwell's greatest ground-gaining plays now were the two sequences from ordinary formation and full-back forward. these were used over and over, ever securing territory, and ever puzzling the opponents. joel was hard worked. he was used not only to wriggle around the line inside of ends and to squirm through difficult outlets, but to charge the line as well, a feat of which his height and strong legs rendered him well capable. he proved a consistant ground-gainer, and with blair, who worked like a hero, and kingdon, who won laurels for himself that remained fresh many years, gained the distance time and again. but although the spectacular performances belonged here to the backs, the line it was that made such work possible. chesney, with his six feet four and a half inches of muscle, and his two hundred and twenty-nine pounds of weight, stood like a veritable gibraltar of strength. beside him rutland was scarcely less invulnerable, and murdoch, on the other side, played like a veteran, which he was not, being only a nineteen-year-old sophomore, with but one hundred and sixty-seven pounds to keep him from blowing away. selkirk gave way to lee when the half was two thirds over, but burbridge played it out, and then owned up to a broken shoulder bone, and was severely lectured by the trainer, the head coach, and the doctor in turn; and worshiped by the whole college. captain dutton played a dashing, brilliant game at left end, and secured for himself a re-election that held no dissenting vote. and barton, at the other end of the red line, tried his best to fill the place of the deposed chase, and if he did not fully succeed, at least failed not from want of trying. but it was little story, the quarter-back, who won unfading glory. a mass of nerves, from his head down, his brain was as clear and cool as the farthest goal post, and he ran the team in a manner that made the coaches, hopping and scrambling along on the side lines, hug themselves and each other in glee. so much for the harwell men. as for yates, what words are eloquent enough to do justice to the heroic, determined defense she made there under the shadow of her own goal, when defeat seemed every moment waiting to overwhelm her? every man in that blue-clad line and back of it was a hero, the kind that history loves to tell of. the right guard, morris, was a pitiable sight as, with white, drawn face, he stood up under the terrific assault, staggering, with half-closed eyes, to hold the line. joel was heartily glad when, presently, he fell up against the big yates center after a fierce attack at his position, and was supported, half fainting, from the field. the substitute was a lighter man, as the next try at his position showed, and the gains through the guard-tackle hole still went on. yates's team now held four substitutes, although with the exception of douglas, the substitute right-guard, none of them was perceptibly inferior to the men whose places they took. the cheering from the harwell seats was now continuous, and the refrain of "glory, glory for the crimson!" was repeated over and over. on the east stand the yates supporters were neither hopeless nor silent. their cheers were given with a will and encouraged their gallant warriors to renewed and ever more desperate defense. the score-board proclaimed the game almost done. with six minutes left it only remained, as it seemed, for yates to hold the plunging crimson once more at the last ditch to keep the game a tie, and so win what would, under the circumstances, have been as good as a victory. down came the harwell line once more to the twenty yards, but here they stopped. for on a pass from quarter to left half, the latter, one joel march of our acquaintance, fumbled the ball, dived quickly after it, and landed on the yates left guard, who had plunged through and now lay with the pigskin safe beneath him! it is difficult to either describe or appreciate the full depth of joel's agony as he picked himself up and limped back to his place. it was a heart-tearing, blinding sensation that left him weak and limp. but there was nothing for it save to go on and try to retrieve his fatal error. the white face of story turned toward him, and joel read in the brief glance no anger, only an almost tearful grief. he swung upon his heel with a muttered word that sounded ill from his lips. but he was only a boy and the provocation was great; let us not remember it against him. the yates center threw back the ball for a kick, and joel went down the field after it. as he ran he wondered if story would try him again. it seemed doubtful, but if he did--joel ground his teeth--he would take it through the line! they would see! just give him one chance to retrieve that fumble! a year later and he had learned that a misplay, even though it lose the game for your side, may in time be lived down. but now that knowledge was not his, and a heart-rending picture of disgrace before the whole college presented itself to him. then blair had the ball, was off, was tackled near the side line under the yates stand, and the two teams were quickly lined up again. the cheers from the friends of the blue were so loud that the quarter's voice giving the signal was scarcely to be heard. joel crept nearer. then his heart leaped up into his throat and stood still. "_7--1--2!_" there was no mistake! it was left half's ball on a double pass for a run around right end! the line-up was within eight yards of the east side line. the play was the third of the second sequence, in which joel with the other backs had been well instructed, and its chance of success lay in the fact that it had the appearance of a full-back punt or a run around the long side of the field. joel leaned forward, facing the left end. blair crept a few feet in. "_7--1--!_" began the quarter. the ball was snapped, blair ran three strides nearer, the quarter turned, and the pigskin flew back. joel started like a shot, seized the ball from the full-back's outstretched hands, and sped toward the right end of the line. the right half crossed in front of him, the right end and tackle thrust back their opponents, the left tackle and guard blocked hard and long. blair helped the right half in his diversion at the left end, and joel, with dutton interfering and blair a stride behind, swept around the end. the only danger was in being forced over the touch line, but the play worked well, and the opposing tackle seemed anchored. the yates end, from his place back of the line, leaped at them, but was upset by dutton, and the two went down together. the opposing left half bore down upon joel and blair, the latter speeding along at the runner's side, and came at them with outstretched arms. another moment and joel was alone. story and the half were just a mass of waving legs and arms many yards behind. joy was the supreme sensation in joel's breast. only the yates full-back threatened, the ball was safely clutched in his right arm, his breath came easily, his legs were strong, and the goal-posts loomed far down the field and beckoned him on. this, he thought exultingly, was the best moment that life could give him. behind, although he could not hear it for the din of shouting from the harwell stand, he knew the pursuit to be in full cry. he edged farther out from the dangerous touch line and sped on. the yates full-back had been deceived by the play and had gone far up the field for a kick, and now down he came, and joel found a chill creeping over him as he remembered the player's wide reputation. he was the finest full-back, so report had it, of the year. and of a sudden joel found his breath growing labored, and his long legs began to ache and seemed stiffening at the thighs and knees. but he only ran the faster and prepared for the threatened tackle. harwell hearts sank, for the crimson-clad runner appeared to waver, to be slowing down. suddenly, when only his own length separated him from his prey, the yates full-back left the ground and, like a swimmer diving into the sea, dove for the hesitating runner. there was but one thing that day more beautiful to see than that fearless attempt to tackle; and that one thing was the leap high into the air that the harwell left half made just in the nick of time, clearing the tackler, barely avoiding a fall, and again running free with the ball still safe! the yates player quickly recovered and took up the chase, and the momentary pause had served to bring the foremost of the other pursuers almost to joel's heels. and now began a contest that will ever live in the memories of those who witnessed it. panting, weary, his legs aching at every bound, his throat parching with the hot breath, joel struggled on. joy had given place to fear and desperation. time and again he choked down the over-ready sobs. behind him sounded the thud of relentless feet. he dared not look back lest he stumble. every second he expected to feel the clutch of the enemy. every second he thought that _now_ he must give up. but recollection of that fumble crushed down each time the inclination to yield, and one after another the nearly obliterated lines passed under foot. he gave up trying to breathe; it was too hard. his head was swimming and his lungs seemed bursting. then his wandering faculties rushed back at a bound as he felt a touch, just the lightest fingering, on his shoulder, and gathering all his remaining strength he increased his pace for a few steps, and the hand was gone. and the ten-yard line passed, slowly, reluctantly. "one more," he thought, "one more!" the great stands were hoarse with shouting; for here ended the game. the figures on the score-board had changed since the last play, and now relentlessly proclaimed one minute left! nearer and nearer crept the five-yard line, nearer and nearer crept the pursuing full-back. then, and at the same instant, the scattered breadth of lime was gone, and a hand clutched at the canvas jacket of the harwell runner. once more joel called upon his strength and tried to draw away, but it was no use. and with the goal line but four yards distant, stout arms were clasped tightly about his waist. one--two--three strides he made. the goal line writhed before his dizzy sight. relentlessly the clutching grasp fastened tighter and tighter about him like steel bands, and settled lower and lower until his legs were clasped and he could move no farther! despairingly he thrust the ball out at arms' length and tried to throw himself forward; the trampled turf rose to meet him.... * * * * * "the ball is over!" pronounced the referee. it was a nice decision, for an inch would have made a world of difference; but it has never been disputed. then dutton leaped into the air, waving his arms, rutland turned a somersault, and the west stand arose as one man and went mad with delight. hats and cushions soared into air, the great structure shook and trembled from end to end, and the last few golden rays of the setting sun glorified the waving, fluttering bank of triumphant crimson! chapter xxv. the return. "boom! boom!" thundered the big drum. "tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife. "tarum! taroom!" growled the horns. the harwell band marched through the archway and defiled on to the platform. the college marched after. well, perhaps not all the college; i have heard that a senior living in lanter was too ill to be present. but the incoming platform was thronged from wall to track, so it was perhaps as well that he didn't come, because there positively wasn't room for him. "what is it?" asked a citizen in a silk hat of a gayly decorated youth on the outskirts of the crowd. the latter stared for full a minute ere the words came. then he cried: "here's a fellow who wants to know what we're here for!" and a great groan of derision went up to the arching roof, and the ignorant person slunk away, yet not before his silk hat had been pushed gently but firmly far down over his eyes. punishment ever awaits the ignorant who will not learn. "glory, glory for the crimson, glory, glory for the crimson, glory, glory for the crimson, for this is harwell's day," sang the throng. "boom! boom! boom!" thundered the big drum. "tootle-toot!" shrilled the fife. "now, fellows, three times three, three long harwells, and three times three!" shouted the master of ceremonies hoarsely. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell! harwell! harwell! rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, harwell!" shrieked the crowd. "louder! louder!" commanded the remorseless youth on the baggage truck. "nine long harwells! one, two, three!" "har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well! har-well!" the sound crashed up against the vaulted station roof and thundered back. and none heard the shriek of the incoming train as it clattered over the switches at the entrance of the shed, and none saw it until it was creeping in, the engineer leaning far out of the cab window and waving a red bandanna handkerchief, a courtesy that won him a cheer all to himself. then out tumbled the returning heroes, bags in hands, followed by the head coach and all the rest of the attendant train. and then what a pushing and shouting and struggling there was! there were forty men to every player, and the result was that some of the latter were nearly torn limb from limb ere they were safe out of reach on the shoulders of lucky contestants for the honor of carrying them the first stage of the journey to college. there were some who tried to hide, some who tried to run, others who enjoyed the whole thing hugely and thumped the heads of their bearers heartily just to show good feeling. joel was one of the last to leave the car, and as he set foot on the platform a hundred voices went up in cheers, and a hundred students struggled for possession of him. but one there was who from his place of vantage halfway up the steps repelled all oncomers, and assisted by a second youth of large proportions seized upon joel and setting him upon their shoulders bore him off in triumph. "boom! boom!" said the big drum. and the procession started. down the long platform it went, past the waiting room doors where a crowd of onlookers waved hats and handkerchiefs, and so out into the city street. joel turned his head away from the observers, ashamed and happy. there was no let-up to the cheering. one after another the names of the players and substitutes, coaches and trainer, were cheered and cheered again. "out of the way there!" cried joel's bearers, and the marching throng looked about, moved apart, and as joel was borne through, cheered him to the echo, reaching eager hands toward him, crying words of commendation and praise into his buzzing ears. "rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah, march!" "one!" shrieked a youth near where joel soon found himself at the head of the procession, and the slogan was taken up: "two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! nine! ten! e-lev-en!" "now give me your hand, joel!" cried the youth upon whose left shoulder he was swaying. joel obeyed, smiling affectionately down into the upraised face. then he uttered a cry of pain. one of the fingers of his left hand was bandaged, and outfield west dropped it gingerly. "not--not _broke_?" he asked wonderingly. joel nodded. "aren't you _proud_ of it?" whispered his chum. "yes," answered joel simply and earnestly. "may i take it, too?" asked the other youth. joel started and looked down into the anxious and entreating face of bartlett cloud. he grasped the hesitating hand that was held up. "yes," he answered smilingly. and the big drum boomed, and the shrill fifes tootled, and the crimson banners waved upon the breeze, and every one cheered himself hoarse, and thus the conquering heroes came back to the college that loved them. and joel, a little tearful when no one was looking, and very happy always, was borne on the shoulders of west and cloud, friend and enemy, at the very head of the procession, honored above all! fifty years of golf [illustration] _first published in 1919_ [illustration: the writer, the first english captain of the royal and ancient, buying back, according to custom, the ball struck off to win the captaincy.] fifty years of golf by horace g. hutchinson london: published at the offices of country life, 20 tavistock street, covent garden, w.c.2 and by george newnes, ltd., 8-11 southampton street, strand w.c.2. new york charles scribner's sons preface (_written in 1914_) i agreed to the suggestion that i should write these reminiscences, mainly because it seems to me that circumstances have thrown my life along such lines that i really have been more than any other man at the centre of the growth of golf--a growth out of nothingness in england, and of relative littleness in scotland, fifty years ago, to its present condition of a fact of real national importance. i saw all the beginnings, at westward ho! of the new life of english golf. i followed its movement at hoylake and later at sandwich. i was on the committee initiating the amateur championship, the international match, the rules of golf committee and so on. i have been captain in succession of the royal north devon, royal liverpool, royal st. george's and royal and ancient clubs, as well as many others, and in these offices have been not only able but even obliged to follow closely every step in the popular advancement of the game. i do not mention these honours vaingloriously, but only by way of showing that no one else perhaps has had quite the same opportunities. possibly i should explain, too, the apparent magniloquence of the phrase describing golf as a "fact of real national importance." i do not think it is an over-statement. i use it irrespective of the intrinsic merits of the game, as such. when we consider the amount of healthy exercise that it gives to all ages and sexes, the amount of money annually expended on it, the area of land (in many places otherwise valueless) that is devoted to it, the accession in house and land values for which it is responsible, the miles of railway and motor travel of which it is the reason, the extent of house building of which it has been the cause, and the amount of employment which it affords--when these and other incidental features are totalled up, it will be found, i think, that there is no extravagance at all in speaking of the golf of the present day as an item of national importance. at least, if golf be not so, it is difficult to know what is. it is because i have in my head the material for the telling of the history of this rise of golf to its present status that i have ventured to write these personal reminiscences, and underlying them all has been the sense that i was telling the story of the coming of golf, as well as narrating tales of the great matches and the humorous incidents that i have seen and taken part in by the way. postscript to preface (_written in 1919_) reading the above "foreword," and also the pages which follow it, after the immense chasm cleft in our lives and habits by the war, i find little to modify as a result of the delay in publication. what does strike me with something very like a thrill of terror is the appalling egotism of the whole. i can truly say that i feel guiltily aware and ashamed of it. i cannot, however, say that i see my way clear to amend it. if one is rash enough to engage in the gentle pastime of personal reminiscence at all, it is difficult to play it without using the capital "i" for almost every tee shot. i will ask pardon for my presumption in plucking a passage from one of the world's great classics, to adorn so slight a theme as this, and will conclude in the words of michael, lord of montaigne:--"thus, gentle reader, myselfe am the groundworke of my booke: it is then no reason thou shouldst employe thy time about so frivolous and vaine a subject."[1] contents chap. page i the beginning of all things 11 ii how golf in england grew 17 iii of young tommy morris and other great men 23 iv the spread of golfing in england 29 v the weapons of golf in the seventies 35 vi how men of westward ho! went adventuring in the north 41 vii golf at oxford 47 viii the start of the oxford and cambridge golf matches 53 ix golfing pilgrimages 59 x westward ho! hoylake and st. andrews in the early eighties 65 xi first days at st. andrews 71 xii the beginnings of the amateur championship 77 xiii on golf books and golf balls 84 xiv the first amateur championship 90 xv mr. arthur balfour and his influence in golf 96 xvi the second amateur championship 102 xvii the first golf in america 108 xviii how i lost the championship and played the most wonderful shot in the world 114 xix johnny ball and johnny laidlay 120 xx a chapter of odds and ends 126 xxi a more liberal policy at st. andrews 132 xxii the first amateur win of the open championship 138 xxiii golf on the continent and in the channel islands 144 xxiv about harold hilton, freddy tait and others 150 xxv the coming of the three great men 156 xxvi the revolt of the amazons 162 xxvii the making of inland courses 168 xxviii various championships and the wandering societies 174 xxix the comic coming of the haskell ball 180 xxx an historic match and an historic type 186 xxxi the international match 192 xxxii how mr. justice buckley kept his eye on the haskell ball 198 xxxiii the amateur championship of 1903 204 xxxiv travis's year 210 xxxv how golf has gripped america 216 xxxvi the end of the round 223 footnotes: [footnote 1: _montaigne's essays_, florio's translation.] illustrations facing page the writer, the first english captain of the royal and ancient, buying back, according to custom, the ball struck off to win the captaincy _frontispiece_ borough house, northam 12 mr. peter steel driving the gravel pit at blackheath 13 at pau: the oldest of non-scottish golf clubs 16 captain's medal of the royal north devon golf club 17 the ladies' course at pau, in the days of the crinoline 20 miss cecil leitch 21 westward ho! 26 an old hoylake group 27 an old westward ho! group 32 thomas owen potter 33 "old tom" 70 douglas rolland and archie simpson 71 john ball 80 a.f. macfie 81 a.j. balfour 100 crawford 101 john ball, as a yeoman 120 j.e. laidlay 121 the chasm on the old biarritz course 144 arnaud massy 145 j.e. laidlay, john ball, junr., horace g. hutchinson, and p.c. anderson 150 h.h. hilton 151 freddy tait 154 j.h. taylor 156 harry vardon 157 james braid 160 horace hutchinson and leslie balfour melville 161 amateur championship, st. andrews, 1901 174 amateur championship, st. andrews, 1895 175 old leather ball, etc. 180 gutty _v._ rubber core 181 the amateur and professional sides at sandwich in 1894 186 "fiery" 187 walter travis 210 charles b. macdonald 211 fifty years of golf chapter i the beginning of all things i believe it is a little more than fifty years really. i do not mean to imply that i have been for that length of time actively engaged in the serious pursuit of the golf ball, but i expect that i began to take interest in what i understood as golf about the age of four. at that time my father was at government house in devonport, as general in command of the western district, and my uncle fred, colonel hutchinson, used to come there and tell us of some game, the most wonderful in the world, that he had lately learned to play when he was in scotland, as adjutant of the fife militia. he lived at wemyss hall, in fife, and used to ride over to st. andrews, breakfasting _en route_ with mr. bethune of blebo, and taking him on along with him, for a round or two rounds. i used to hear a great deal of talk about this wonderful game, between my father and my uncle, the former having scarcely a more clear-cut idea of what it was like than i myself; but i can well remember his attempting to give some description of it, in my uncle's absence, to a friend, and hearing this remark: "a man knows his own weapon, that he uses in the game, and it is as important to him to have the weapon that he knows as it is to a billiard player to have his own cue. and they use several different kinds of weapon at the game, for strokes of different strength." all that seems quite credible now; but it hardly seemed possible of belief in the south of england in the early sixties. i even knew what the weapon was called--"a club"--for i often asked my uncle about it, and he tried, with poor success, to make me understand its character; for i tried, in turn, to describe it to one of the orderlies, who was a particular friend of myself (or of my nurse), and he made me what he thought fitted the description. it fitted the name of "club"--for it was much like what the cannibals, in our boys' books, were depicted as using on the heads of their victims; but when i showed it to my uncle he shook his head sadly. it did not appeal to him as having any likeness to the delicate works of hugh philp, that master club-maker, with which he was familiar. still, i did beat a ball about with it, and thus began golf. when i arrived at the age of five, we went to live at a house called wellesbourne, in north devon, about halfway between bideford and northam. westward ho! in those days did not exist. there was one farmhouse where all the houses of the watering-place now are. the very name belonged only to charles kingsley's fine book, and was only taken for the name of the place a year or so later than this. captain molesworth, to whom english golf was to owe a big debt, lived at a house called north down, just at the entry into bideford, and it was in this house that charles kingsley was living while writing _westward ho!_ that is the story of how the name came to be given to the place, and borough house, by northam, was about half a mile from our wellesbourne. this borough house, since restored, is where mrs. leigh, with her sons frank and amyas, were placed by the novelist. [illustration: borough house, northam, in 1855, where mrs. leigh and her sons frank and amyas, the heroes of kingsley's _westward ho!_ lived. (it has since been entirely reconstructed.)] [illustration: mr. peter steel driving the gravel pit at blackheath, with forecaddie in distance.] the reverend i.h. gossett was vicar of northam, and related to the large family of moncrieffes, of whom there were several resident then at st. andrews. about that time one of its members, general moncrieffe, came on a visit to his relative, the vicar of northam, and from that chance visit great events grew. for mr. gossett, as it was likely he should, led out general moncrieffe for a walk across that stretch of low-lying common ground known as the northam, or appledore, burrows, to the famous pebble ridge and the shores of bideford bay; and as they went along and reached the vicinity of those noble sandhills later to be known to golfing fame and to be execrated by golfing tongues as "the alps," the general observed: "providence obviously designed this for a golf links." to a man coming from st. andrews it was a fact that jumped to the eyes. it was not for a clergyman to stand in the way of a design so providential. mr. gossett was a very capable, effective man: he had a family including some athletic sons for whom a game such as described by general moncrieffe seemed likely to provide just the outlet which their holiday energies would need. he threw himself heartily into the work of getting a few to join together to make the nucleus of a club; but that first of english golf clubs, next after--very long after--the fearful antiquity of blackheath, and absolutely first to play on a seaside links, did not involve all the outlay on green and club-house without which no golf club can respect itself to-day. clubs and balls--"gutty" balls, for the feather-cored leather-cased ones had already been superseded--would be sent, as needed, on general moncrieffe's order, from tom morris' shop at st. andrews, and when that was done all was done that was needed for these little beginnings of the seaside golf of england. the turf grew naturally short, and the commoners' sheep helped to check any exuberance. the course, as designed by those primitive constructors, acting under the advice of general moncrieffe, started out near the pebble ridge, by what is now the tee to the third hole. those pioneers of the game did not even go to the expense, in the first instance, of a hole cutter. they excised the holes with pocket knives. the putting greens were entirely _au naturel_, as nature and the sheep made them. assuredly there was no need for the making of artificial bunkers. nature had provided them, and of the best. besides, were there not always the great sea rushes? it may be remembered that the old golf rules have the significant regulation that the ball shall not be teed "nearer than four club-lengths" to the hole. that indicates both a less sanctity ascribed to putting greens of old and also a less degree of care lavished on teeing grounds. there were no flags, to mark the holes; but the mode was for the first party that went out on any day to indicate, if they could discover it, the position of the hole, for those coming after them, by sticking in a feather of gull or rook picked up by the way. if, as might happen, the hole was not to be discovered, being stamped out or damaged by sheep beyond all recognition as a respectable golf hole, this first party would dig another hole with a knife, and set up the signal feather beside that. in this period of the simple golfing life it goes without the saying that no apology, or substitute even, for a club-house gave shelter to these hardy primitive golfers. the way was to throw down coat, umbrella, or other superfluity beside the last hole. they were safe, for two good reasons--that they were not worth stealing and that there was no one to steal them. and it is to be supposed that in those good old days there was none of the modern "congestion," of which we hear so much. golfers and their needs, in england at all events, were alike few and simple. the club was instituted in 1864; therefore it has now passed its jubilee; but i, unhappily, have to look back upon many of those early years as so many periods of wasted opportunity. that same uncle fred who had condemned the club of the cannibal, gave me my first true golf club. years afterwards an anxious mother asked him, "at what age do you think my little boy should begin golf: i want him to be a very good player?" "how old is the boy now?" my uncle asked. "seven," the mother replied. "seven!" he repeated sadly. "oh, then he has lost three years already!" i was given a club long before i was seven, but our house was two long miles from the course, and miles are very long for the short legs of seven. there were the fields, but though it is reported of queen mary stuart that she found agreeable solace in playing at golf in "the fields around seaton house," i did not find golf exhilarating in the fields around wellesbourne house. but the atmosphere of golf was about the house. the golf club prospered, as golfing prosperity was rated in that day of small things. the extraordinary news went abroad that it was now possible to play the game of scotland on real links turf in this corner of devon. men of renown, such as mr. george glennie, mr. buskin, and many besides came from the ancient club at blackheath, and stayed for golf at the hotel recently built at that place which had now received its name from kingsley's book. sir robert hay and sir hope grant, the former one of the finest amateurs of a past day and the latter more distinguished as a soldier than a golfer, came as guests, for golfing purposes, to my father's house. my two brothers, both in the army and from twelve to nineteen years older than myself, played a few games when home on leave. i was too young to take any part in a match, but not too young to listen to much talk about the game and to look with profound veneration on its great players. [illustration: at pau: the oldest of non-scottish golf clubs. sir victor brooke (driving). colonel hegan kennard.] [illustration: captain's medal of the royal north devon golf club, showing the old approved way of driving with the right elbow up.] chapter ii how golf in england grew there are two outstanding events in golfing history--the bringing of golf to westward ho! by general moncrieffe in 1863, and the bringing of golf to blackheath by james vi. of scotland and i. of england some three centuries earlier. when golf was started at westward ho! it was the worthies of the blackheath club that gave it a reputation which went growing like a snowball. the north devon club began to wax fat and so exceeding proud that at meeting times--for challenge medals were presented and meetings in spring and autumn were held to compete for them, after the model of st. andrews--a bathing machine was dragged out by coastguards to the tee to the first hole, and therein sandwiches and liquid refreshment were kept during the morning round and actually consumed if the weather were wet. in fine weather the entertainment was _al fresco_. then the club acquired a tent; and an ancient mariner, brian andrews, of northam village, father of the philip andrews who is now steward of the golf club, used to hoist this and care for it, and at length, as of natural process of evolution, came the crowning glory of a permanent structure of corrugated iron, built beside and even among the grey boulders of the pebble ridge. this permanent object of care entailed the permanency of brian andrews as caretaker. enormous was the career of extravagance on which the club now embarked, engaging a resident professional all the way from st. andrews--john allan. he was the first scot ever to come to england as a resident golf professional, and there never came a kinder-hearted or better fellow. he established himself in a lodging, with his shop and bench on the ground floor, in northam village, which stands high on a hill above the level of the links, and was best part of a mile and a half from the present third, and then first, tee. a few years before, in the earliest days of the club's history, old tom morris had been down to advise about the green, and when i came to my teens and therewith to some interest in golf, and to a friendship, very quickly formed, with poor johnnie allan, he told me that when he had asked old tom for information about this new course in the new country that he was going to, he found that the old man (though he was not of any great age then) could tell him little enough about the course, but that all he seemed to remember was that there was a terrible steep hill to climb, after the day's work was done, on the way home. so there is--bone hill, on which the village stands, so called from the bones of danes killed in a great battle there, and of which bones, as we piously believed, the hill, save for a thin coat of soil over their graves, was wholly made--but it is quaint and characteristic of the old man that this steep place should have stuck in his mind and that all the salient features of the new course should have slipped out. it seems as if not even any of the points of the big rushes could have stuck and gone back to scotland with him. soon after there came south from scotland to the wimbledon club another most perfect of nature's gentlemen, in tom dunn, of a great golfing family and father of several fine professional players. and now, with a club-house, though it was but an iron hut, a resident professional and appointed times of meeting, the club was a live thing, and the complete and final act of its lavish expenditure was to engage a permanent green man--only one, but he had what seemed the essential qualification of an education as a miner in the western states of america--an excellent and entertaining fellow, sowden by name, a north devonian by birth, with a considerable gift of narrative and just about as much inclination to work on the course and knowledge of his duties as these antecedents would be likely to inspire in him. while the club was thus growing, my small body was growing too; but the way of my growth, all through life, has been rather that of an erratic powerful player, falling continually into very bad bunkers of ill-health, but making brilliant recoveries in the interims. my father tried two schools for me, but i was invalided home from both, and i expect it would have ended in my escape from all education whatever if it had not been that the united services college was started at westward ho! only two miles from our house. but that was not till i reached the august age of fifteen or thereabouts, by which time english golf had developed largely. the first really fine english golfer that we produced in the west of england was george gossett, son of the vicar of northam. when the big men came down from scotland and from blackheath, to the meetings, they found a local golfer able to make a match with the best of them. and hard after him came arthur molesworth, a very fine player even as a boy. i remember that while he was still a radley schoolboy, his father, the captain, begged a holiday for him to enable him to come and play for the medal--i think he would have been about sixteen at the time--and he came and won it, in a field which included sir robert hay and other well-known players. there were three brothers of the molesworths, good golfers all, but arthur, the youngest, the best of the three. the two elder have been dead for many years, but the father[2] and the youngest son still live at westward ho! at this time i had an elder brother at home, invalided from his regiment in india. i was also assigned an almost more valuable possession, in the shape of an exmoor pony which could jump like a grasshopper and climb like a cat any of the big devonshire banks that it was unable to jump. so, in company with this big brother and this small pony, i used to follow the hounds over a country that seems specially designed for the riding of a small boy on a pony; and in company with the brother, the pony being left behind, i used to go badger digging--my brother had a kennel of terriers for the purpose--all over the countryside. of course it was a misspent youth. of course i was neglecting great opportunities, for to tell the truth i greatly preferred the chase of the fox and the badger at that period of life to the chase of the golf ball. this sad fact should have been brought home to me by a severe comment of my uncle fred on the occasion of our playing for some prizes kindly given for the juveniles by some of the elder golfers. as i hit off from the first tee--all along the ground, if i remember right--he observed sadly, "there's too much fox and badger about his golf." [illustration: the ladies' course at pau, in the days of the crinoline.] [illustration: miss cecil leitch.] and so there was, but, for all that, i won a prize in that competition. i think it was in the under twelve class, for which i was just eligible by age, whereas my only rival in the same class was a child of nine. therefore i returned in triumph with a brand-new driver as a reward of merit--my first prize--and i think it made me regard golf as a better game than i had supposed it to be, for, after all, a driver is of more practical use than a fox's brush, and this was the highest award that the most daring riding could gain for you. a boy's property is usually so limited that any addition to it is of very large importance. about a year later i began to take my golf with gravity. the ball began to consent to allow itself to be hit cleanly. a very great day came for me when i beat my big brother on level terms. you see, he had only played occasionally, at intervals in soldiering, nor had he begun as a boy, whereas i had played, even then, more than he, and had begun, in spite of the wasted years, fairly early. i know i felt i had done rather an appalling thing when i beat him; i could not feel that it was right. but doubtless it increased my self-respect as a golfer and my interest in the game. the blackheath visitors were very kind to me, and used to take me into their games. of course i could not expect to be in such high company as that of the george glennies and the buskins, but mr. frank gilbert, brother of sir frederick, the artist, mr. peter steel and many others invited me now and then to play with them. i began to think myself something of a player. the most dreadful event, most evil, no doubt, in its effect on my self-conceit, happened when mr. dingwall fordyce, who was a player of the class that we might to-day describe as "an indifferent scratch," asked me to play with him. he offered--i had made no demand for odds--to give me four strokes, and asked at what holes i would have them. at that date, be it remembered, there were no handicaps fixed by the card, nor were the holes determined at which strokes were to be taken. it was always at the option of the receiver of strokes to name, before starting, the holes at which he would take his strokes. i told mr. fordyce i would take the four he offered at the four last holes. he said nothing, though likely enough he thought a good deal. what he ought to have done was to thrash me, for an impertinent puppy, with his niblick; but what he did, far too good-naturedly, was to come out and play me at those strange terms, with the result that i beat him by five up and four to play without using any of the strokes at all! it was precisely what had been in my mind to do when i took the strokes at those last four holes, but i expect the reason i won was that he was a little thrown off his balance by my cheek. footnotes: [footnote 2: while writing the later pages of these reminiscences i heard, to my great sorrow, that captain molesworth had died, at westward ho! of pneumonia, at nearly ninety years of age.--h.g.h.] chapter iii of young tommy morris and other great men my way down to the links, from our house, led right through the village of northam, wherein johnnie allan, the professional, had set up his shop. now if there is anyone who, being a golfer, has not appreciated the delight of the compound smell of the club-maker's shop--the pitch, the shavings, the glue, the leather and all the rest of the ingredients--if anywhere there lives a golfer with nose so dead, then i am very far indeed from thinking that words of mine can excite him to a right appreciation of this savour. but if not, if the reader has the truly appreciative nose, then he will realize what a delight it was to me to look in each morning on the way down to golf to enjoy this, to exchange a word with johnnie allan, to get something quite superfluous done to a club, and if possible get my friend to come down to the links with me. often i would find him sitting on his bench with a golf ball moulded, but not yet nicked, turning it about with his fingers in the cup designed for its holding, and hammering it with the broad chisel end of his hammer made for the purpose. this was in the days of hand-hammered balls, before the mode had been invented of having the marking engraved on the mould so as to turn them out what we then called "machine hammered." in course of the walk down to the links, if i could persuade him to be my companion, he used to tell me tales of the great men in the north, of old tom and young tommy, of davie strath and the rest of them. he was a prestwick man, and had come from there to work in old tom's shop at st. andrews before he journeyed south. he had never done as well as he would have liked in the championship, but had twice won the first prize given by way of consolation for those to play for who had not gained a place in the prize-list in the championship proper. that will indicate his class as a golfer as more than respectably high. it was about this time that arrangements were made for bringing down young tommy and bob kirk to westward ho! (the place was now thoroughly baptised with its new name), and they played, with johnnie allan, a kind of triangular duel. i well remember the immense excitement with which i followed those matches. they did not play a three ball match for the prizes offered, but a species of american tournament in singles, and my delight was huge when our local friend defeated the renowned tommy morris. then tommy defeated bob kirk. now if our johnnie could only beat bob kirk (as he certainly would, we said, seeing that he had beaten morris who had beaten kirk), why then he would prove himself beyond denial best man of the three. unhappily the propositions of golf do not work themselves out as logically as those of euclid, though often arriving at his conclusion "which is absurd," and bob kirk had the better of our local hero most of the way round. he was dormy one. then, at the last hole, came a great incident of golf which made on me so deep an impression that in my mind's eye i can see the whole scene even now. coming to that last hole--mark this, that our favourite hero was one down, so that feeling ran high--bob kirk got his ball on one of the high plateaux, with steep sand cliffs, which at that date jutted out into the big bunker. his ball lay just at the edge of the plateau, and on its left verge, as we looked towards the hole, so that to play it in the direction that he wanted to go it seemed that he would have to stand eight feet below it, in the bunker. and, he being a little round man, we chuckled in glee and said to one another, "he's done now." but what do you suppose that pernicious little scot did then? he went to his bag and selected a club--a left-handed spoon! he had a couple of practice swings with it. then he, a right-handed man, addressed himself to that ball left-handedly, and drove it, if not any immense distance, at all events as far as he needed in order to make morally sure of his half of the hole, which was all that he, being dormy, required. it was a great _tour de force_. it exacted our grudging applause. we admired, but at the same time we admired with suspicion. it was scarcely, as we thought in the circumstances, a fair golf stroke. it savoured of the conjuring trick if not of sheer black magic. really, considered after this lapse of years which allows cool reflection, it was a good piece of golf. there are not many right-handed men who trouble themselves to carry a left-handed club, even if they have the ambidexterity to use it. in fact it is the only stroke of its kind, played with a full swing in the crisis of a match, that i have ever seen. young tommy paid us another visit in the west not long after, and this time in company with his own dearest foe at st. andrews, davie strath. so, even in the far west we were not without our great examples, and johnnie allan himself was a golfer well worth following. as the course then started, out by the pebble ridge and at the present third tee, we, coming from northam, had to walk out over the flatter part of the burrows which the first and second, and, again, the seventeenth and eighteenth holes occupy now. that meant, of course, that we would take a club with us and practise shots as we went along; and since i so often had johnnie allan as my companion on those walks, it would be very hard for me to say how much of golfing skill and wisdom i did not unconsciously pick up as we went along and he watched me play the shots and criticised them. i have never in my life been through the solemn process of a set lesson with a professional, but have no doubt that i assimilated wisdom in the best, because the unconscious and the imitative, way, in those walks and talks, varied by occasional precept and example, with johnnie allan. and by the same route came captain molesworth and his three sons, but they, having further to go, used to drive, the captain generally manipulating the reins in strictly professional style--as a sailor clutches the rudder lines--and their carriage, going at full speed of the horse, making very heavy weather of it over the ruts and bumps, and only the sailor's special providence ever bringing them safe to port before the iron hut. there the captain would tie his horse, by a halter, to the wheel of the cart and leave all to get itself into a tangle that only a nautical hand could unravel, while all the world played golf. sometimes we too would ride or drive, and i have in mind a great occasion on which my brother, home from india, and i were driving down in my sister's donkey-cart. the cart broke down in northam village, so we left it there, in charge of the blacksmith, to repair, while we proceeded on, both mounted on the donkey. now my brother was very much of what at that time was called a "dandy"--since "masher," and at the present moment "nut." he was arrayed in solomon-like glory of white flannel trousers and red coat--for men did play golf in red coats in those days. now the donkey was a good donkey and strong, but he knew how to kick, and he thought no occasion could be better than when he had two on his back and the central and fashionable high street of northam village for the arena. therefore he set to and quickly kicked us both off, i being involved in my brother's dã©bacle, and he, though a very good man on a horse, not being accustomed to a saddleless donkey. the glory of solomon disposed on the village streets was a splendid spectacle. but we rose, nothing daunted, though with the glory a little sullied, and, my brother then excogitating the great thought that if we put his, the greater, weight behind, with mine in front--it had been the other way at our first essay--the donkey would then find it the harder to lift its hindquarters for the act of kicking, we disposed ourselves in that manner, and the donkey, whether for mechanical reasons or because he perceived that we were not going to let him off the double burden, proceeded with the proverbial patience of his kind and we reached the links without further accident. [illustration: westward ho! the molesworths, father and three sons, returning from the iron hut, with major hopkins, the golfing artist, in the forefront.] [illustration: an old hoylake group. the names, reading from left to right are: milligan (captain, 1875), alex. brown (captain, 1880), major hopkins, james rodger, james tweedle (secretary, 1873-81), f.p. crowther, jack morris, ---, robert wilson (the "chieftain"), rev. t.p. williamson, dr. argyll robertson, colonel e.h. kennard (captain, 1871-73), john ball, sen., ---, j.f. raimes, h. grierson (captain, 1876), john dunn (captain, 1873-75), j.b. amey, theophilus turpin, ---, t.o. potter (secretary, 1882-94), a. sinclair (captain, 1887), mat langlands, robert ("pendulum") brown, a.f. macfie. the royal hotel at that time had the club rooms adjoining it.] mr. gossett and his sons would be coming from the other direction, from westward ho! for he gave up the cure of northam about this time and went to live at westward ho! and with others coming on the same line there would be a great re-union at the iron hut before starting out on matches--a great match-making too, for in those days we did not make our matches very long beforehand, and such things as handicap competitions were not known among us. they were soon evolved, but the idea of any fixed handicap, by which each man should know his value, was not so much as thought of. matches were made by a process of stiff bargaining between the parties concerned. "how much will you give me?" "a third." "oh, my dear fellow, i couldn't possibly play you at less than a half!" the humility that was displayed was most edifying. we had twice the fun over our matches then, just because of this bargaining and all the talents of uriah heap that it brought into sharp prominence. one of the best of the match makers, and one of the bravest, though very far from the best of the golfers, was captain molesworth, familiarly known to all and sundry as "the old mole." chapter iv the spread of golfing in england it seems to me that the establishment of the club at westward ho! and the discovery that it was possible to play golf, and the very best of golf, in england, even as in scotland, sent a new thrill of life into all the dormant golfing energies of the country. it stirred up the blackheathens; then it led to the institution of the golf club associated with the london scottish volunteers, which was later to develop a schism, of which one division became the royal wimbledon golf club. the great man of the volunteers was the still present lord wemyss,[3] then lord elcho, and he was as keen a golfer as rifle shot. to us at westward ho! the wimbledon club sent down henry lamb, dr. purves and many more; but these two were perhaps their strongest. of the blackheathens i have spoken, but i want to give a special word to mr. frank gilbert, both because he was especially kind, of all the others, to me as a boy and also because his gift of nomenclature survives in the popular name still often ascribed to one of the westward ho! holes. at times of excitement his aspirates used to fly. he was perfectly aware of it and did not in the least mind gentle chaff on the subject. i even think he often sent them flying purposely, for sake of effect. after all, he used just as many aspirates as anyone else, only that he used them in rather different places: that was all. the hole that his genius named was that which is now the ninth, and its naming was on this wise: after hacking his ball out of first one bunker, thence into another, and from that into a third, he exclaimed in accents of inspiration and despair, "i call this 'ole the halligator 'ole, because it's full of gaping jaws waiting to devour you." therefore the "halligator 'ole" it remained for many a year afterwards and is so known to some even to this day. i remember another exclamation of his that gave us purest joy at the time, when, having made what he believed to be a lovely shot over a brow to a "blind" hole in a hollow he ran up to the top of the brae in exultation, only to turn back with tragic dismay on his face and on his lips the eloquent expostulation, "oh, 'ell, they've haltered the 'ole." i used to play him for a ball--a shilling gutta-percha ball--on the match, and for a long while, when i was a boy, we were fairly equal, and how often, towards the end of the match, he would miss a short putt in order that he might pay me the shilling, and not i him, i should be sorry to say. i know it was pretty frequently. and then this thrill of new golfing life started at westward ho! communicated itself to the many scots established in liverpool, so that in 1869 they so far organised themselves as to institute that which is now the royal liverpool golf club, playing at hoylake. what that meant for us at westward ho! was that men of hoylake came down to play matches with our local heroes and to take part in our medal competitions. there were mr. john dunn and mr. john ball, the father of our many times champion. colonel hegan kennard was another who was associated with the hoylake club, though his association with blackheath was closer--of that venerable club he was field marshal for very many years. but some of the first of the big matches, matches with sums of money depending on their result which seemed to me fabulous in days when a sixpence in the pocket was a rare coin, were those which were planned by the enterprise of captain molesworth--himself and johnnie allan in partnership against mr. john dunn and jack morris, who had come as professional to hoylake. now john dunn made very much more show as a player than the old mole. "the mole--an animal that keeps to the ground" was a definition which we used to be fond of quoting as we grew out of the years of veneration to those of impertinence. he had an absolute inability to drive the ball any height in the air. no other man ever played golf so cheaply as the old mole: he had but three clubs, sometimes profanely stigmatized as faith, hope and charity, a driving weapon of sorts, an iron and a putter, which he carried himself, never taking a caddie, and his ball was generally of the colour of a coal from long and ill usage. but he would bet you â£50 on a match if you cared about it, and would play you with fine pluck to the very finish. he was in fact a miserable driver; nor was there any "class" or science at all about his iron play. but he would shovel the ball along, and up to the green somehow or other with his iron: he had a knack of getting there; and when once on the green there was not nor ever has been a better putter. now the man who has his wits about him, to perceive what this description implies, will see that it is the description of an uncommon good partner in a foursome. and he was all the better partner on account of the way in which the chances of any match in prospect were likely to be reckoned; for john dunn might argue it out, "i can give molesworth a third," which he probably could, "and john allan cannot give jack morris a third," which he surely could not, "therefore we have the best of it." that looks logical, but it leaves out the important fact that the molesworth qualities were just those of most value to a strong driver like johnnie allan, while his short game and his pluck were clear assets to the good. in fact he and johnnie allan used to get round the course in scores that allan himself would not think amiss, and they had all the better of these matches against the men of hoylake. the hoylake men came to westward ho! and captain molesworth took himself and his sons to hoylake. arthur molesworth won the medal there when he was only a boy at school, and i remember with awe and admiration hearing his father describe how the boy had to sit beside the mayor of liverpool at the club dinner and of all the mighty honour done him. and the present-day golfer should make no mistake about it nor doubt that this arthur molesworth was a very fine golfer. george gossett beat him, in a set match that they played, but i think that molesworth, who was several years younger, was really the finer golfer. certainly he had greater power. he played in an ugly style, with a short swing, but his driving was long and he could play all his clubs. there were several years during which he was certainly the best amateur golfer that england had then produced, and i think he was better than any in scotland. a few years later he went far towards proving it; but i will come to that story in its place. [illustration: an old westward ho! group. from left to right: mr. p. wilmot, mr. t. oliphant (of rossie), major hopkins, hon c. carnegie, j. allan, admiral thrupp, general maclean, sir r. hay, general sir hope grant, mr. t. maccandlish (putting), rev. t. gosset, colonel hutchinson, mr. j. brand, mr. peter steel, mr. r. molesworth, mr. lindsay bennett, general wilson, mr. eaton young. sitting: mr. baldwin, colonel hegan kennard, mr. george gosset. mr. john dunn (driving), captain molesworth, r.n.] [illustration: thomas owen potter (hon. sec. from 1882 to 1894 royal liverpool golf club).] what i am trying to show for the moment is not only a gallery of great players in the past, but also the way in which the game was brought home to us at westward ho! how golf gradually spread in england and gathered in players, more clubs being started, and for how much the influence of westward ho! and its golfers--of that most enterprising of all of them, in particular, the old mole--counted in the diffusion of knowledge of the game. we were still, of course, far from the era when a man could go about travelling in england without causing quite a sensation among those who saw his clubs. the englishman, as a rule, believed golf, if he had heard of it at all, to be a game that was played on horseback. and about that time, i being then sixteen years of age, so that the year would be 1875, there happened what made a bigger impression upon me than any event that has ever occurred since--i won the bronze scratch medal annually given by the club for competition by boys under eighteen years of age. having a year to spare, of the age limit, i possibly might have won it again the next year also, but by that time i had done even greater things. i thought comparatively little of that second medal; but, as for that first, i gazed at it as if it were the koh-i-noor, and certainly should not have valued it as highly if it had been. i can get some of that glamour back by gazing at it now, but it is only a rather faint reflection. still, it gives far more comfort than the view of any other trophy that i ever won in later years, and i am grateful to the burglar who took all my gold medals some years back that he regarded this thing of bronze as beneath his notice. arthur molesworth must just have crossed the age limit which put him out of the play for this boys' medal; but there were a number of boys there at that date, in the holidays--brownes, burns, roddy and hugh owen--there was quite a big competition. it is very sad to think how many of them are dead--herbert burn, the best player of the lot, among them. but charlie (now colonel and m.p.--he went into the royals) was quite of the scratch class at his best. but still the leaders of the golf were older men: henry lamb, dr. purves, george glennie, mr. buskin, mr. adamson, colonel kennard, sir robert hay, tom oliphant. and i am sure there are a great number of good men whom i have forgotten. my uncle fred was only a little behind the best of them, but he had by this time given up his house at westward ho! and was living abroad, so he only came down occasionally. there was a small local contingent of very zealous golfers, men who never missed their two rounds every week-day--we had no sunday golf. thus we bring down the story to a point at which golf is really launched in england with a full sail, and myself having a taste of just so much success as to make me firmly believe henceforth, for some years, that success in golf was the one thing worth living and working for. i might still have a hankering after the occasional fox and badger, to say nothing of the rabbits, partridges and wild fowl; but these began to seem only the relaxations, and golf the true business of a well-spent life. footnotes: [footnote 3: he died during the war.] chapter v the weapons of golf in the seventies you could not travel about with golf clubs in the seventies without exciting the wonder and almost the suspicions of all who saw such strange things. i am not quite sure that you would not excite almost equal wonder if you were to travel now with a set of clubs such as we used then. in the seventies, and in my own teens, i was laboriously, and with rigid economy, working my way to the possession of a variety of wooden clubs such as it would puzzle the modern golfer even to name. there was the driver or play-club--that is understood. then there were the long spoon, the mid-spoon and the short spoon: they may be understood also. but then, besides, between the driver and the long spoon, making such a nice gradation that it was really hardly to be distinguished, came what was called the "grass" or "grassed" club. i hardly know which was the right name. the idea, i think, was that, being almost of the driver's length and suppleness, but with the face not quite so vertical, it could be better used when the ball was lying on the grass--not teed. at the same time we used to talk of a club being "grassed" with the technical meaning of having its face set back a little. so i hardly know what the right nomenclature was, nor does it matter. this "grassed" or "grass" club was rather a refinement: it was only the golfer who was very determined to have no gap in his armour that would carry it; but the three spoons were almost _de rigueur_. no self-respecting golfer could well be without them. it may surprise the student of history not to find the "baffy" put down in the list; but as a matter of fact the baffy had passed out of common use by this date. a few men of the old school, as sir robert hay, continued to play it to admiration, but the genius of young tommy morris had already initiated a whole school of disciples into the mode of approaching with iron clubs, so that the baffy was out of vogue. the professionals that came from the north to visit us at westward ho! as well as our resident johnnie allan himself, were all followers and exponents of the relatively new mode of jabbing the ball up to the hole with the iron clubs and with a great divot of turf sent hurtling into the air after the ball. thus the green was approached; and up to just about the date of which i am writing the subsequent operations of holing out were always performed with a wooden putter. there was also a weapon known as the driving putter, which was just like the ordinary putter save that its shaft was longer and more supple. it became, in fact, very nearly a short shafted driver, and its special purpose was to drive a low ball against the wind when there was no bunker to carry. of iron clubs there were the cleek, the iron and the niblick. it was even then possible to go into the niceties of driving-iron and lofting-iron, but many a golfer thought his set perfect and complete with a single iron, for all purposes. now you will see, from this list, both what superfluities of wooden clubs it held, according to modern notions, and also what essential instruments, to our present thinking, were lacking. there was no such club as a mashie. young tommy, ever an innovating genius, is credited with being the first to use the niblick for lofting approaches, but the niblick of those days was peculiarly ill adapted to such delicate uses. it was very small and very cup-shaped in its head. the head was only a very little larger in diameter than the ball. therefore it required extreme accuracy to hit the ball rightly with it and avoid that disastrous error of "piping"--hitting the ball with the hose--of which many of us have been many a time guilty with clubs whose relative breadth and length of blade make such error far less pardonable. the recognized club for the approach stroke was the iron, the ordinary "maid-of-all-work" iron, unless you were one of those extra particular people who had two grades of the iron. and another conspicuous absentee from the list is the brassey. such a club was not known, but i can remember that about this day i became the proud owner of a club just then coming into vogue under the name of the wooden niblick. its head, made of wood, was very short, like that of the iron niblick, for the purpose of fitting into ruts. it was the original of the "brassey," for the idea of a rut suggested the idea of a road. there were more roads then than now, in proportion to the rest of the golfing hazards in the world--as at blackheath, wimbledon, and musselburgh. and the purpose of the brass on the club's sole was to protect it from the stones, etc., of the road when used for play off such unfriendly surface. the brassey was just the wooden niblick with a sole of brass, and as all wooden niblicks began to be brazen upon the sole their very name passed into oblivion and that of brassey superseded it. i have written here of all putters being of wood; and so they were. but somewhere, at some time, some inspired craftsman of the mystery of tubal cain must have bethought him, even before this, of making a putter of iron, for the following reason. in the old iron hut at westward ho! on days when the rain kept us in and the time hung heavy, we used to solace its tedium by bringing out our clubs from their lockers and trying to do a deal with each other, whether by exchange or by sale and purchase, and during one of these barterings an utterly unknown weapon was brought out with the rest of his bundle, by a young scot of the name of lamont, brother of that major lamont as he now is, who until quite lately lived at westward ho! and to whom i owe a great deal of the golf that i picked up as a boy. he was the lamont of ardlamont, the estate in the mull of cantyre, which came into fame in consequence of a certain notorious criminal prosecution in the scottish courts. the strange weapon which this younger brother of his unearthed, on that day of rain, was, though we hardly knew then how to name it, an iron putter. it was inches deep in rust. nevertheless, as i handled it, i liked the feel of it. i gave for it, in exchange, an old and much mended spoon, and it was that iron putter which i have used for forty years since, which has been copied countless times, of which the replicas are in many hands and many lands, and one copy of which, adorned and glorified, used to lie, and may so lie still, for all i know, on the table on the occasion of the dinners of the match dining club. at that first date of its resurrection (mr. lamont could give no account of how it came to his possession) it was greeted with unhallowed laughter, and so too whenever i brought it out to putt with it. but i used to be rather a good putter as a boy, and that club is still the best balanced (though its old shaft has been broken and the new one is less good) that ever came out of a club-maker's shop, and i soon changed those sounds of derision at its appearance into a more respectful form of greeting. that was the first iron putter ever seen in the west, and i believe it to have been the virtual parent of every iron putter that ever has been seen since. it was the wooden age of golf clubs, as of battleships, and i hope the wood of our ships was better seasoned than that of our clubs. shafts, as a rule, were of hickory then, as now, though we made strange experiments of ash, of lance-wood, of green-heart and divers species. for the hard balls of those days you had to have a certain softness in the heads of the wooden clubs which is not wanted with the resilient rubber-cored balls. beech was the wood for the heads, though apple and other kinds were tried; but beech, and of a soft quality at that, drove the most kindly. and if a man were at all a hard hitter, and had a fit of heeling or toeing, the head of the club was sure very soon to show a crack across it, which would spread wider at each successive mishit. and even if you kept hitting the ball "dead centre" every time, a hole in the club-face would gradually be worn out by that repeated hitting, especially if the ground were wet and the grass long. then we used to go to johnnie allan to have him put in a leather face, that is to say a patch of leather where the face was worn; and this would drive just as well, except it got sodden with wet, as the original wood. so, with so many of the clubs made of wood, and not always like the butter used by the mad hatter for watch greasing, the best wood, and the balls so hard and stony of impact, it is no wonder that golf was rather an expensive game for a boy whose shillings were not many. though the ball only cost a shilling, while the modern ball costs half a crown, the club-smashing abilities of the shilling's worth made it a much dearer ball, to say nothing of the longer life of the half-crowner. and just about this date they introduced a novelty in the balls also--the "hammering," as we used to call it, that is to say the nicking or marking of the ball's surface, being done by indentations engraved in the metal moulds in which the balls were cast. this obviated all that labour of "hammering" the nicks in by hand, which was the ancient fashion. yet it was some while before these "machine-hammered" balls, as we called them, found general favour with the golfing public, certain conservatives asserting that the "hammering" was essential to the right tempering of the stuff of the ball, while others, like that great little man jamie anderson, then at the top of his game and fame, confessed, with a perfect knowledge that the reason was only subjective, that "he could na' strike" a machine-hammered ball. he soon learned to strike it, however, as the further course of golfing story sufficiently testified. chapter vi how men of westward ho! went adventuring in the north in the year 1875, i having then arrived at the advanced age of sixteen, and being admitted as a member of the royal north devon golf club, in the autumn committed the blazing indiscretion of winning the scratch medal which carried with it the captaincy of the club. how glaring the indiscretion was may be gathered from the fact that this captaincy, thus conferred, entailed the obligation of taking the chair at the general meetings. i do not know that i made a much bigger hash of it than any other boy forced into the same unnatural position would have done. it had not been contemplated, apparently, that a schoolboy was likely to beat all the reverend seniors, and one good effect was that the regulation was altered, and winning this medal did not much longer confer on a person who might be the least fitted for it the function of presiding at the meetings. but it had given to me a dignity which could not be changed by legislation. at the spring meeting of that very same year i had received no less a handicap than twelve strokes, so i must have been very much of that nuisance to the handicapper, the "improving player." i became a "scratch player," however, from the autumn of that year. in those days, before handicaps were fixed, golfing society was divided into two classes--those who were scratch, and those who were not--and there was no idea of such a thing as a penalty or _plus_ handicap. some of the so-called "scratch" players of the day were exceedingly scratchy ones, and only supported their dignity at a considerable expense: there was one in particular of whom it was said that it cost him three hundred a year to be a scratch player or, that is to say, to play all and sundry amateurs on level terms. beside this event of my winning this medal, which was no doubt an affair of more importance in my eyes than in those of anyone else, the autumn of 1875 was big with great issues, under the management of the enterprising "old mole," who went up to scotland with his three sons in search of adventure and with a great programme before them. captain molesworth had been playing a good deal with mr. (later sir) w.h. houldsworth, and gave the challenge that he would bring up his three sons and play mr. houldsworth and any three scots amateurs that mr. houldsworth should choose in single matches, the side that won the largest aggregate of holes to be the winner of the stakes. now the mole had the better of mr. houldsworth: that was really, though no doubt tacitly, acknowledged on both sides. arthur molesworth was likely to win his matches, no matter who was brought against him. but george, the second brother, though a brilliant player at times, was very uncertain, and reggie, the eldest, and slightly lame, was the weakest vessel of the three. say that the captain and arthur should gain some holes, it was the hope of scotland that an equivalent number, at least, might be hammered out of the other two brothers. unfortunately for scotland it was the former part of the calculation which was realized more fully than the latter. the matches were played at st. andrews and prestwick. i think there is little doubt that at that time, as indeed for many years, leslie balfour (later balfour-melville) was the strongest amateur player in scotland; and at st. andrews mr. houldsworth's team was himself, leslie balfour, dr. argyll robertson and j. ogilvie fairlie. arthur molesworth won two holes only (they were thirty-six hole matches) off leslie balfour, and argyll robertson took seven holes from george. but then reggie rather upset calculations by beating ogilvie fairlie by two holes. lastly came in the father of the flock with nine holes to the good, and that settled it. at prestwick, mr. syme, a minister of the kirk, and andy stuart took the places of dr. robertson and leslie balfour, and here ogilvie fairlie got back his own with interest from reggie molesworth, winning by seven holes, and mr. syme beat george by two, but arthur knocked six holes to the family credit out of andy stuart and the captain came in again with his big balance--ten up on mr. houldsworth. so they carried through that adventure with credit and renown, and, i suppose, some profit, and then later in the same year, arthur molesworth, with his father as backer and henchman, went up to st. andrews again to do battle on his own account. this adventure came about owing to an idea very prevalent, though i hardly know whether it had existence in fact, that young tommy had a standing challenge open to back himself at odds of a third against any amateur. captain molesworth took it up on behalf of arthur, and to st. andrews they went again, in the dreary month of november, to bring the matter to an issue. altogether they played for six whole days, two rounds a day, and all through the piece young tommy had the better of it. i cannot believe that in this match arthur molesworth did himself full justice. it is true that during the latter days snow lay on the ground, so that the greens had to be swept and the game really was not golf at all, but then it is no less true that tommy held the advantage just as consistently in the days when real golf was to be played as on those when the snow spoilt it. an onlooker did indeed tell me that young tommy showed his skill wonderfully in lofting off the snowy ground to the small circles that had been swept round the holes. "molesworth could loft there just as well," he said, "but tommy, using his niblick, made the ball stay there as if it had a string tied to it, whereas molesworth's ball was always running off on to the snow on the other side." but, be that how it may, and crediting young tommy morris with a full measure of that genius for the game which all who have seen him reported, i am not going to believe that the golfer ever was born, be his name morris or that of any triumvir, who could give a third and a sound beating (for it was no less than this that young tommy accomplished) to arthur molesworth when he was playing his true game--and this, with all due allowance made for tommy's knowledge of his home green. there was a peculiar pathos attaching to that match and young tommy's triumph, for it was his last. his wife had lately died, and interest in life, even in golf, had gone out for him. it was in november that he was thus beating arthur molesworth, and on christmas day of the same year he followed his young and loved wife. his memorial, recording a few of his greater victories--he was four times in succession open champion--is in the st. andrews' graveyard. indisputable was his genius for the game; impossible to calculate is the comparison between his skill and power and that of harry vardon, let us say, to-day. doubtless he was a far better putter, for while he was so good at all points of the game he was at his strongest of all on the green. i do not think we shall get a better account than that which leslie balfour gave when an englishman asked him how he thought young tommy would compare with the heroes of to-day. leslie thought a moment, and then he said, "well, i can't imagine anyone playing better than tommy"--and at that i think we had best leave it. after that year arthur molesworth was not so much at westward ho! he went to london, to an architect's office, and at once begun to win medals at wimbledon, where henry lamb and dr. purves were perhaps the best of the older men. the next year some of them made a match for me to play him at westward ho! and this was a great affair for me, being the first "big match," as we called these set encounters, for a money stake, that i ever had a hand in. we started in a bad fright of each other, if i remember right, and neither played his game, but i had the fortune to get really going first and won rather easily. about the same time johnny allan, finding his work growing, had down his two young brothers, jamie and mat, to join him in the club-making and the playing. they brought in a new element of interest, for even as a mere lad jamie allan, in particular, was a wonderful golfer. he had been there but a short while when captain molesworth, always the enterprising spirit, issued a challenge on his behalf to play any man in the world on four greens, two rounds on each. poor young tommy being no more, bob kirk was the great man, for the time being, at st. andrews, and he was chosen as the scottish champion. the first part of the match was played at westward ho! we hardly knew how young jamie allan would carry himself, in this his first match of importance, but he delighted us by showing that faculty of rising to a great occasion without which no golfer, however fine a player, can win fame. that first round of his remains in my mind still as an exhibition of just the most faultless golf i ever saw. they said hard things about poor bob kirk afterwards when he came up to scotland, and especially to the last stage, at st. andrews, a beaten man. i believe that in that last phase his play was contemptible. but the scottish critics, who were not there to see, made a vast mistake when they said that he did not play anything like his game all through the match. what he did at hoylake and at prestwick, whither, necessarily, they journeyed and golfed, i do not know, but i do know that at westward ho! he played quite a sound game. but a sound game was not enough to give him a chance of standing up to the sample of golf that jamie allan produced against him. hole after hole slipped away from him, just by a stroke each, as they will when the one man is playing with more than human accuracy. that was the story of that match--it was won by jamie's extraordinary golf at the first encounter. but that is not the way in which the scotsmen have heard the story told. chapter vii golf at oxford when i went up to oxford in the christmas term of 1878 i found that royal and ancient city sunk in an ignorance that is scarcely credible in regard to all connected with the royal and ancient game. i do not mean to say that golf was altogether unknown. there was already a university golf club in being, which i quickly joined, and we used to play on the cricket fields in cowley marsh. that, of course, implied that there was no golf in the summer term when the marsh was occupied by the cricket. but the golfers were very few. mr. "pat" henderson (now wright-henderson) the wadham don, was one of the most moving spirits. then there was the principal of hertford, there was jim lockhart, a fellow of hertford and a lecturer at my own college of corpus, and lodge, then history lecturer at brasenose. these and a very few others of the dons used to play, and of undergraduates the ones i best remember were cathcart of christ church, son of old mr. "bob" cathcart the fifeshire laird and for very many a year convener of the green committee of the royal and ancient club, baynes of oriel, now a bishop, pearson of balliol and several more. but their doings were a black mystery to most of the undergraduates, and either the game was not heard of by them or it was believed that the golfers practised some unholy rite in the not very cheerful surroundings of cowley marsh. i had known jim lockhart before i went up, for he was one of the westward ho! lot and a cousin besides of jack lamont, to whom i owed very much of my golfing education; so he saw to my election to the club as soon as i came to oxford. considering the nature of the ground on cowley marsh, how singularly well it was suited by its dreary name, and that the only hazards were the cricket pavilions and the occasional hedges, it is wonderful how much real interest might be got out of the golf there. whatever else a cricket pavilion may be as a golfing hazard, it is an uncompromising one. you have to be beyond or to the side of it. if hard up against it, even the strongest driver cannot send the ball through it; and it gives occasion for pulling and slicing round it which are good fun and good practice. jim lockhart was a friend of my tutor at corpus whom we irreverently called "billy little," and it was on the occasion of his taking his fellow don up to cowley to be introduced to golf that little delivered himself of the immortal definition of the game as "putting little balls into little holes with instruments very ill-adapted to the purpose." in later years i have heard this brilliant definition attributed to jowett. it is thus that sayers of good things attract to themselves, magnet-like, and increase their credit, with many good things said by others. at that time of day all who were golfers reared on the seaside links had a very high and mighty contempt for all in the shape of inland golf. in spite of the antiquity of blackheath, the art and labour by which an inland course can be brought up, when the weather is favourable, to a condition almost rivalling that of the seaside links were quite unknown. one of the earliest founded of the inland type--of course long ages after such an ancient institution as blackheath--was the course at crookham, near newbury; and thereby hangs a tale of tragedy and comedy commingled, associated with my golfing days at oxford. there was a certain trophy, open to all amateur golfers, given by the club, and called the crookham cup. the conditions were that it was to remain as a challenge prize to be played for annually unless and until any man should win it thrice: in which case it should become his property. poor herbert burn, who met his death not so very long after in a steeplechase, had won this cup twice, and i was invited to go to crookham to see if i could put a check on his victory and keep the cup for the club. we were hospitably put up for the meeting by mr. stephens, the banker, at his place near reading. i had the luck to win the cup, and again, going down the next year, won it again. if i should win it a third time it became my very own, and, strong in the zeal of pot-hunting, i went down the third year too. i remember that on this occasion, for some reason, mr. stephens did not act host for the meeting, but captain ashton and i stayed with major charley welman at a little house he had near the course; and what fixed the visit very firmly in my mind is that ashton and i returned to the house, after a round on the first day of our arrival, with "dubbed," not blacked, golfing boots. it appeared that there was no "dubbing" in the house, for the next morning our boots were sent up to us black-leaded--with the stuff that grates, i think, are done with. the effect was splendid. we went forth quite argentine as to our understandings, like knights in armour clad, and, thus glistening, i contrived to win that cup for the third and final time, which made it my own. now we come to the tragi-comedy of the story. on the way back to oxford there was the inevitable change and wait at didcot junction, and there whom should i see, with golf clubs under arm, but george gossett? he was then living at abingdon. i greeted him and asked with interest where he was going. "well," said he, "there's a cup to be played for at crookham, near newbury, to-morrow. i've won it twice and i'm going down to see if i can win it again, because if i do i keep it." "oh dear," i had to reply, "i'm sorry, but i'm afraid you must have made a mistake in the day. it's to-day it was played for, and what's more i'd won it twice before, too, and i won it again to-day, so that it's mine now, i'm afraid," and i opened its case, which i had in my hand, and showed it to him. i was obliged to tell him; for it would have been worse still if he'd gone on all the way to crookham to find he was a day behind the fair. as it was, it was comedy for me, but rather cruel tragedy for him. no man ever took a knock more pleasantly: he was the first to start a laugh against himself and to give me congratulations, and express gratitude for being saved the journey to crookham. so he took train to abingdon and i to oxford, and shortly after, whether as the effect or no of this blow, he went out to new zealand, where he won the championship of that country more than once. what used to astonish all my friends in college almost more than anything else, when i used vainly to try to describe to them what manner of game golf is, was the fact that i did not "dress" for it. "undress" is rather what they meant. you see, they were accustomed to cricket, where you flannelled yourself, and to football, rowing and athletic sports wherein the mode of dress was to have as little of it as might decently be, and that one should go forth in the very clothes in which you might attend a lecture and play a game in them seemed hardly thinkable. they used to take up the clubs and regard them curiously. they began to think there must be something more than they had supposed in the game when i showed them the crookham cup. they wanted to see how it was done. the quad of a small college like corpus makes rather a small golf course. the only way was to tee the ball well up and flog it out over the college buildings into christchurch meadows, or wherever else it might choose to fall. occasionally we used to try to astonish merton by a bombardment. but it meant a lavish expenditure of golf balls, for there was no prospect of getting any of them back again. the best possible tee to use, if you are driving, or ironing, off a hard surface like a quad, is a clothes brush. it hoists the ball well off the ground, so that you can do anything you like with it--that is, always supposing you have had the blessing of a sound golfing education. but there was not one of my friends of corpus who had enjoyed this blessing. on the other hand, it appeared to them a very simple matter to hit a ball thus standing still: some of them were quite skilful at the job of hitting balls in quick movement at various games. so of course i must give them the club and they must have a hit at the ball too. they were humiliated to find how possible it was to miss it altogether, but infinitely terrified at the result when they did happen to hit. the quadrangle was inadequate as a golf links. nevertheless it was of more than ample size as a racquet court. yet that golf ball, stoutly, if unscientifically, propelled, would fly round those old grey walls, rebounding from one to other with a terrific force and pace. finally its career would generally terminate by a crash through somebody's window or a resounding knock on the president's door, after which the golf meeting broke up, like a dispersing covey, and disappeared till any suspicions aroused by the outrage were calmed down. about the middle of my time at oxford we had a mighty accession to our golfing strength in "andy" stuart. he came up to christ church, and took part with me, not very gloriously as i am able to remember, in the first inter-university match against cambridge. chapter viii the start of the oxford and cambridge golf matches the institution of the inter-university golf match was due to the genius (which we will define in this instance as the zeal and enterprise) of one of the very finest putters that ever put a ball into a hole, mr. w.t. linskill. linskill was the inspiration of the golf at cambridge, and he did a great deal more than any of us at oxford to get the oxford and cambridge golf match going. we only followed. and it "went," in a very small fashion at first. i remember it all now--the start in an early dawn from oxford, a long journey to london, then a long drive from paddington to waterloo, then train to putney, then drive up to the london scottish iron hut--some luncheon there, and then a round of golf. in that single round the golfing fortunes of oxford v. cambridge for the year were decided. it was not altogether satisfactory; especially as we had to do the journey all over again, the reverse way, and had to get back to oxford the same night. it may well seem a question to-day whether it was worth going through so much for the sake of so little--as mr. weller said in respect of marrying a widow--but still it was, at all events, a start. it cannot be said that so far as some of us of oxford were concerned it was a very good start. i think that "on paper," as is said, we had by far the better of it. i forget all the team, but i know we started with andy stuart and myself and i also think i know that neither of us had any idea we were going to be beaten by anything that cambridge would bring against us. the others were all good fighting men, and should at least hold their own. in the event, as for myself, i was not only beaten--by mr. paterson, whom i regret that i have never met since--but beaten rather disgracefully, for i was several holes up--i think three--with only five to play and lost every one of the remaining five. then as to andy stuart: he had to play linskill, and i suppose that at st. andrews, where both were practically at home, andy would have given him a half--certainly a third would not have brought them together--for though linskill was just about the best putter i ever saw, the rest of his game was not very formidable. they arrived at the last hole just before the iron hut--i can see the scene now in my mind--all even, and linskill had the better of the hole. he was dead and andy had quite a doubtful putt to halve the match, and i can remember a doubt arising in my own mind as to whether i wished him to hole it or not. of course i did not want to see another match lost to oxford, as well as my own; but still, if the news should have to go to st. andrews that andy had been beaten by linskill, level, it would be such a fine joke that it was almost worth the lost match. however he holed that putt with the courage of a lion--he was always a good putter at the last putt of a match--and so the match was halved. the fortunes of the rest of the team were vastly better. on the whole, as i see by the record, oxford won by twenty-four holes on balance, on that first encounter, so our evil deeds did no great harm. this was in the autumn of 1878. next year the match was played again at wimbledon. indeed, it is not very evident where else it should have been played, unless perhaps at blackheath. there was in existence that course at crookham, near newbury, which would have been convenient to us, from oxford; but it would not at all so well have suited the cambridge men. besides there was little play on it except at the meeting times, and the course was not permanently kept in any order. it is worth mentioning that for one of the holes, a short hole, the play was over an avenue of tall trees. in the years since, while inland courses have been multiplying, so too have the tree hazards; but they are generally brought in as flanking hazards, at the sides. here we had them in a line right across the course, and you had to be over. it was not a "blind" hole, for you could just get a glimpse of the flag between the stems. some of our course constructors might make a note of this hole; and might do worse than copy it. at the same time, i should say that one of its kind, in a round, would be enough. i see that this crookham is given rank in nisbet's _golf year book_ as the "third oldest course" in england, but i do not know whether we can allow it such a venerable claim as that, remembering blackheath, westward ho! wimbledon and hoylake, to say nothing of the old manchester golf club which carries its history back to 1818. but i am not sure but what the history of this last has its breaks in continuity, its silent places. the oxford and cambridge match continued to be played at wimbledon right up to 1896. i have some recollection of the second match of the series, in 1879. we started it, i think, from the wimbledon end, not the putney end of the common. for my own part i did better than in the first year, beating mr. welch, who afterwards was a mathematical don at cambridge and used to keep the record and the medals at macrihanish in his pocket for many years. i much regret that i never encountered him again, any more than my opponent of the first year of the match. on the whole transaction in 1879, cambridge beat us by ten holes, and yet we had some good men. there was archie paterson, who was president of the boat club afterwards, a.o. mackenzie, who was also in the 'varsity boat, and, i think, sir ludovic grant, now a professor at edinburgh university and captain in 1912 of the royal and ancient club. ernest lehmann, who writes so well and pleasantly about the game, was a member of the cambridge team that year. i have no recollection whatever of the 1880 match, nor even whether i took part. i may have been ill or in the schools or doing something equally foolish, but i see that oxford won that year by eight holes. in 1881, for no reason that i can remember, no match was played--and that was the end of me as an oxford undergraduate golfer. i had passed the last bunker and taken my degree before the next year's match. all this while the only golfing playground at oxford was still the cricket grounds on cowley marsh, and still there was no play at all in the summer term, when the cricketers occupied the ground. but a few years later some of us were asked to go up and take part in an informal kind of past _v._ present match, more or less to celebrate the fact of the club taking occupation of new ground in mr. murrell's park, on headington hill. andy stuart and i went up, among others. we found the course rather pleasant, in its inland way, with hedges for the chief hazards and undulating gradients that formed rather a blessed change from the sheer flatness of cowley marsh. and what the match was that we played, or its result, i do not in the least remember, but one remark of a distinguished lady in the gallery i very well recollect--for it was retailed with great joy to andy and me by one who overheard it--"those men," she said, indicating him and me, "are very nicely dressed--for professionals." that is the kind of compliment one really does appreciate, because it is of the sort that is so rarely paid. i speak for myself, only, in this: andy stuart was always most careful in his attire, so as to merit such appreciation frequently, and doubtless may have received it often. of course it would be impossible even for a lady of the kindest heart and most flattering tongue to pay such an encomium now. the professionals are by far the most smartly clad of all golfers. it was not so much so then. i do not know whether i have given the impression that the golf was very good at oxford. it is rather a mistaken impression, if i have conveyed it. on the other hand, oxford university was not a bad place for the golfer. it had the large merit that its vacations were long. then i would go home to wellesbourne and play golf from there, at westward ho! all day and every day, and it was during my time at oxford that there came to wellesbourne as "odd boy"--that is to say, to do certain odd jobs in the morning--a little, singularly white-flaxen-haired boy from northam village. it may seem surprising that the coming of such a little boy to wellesbourne should be worthy of a place in this grave page of golfing history, and i do not know exactly what the duties of an "odd boy" are, but you may be very certain that he performed them very efficiently when i tell you that his name was john henry taylor. he used to do these odd jobs, whatever they were, like a champion, i am very sure, and then he used to go down to the links and carry my clubs for me whenever i was at home. the pay of a caddie at westward ho! in those days was not exorbitant--sixpence a round, and a hard walking and sandy round too, of eighteen holes; and they had to walk down a mile and a half from northam village to begin to earn it. but all wages were low and all living was cheap in north devon at that date and the boys were glad to earn it, particularly with a bottle of ginger beer generally thrown in of the royal bounty of the employer. on occasions, and for valid consideration, they would develop a spirit of independence which made money seem no object, as in the instance, which has become historic, of the small boy throwing down, in the middle of the round, the clubs of his master, a gallant general officer, and making his way without a word across the burrows. "where are you going, boy?" the irate man of war shouted after him. "i be goin' 'ome," came the firm reply. "there be goose for dinner." chapter ix golfing pilgrimages it is a singular thing that not a seaside course was designed, or opened for play, in the decade from 1870 to 1880. i, at least, cannot remember nor can find record of any such institution. in 1880 the felixstowe club was started. i have a vivid recollection of my first visit to it, for i tried the wrong line of approach, going to harwich, which left the whole of the river estuary to be crossed before felixstowe could be reached. it was late in the evening, the ferry had stopped running, but i got myself and portmanteau and clubs put across in a row-boat. the mariner landed me on the far side in the gathering dusk, got into his boat and commenced to row away home again. "but," i said, as he moved off, "how far is it to the hotel?" "about two miles," he answered, resting on his oars. "but how am i to get there?" i asked. "i don't know," he said; and then rowed away. i sat in the fast increasing gloom on my portmanteau, and wondered. then i saw the light of a providentially sent farm cart in the distance. i hailed it. the carter was a kindly man, and in due time i arrived at the bath hotel. felixstowe course was of nine holes only, if memory is a true servant, at that date, and the club-house was that martello tower which even now comes in as something of a hazard. so this was the third of the english seaside courses. in 1882 four more were added, minehead, hayling island, bembridge and great yarmouth. therefore, by the time i left oxford there was already that beginning of the chain of links around the island which has now been riveted so close. coming south, down the west coast of england, there was hoylake, a far cry from there brought you to minehead, then westward ho! thence round the land's end and the south coast till you came to hayling island and bembridge, then felixstowe and up the east coast to great yarmouth. the golfing plot is thickening. bembridge had always a charming little course, though crossing like a cat's cradle in places and more dangerous than most battles when there were many players. i gave dire offence there by writing that after my first tee shot, which was heavily pulled on to the seashore, the ball was at length found inside a dead and derelict dog--emphatically a bad lie! but there was not more than the licence almost permissible taken in this account: the ball actually was very near a dead dog; and why should there be offence in the suggestion? it was not implied that it was part of the duty of the bembridge green committee to scavenge the seashore. however, the dog has been washed away now, and, i hope, the offence also. but the chain of links did not stop, northward, at great yarmouth. as long ago as 1869 a nine-hole course had been made and a club started at alnmouth, only a little south of the border. i believe it will surprise most people to know that there was this girdle of links thus early--in 1882--although the gaps were long and many. an oxford education is all very well, but it does considerably interfere with the whole-souled attention that a man ought to apply to golf. nevertheless it has the aforesaid merit that the vacations give leisure for many a golfing pilgrimage, and it was in course of these pilgrimages that i made acquaintance with most of the english sea-links, as they came into being. it was in 1879 that i paid my first visit to hoylake. several of us went there from westward ho! to the autumn meeting. there was much going to and fro between golfers of westward ho! and hoylake, and indeed of scotland too, at this time. so much was this the case that in arranging the dates of the spring and autumn meetings we used always to have a care that they did not clash, and it was usually contrived that the hoylake meetings should fall sandwich-wise between those of st. andrews and of westward ho! so that scottish golfers might work south and take hoylake on their way to westward ho! the golfing population of the day was not a very large one, but it was very friendly. all, with few exceptions, knew each other. moreover, partly because they were a small brotherhood, there was more _camaraderie_ amongst them than there is now, and a term in common use then "the freemasonry among golfers" had its meaning. at that time if you met a man in the train or waiting at a station with golf clubs, you would be sure to say to him, "i see you are a golfer," and he would respond with a glad pleasure, saying, "yes--are you?" and you would begin comparing notes. to meet a fellow golfer was something analogous to the meeting between stanley and doctor livingstone in the heart of africa. it was a date at which such white men as golfers were rare. going to hoylake, therefore, we were sure of finding ourselves among friends. i think there were at that time, at hoylake, in pilgrimage from westward ho! besides myself, captain ashton, a sound golfer of the second class, major hopkins, the golfing artist, captain logan white, most amusing and caustic-tongued of companions. the native people showed us no little kindness. only a short while before i had taken part in a match at westward ho! got up by the never-failing keenness of captain molesworth--he and i against john dunn, a famous man at hoylake (there is a hole named after him there to-day) and jack morris. we had won that match handsomely, but there was no scrap of ill-feeling. then there was kennard there--colonel hegan kennard--ever most courteous, and arrayed with beautiful neatness; a player of great neatness besides, and winner of many scratch medals. there were also three generations of john ball at the royal hotel, and already the youngest of the team was of great local repute and of such skill that his father would often issue the proud challenge to the company assembled in the bar-parlour of the hotel: "i and my son'll play any two." but those two were not very eager in coming forward. the rooms of the royal liverpool club were in those days under the same roof as the royal hotel itself and the course started with what is now the eighteenth hole. argyll robertson was there, from scotland, a first-class golfer, and surely the finest advertisement of his own profession, which was that of oculist, that ever was seen, for he was a singularly handsome man altogether, but the most striking feature of his fine looks was an eye more eagle-like than i ever saw in any other human face. there was also another little scot of very different aspect, short, rather round-about with sloping shoulders like a champagne bottle, yet a terrible golfer and a thrice-champion--jamie anderson. him i knew, he had been down to westward ho! taking part against jamie allan in a campaign of revenge for that defeat which the latter had put upon scotland (for we looked on jamie allan's golf as wholly english) and on the man whom scotland had previously pitted against him, bob kirk. jamie anderson, playing him on the same four greens of st. andrews, prestwick, hoylake and westward ho! had defeated him--not heavily, but sufficiently. but jamie allan at that time was not playing as he had played against bob kirk. it was a fine game enough, but it had not the same force and sting. i had even enjoyed the honour of playing a foursome at westward ho! with jamie anderson, and had wrung from him a compliment which pleased me more than a little, for at one hole i had pitched up a long iron shot with some cut on it, and a happy chance decreed that the ball should stop about six inches from the hole. all jamie said to me at the moment was "ah--that's the sort that saves a lot of trouble;" but afterwards he had counselled me, "you should come up to st. andrews: they shots of yours that pitch sae deid are just what's wanted there." i quote that saying principally for the sake of my own greater glory, but secondarily because it is noteworthy as a comment on the st. andrews of that day, for if there is a quality of st. andrews now which is eminent above others it is that which puts value not on the pitched, but on the running up approach. it may be noted that this was all before the introduction of the mashie and while the use of the niblick for the approach was still looked on as a _tour de force_. we did all that work with a broad bladed iron. jamie anderson walked round with ashton and myself when we played for the kennard medal at hoylake on that occasion. i played fairly well and won it with a score which was then good--i am not sure it did not make a competition record--of 83. jamie was very friendly, though he did not say much all the way round, but i was told that afterwards he had remarked to somebody about my play that "it's a fine game, but it's no gowf." i think i know what he meant by the dubious compliment. in those youthful days my great idea was to hit as hard as ever i was able: the result was numerous mistakes which were sometimes sufficiently redeemed, when fortune favoured, by recoveries. jamie anderson's theory of the game was very different. he never put anything like his full power into the shot, but he was so desperately accurate that mr. everard has it on the record that the little man (and he was anything rather than a boaster) once told him that he had played ninety holes successively without a shot that was not played as he intended it to be played. quite certainly, if that and that only was golf, it was not golf that i played. chapter x westward ho! hoylake and st. andrews in the early eighties in 1882 i left oxford, with the intention of reading for the bar, and actually did go so far as to eat a number of inner temple dinners at the extraordinary hour of six o'clock. i do not think they are quite digested yet. i had been suffering from a series of severe headaches all through my last year at oxford and perhaps the dinners put a finishing touch on them. at all events the doctors advised me to give up all reading for a time--an instruction which i have observed rather faithfully up to the present. their very wise counsel gave me all the more time for golf--the rules were not quite so many and headachy then and a man could play golf, or so it seems to me, with a lighter heart. perhaps it is only because the heart had less weight of years to carry on it then, but it strikes me that the game and its players had more humour. i do not mean that they were more witty; but greatly because they were so immensely serious and solemn and earnest they were more amusing. their tempers were more tempestuous, their language was infinitely more picturesque. at westward ho! i am inclined to think that there were some with special gifts of the kind. we had many old indian officers, with livers a little touched, and manners acquired in a course of years of dealing with the mild hindoo, and because the golf ball would not obey their wishes with the same docility as the obedient oriental, they addressed it with many strange british words which i delighted to hear and yet stranger words in hindustani, which i much regretted not to understand. but a sight that has been seen at westward ho! is that of a gallant colonel stripping himself to the state in which nature gave him to an admiring world, picking his way daintily with unshod feet over the great boulders of the pebble ridge, and when he came to the sea, wading out as far as possible, and hurling forth, one after the other, beyond the line of the furthest breakers the whole set of his offending golf clubs. that the waves and the tide were sure to bring them in again, to the delight of the salvaging caddies, made no matter to him. from him they were gone for ever and his soul was at rest. of course he bought a new set on the morrow, so it was all good for trade and johnny allan. it also afforded a splendid spectacle to an admiring gallery. really we have lost much at westward ho! even if we have gained much, by the bringing of the clubhouse across the common. it was delightful, after golf or between the rounds, to bathe off that ridge, or sit on it and watch the sea tumbling. there were more "characters" in the golfing world in those days. who is there now like the chieftain at hoylake or like mr. wolfe-murray and many more at st. andrews? but hoylake, more than the others, had its humorists not so strictly of the unconscious type. there was great fun in the musical evenings in the bar parlour of the royal hotel--bar parlour sounds a little ominous, but i never remember seeing a man in it who could not talk straight nor walk straight out of it--and some of the golfers had great voices. tom potter, well-known with the free foresters' cricket club, was honorary-secretary of the club, then and for many a year, and he was a fine singer. there was "pendulum" brown, singing about "the farmer's boy," and ever so many more; and these evenings were the occasions for great match-making. mr. brown, nicknamed pendulum, by reason of something clocklike about his swing, on one night, unlighted, so far as i remember, by a moon, but with some stars in the sky, backed himself to play the five holes round the field, then and there, in an average, i believe it was, of fives. whatever the bet was, i know he won it easily, and also that he did those five holes in several strokes less than he took for them in the competition, played in broad daylight, the next day. the only stipulation he made with the gallery that turned out to see this nocturnal performance was that they should be silent for a moment after he drove off, so that he might hear the ball pitch. the night was very still and he seemed to get the place of the ball with wonderful precision by the sound of its fall. i know that his putting was extraordinarily good--far better than an averagely good putter's daylight putting. there were many mirth-makers at hoylake, besides the song-makers. of this number were alec sinclair, with a fund of anecdote that never failed and was very seldom guilty of vain repetition; george dunlop, bubbling over with wit and always ready to make a good after-dinner speech, and a crowd more. at st. andrews the fun of the fair was less hilarious; there was less noise about it; but there were some witty and many amusing people. my first host there, logan white, was the very best of company in himself; there were george young and mr. hodges of a most sardonic humour, and very many with that sly and dry sense of fun which the scot calls specifically "pawky." also, there was old tom morris--"born in the purple of equable temper and courtesy," as lord moncrieffe, i think it is, well describes him. it would be a mistake to picture old tom as a witty man, or even as a clever man, unless a tact and temper that never fail be the very best kind of cleverness. but we do not find any very witty or pungent sayings attributed to old tom. it was his rich nature, with its perfect kindliness and charity, that made him so lovable, and such a valuable possession to st. andrews in reconciling the golfing interests, which ran with counter currents, of the town and of the club. as a peacemaker he had no equal. i, deeming myself wronged by some infringement of golfing rule or etiquette on part of another, might go to tom--would go to him as a matter of natural course--and pour out my woes. he would listen with a charming smile in his old eyes under their bushily arching grey eye-brows, and when i had done he would take his pipe out of his mouth and say, "ou aye." that was all, but it was enough to convince of his perfect sympathy. then, from the big window of the club, or from logan white's house on the links, i would see that wicked man, my late opponent, go up to the old man--for the scene was always that eighteenth green, just before tom's house, where he would usually stand and smoke his old clay pipe after his two daily rounds were played--and there i would see exactly the same smile of sympathy for my opponent's recounting of his woes likewise, and at the end the pipe being withdrawn from the mouth; and i might know, though i might not hear, that precisely the same two words were being given for his sufficient consolation likewise--"ou aye." so we both went away from him greatly comforted and in a disposition to make it all up again before the sun should go down on our wrath. old tom was good enough to give me his friendship from the very first moment i came to st. andrews, prompted thereto, as i think, largely by a comment that one or two of the old stagers made to him that my style was not unlike young tommy's. i am sure that even at that time this must have been a comparison not quite just to that great young player of old, for although it is more than likely that i have cherished very many illusions in regard to my golf, i am quite sure that i have never been so deluded as to deem my style either good or graceful. but the criticism was endorsed by tom and gave me a place in his heart. there was another point in which he gave me praise (he could give no higher) for a likeness to his talented lost son:--"ye're like tammie--ye'll tak' a' as much pains over a short putt as a long yin." anything that had to do with a short putt touched the dear old man in a very sensitive place, for he was the worst short putter, for a great golfer, that ever was. it is known that mr. wolfe-murray once addressed a letter to him, when on a visit to prestwick, "the misser of short putts, prestwick," and the postman carried it straight to tom. his own way was, in his sheer terror of missing the putt, to get done with it as quickly as possible, and often he would just go up to the ball and hit it in a nervous hurry, without looking at the line at all, so that he hardly gave himself a ghost of a chance of holing. he had a way, too, of dragging back the ball, with a quick movement of his putter, the moment it had missed the hole, to try the putt over again, and this habit had such possession of him, that i am quite certain i have often seen him snatch the ball back long before it came to the hole at all, and even, sometimes, when it would have gone in had he not done so. once, but once only, i saw him beat his putter on the ground so hard after a missed putt that the shaft broke. i think it must have been sprung before, for he did not really give it such a very severe strain, but of course that was quite overlooked, and the joke served for many a day to tease the old man with--as "tom, what is this i hear? getting in such a rage that you're breaking all your clubs! awful!" the poor old man would smile despairingly and generally solace himself with some quotation from his dearly loved poet burns. "scotland wi' a' thy faults i lo'e thee still" was his most favourite text for consolation. [illustration: "old tom."] [illustration: douglas rolland and archie simpson (driving.) (archie was younger brother of the jack simpson mentioned in this chapter.)] chapter xi first days at st. andrews i have always had, and always shall retain, a very lively and grateful recollection of the kindness with which all the local members of the royal and ancient golf club and others at st. andrews received me when i first went up there, a sassenach among the scots. i was very fortunate in my host, logan white, and found there also others that i had known in the south, harry everard, most keen of golfers and best of all judges of the game, victor brooke, most eager, most charming and most irish of irishmen, and many others who had been old friends of my boyhood at westward ho! besides, there were many who retained a memory and an affection for my uncle fred, whose locker, with his name upon it, was still in the big room. i took possession of it as a heritage, though he still had many good years of life left in him at that date. i well remember, too, that at one of the first dinner parties i went to at st. andrews, at the most hospitable house of captain "dan" stewart, mr. wolfe-murray greeted me warmly, saying that he had known my grandfather who, as he affirmed, was in the habit of declaring that he had "the best left leg in bond street, and," added mr. wolfe-murray, "i think my left leg is better than my right." he was gloriously arrayed in the dining dress of the queen's archers, which permitted a display of legs; but this story of a day when legs were so draped as to be critically admired in bond street took the mind's eye back a long way. the point of my grandfather's claim, however, as to the beauty of his left leg, was that the symmetry of the right had been somewhat spoilt by a french musket ball. and the kindliness that i met with, from many who had not any of these special links, was not to be forgotten--mr. gilbert mitchell innes, mr. balfour, the father of leslie--now balfour-melville--mr. whyte-melville, to whose surname the former succeeded, and very many more. gilbert innes was still, i think, the best golfer of all those named, and david lamb and jim blackwell were about the best of the actual residents. leslie balfour came over from edinburgh and i had many good matches with him. but on my first arrival there i found that a match had already been made for me by victor brooke, that i should play tom kidd, at that moment thought to be playing the best game of all the professionals at st. andrews, receiving the odds of a third from him. tom kidd had been champion some ten years before, but, champion or no, i had no idea at that time of day of being beaten by anybody, professional or otherwise, at odds of a third. besides, i had come rather fresh from a small triumph at westward ho! somebody had made up a little purse for the three allan brothers to play for, and in order to make an even number i had been asked to play with one of them. the prize was for the lowest score, and i was a proud man when i came in with the best score of the four. we had no formal definition of an amateur in those days, but in any case i should not have wished to take the prize, which, indeed, i do not suppose would have been given me. but this small victory put me into fairly good conceit with myself in respect of this match against poor tom kidd, who was certainly not as good a golfer as jamie allan; but the truth is that the scots were rather sceptical in those days about the golfing ability of any southerner. it was not very long before that young tommy had given arthur molesworth a third and a beating, as recorded in a previous chapter. how that could have come about i could not, nor can now, conceive; but at any rate tom kidd was not tommy morris. i remember that i went out the first nine holes in 42. it does not sound very grand nowadays, but it was respectable then, and sufficiently good to work up tom kidd into elaborate explanations as to how impossible it was to give a third to a score of that kind. when a man gets into that explanatory mood it is generally all over with him; and of course it was not to be thought, if i could play anything of a game at all, that he could give such odds. i won an easy and inglorious victory, which would not be worth mentioning except to show the estimate likely to be made at st. andrews at that time of the probable form of an english amateur in comparison with that of one of the native professionals. just about that time, that is to say 1883, old tom, who had been playing for him very poorly, began to enjoy a delightful indian summer of his golf, which gave the old man and all the many who were fond of him immense delight. i do not mean to say that i suppose him to have played anything like the game of his best days. i could generally beat him, but he would always play me level and liked to gamble heavily. generally there was a dozen of balls on the match, and a dozen on the score, for we used to keep the scores too, and often a dozen that i didn't, and another dozen that he didn't, go round in some set figure--say 87. a dozen balls meant only a dozen shillings, in those days, but the number he was owing me soon arrived at huge figures. however, i used to knock the debt off his playing fee, and he was perfectly happy, and so was i, in the arrangement. he was very methodical, invariably half-filling the bowl of a short-stemmed and ancient clay pipe as he hit off to the short hole going out, and knocking out its ashes as we came to the short hole coming in: and that was all the smoke he ever took till the match was over. on the occasion of this, my first visit to st. andrews, i was not a member of the club, but they did me the honour to elect me by next spring, and three of us tied for the first medal at the not very clever score of 91. mr. willie wilson was one, i forget the other; and wilson won on the play off. i remember that all went well with me till the sixth hole in the tie, where i got into a small bunker from the tee, took two to get out and left some of my temper behind in it. i had to take second honour then, but i won the first medal in the autumn, though i think it was rather that the rest played worse than that i played very well. and then, immediately after the medal, came a message from elie and earlsferry--"would any pair at st. andrews give a match in a foursome to a couple of stonemasons from elie?" leslie balfour asked me if i would play with him against them. i knew i was not in good form, and i do not think that he was, either, but still we said we would play them. they came over and seemed very nice young fellows indeed. the name of one was douglas rolland, and that of the other jack simpson. we had never heard of them before. we continued to think them very nice young fellows until the ninth hole, at which point we were two up. the truth is the masons had not got their hammers going at all. but we did not know that. on the way home we began to doubt whether they were as nice as we had thought. rolland began hitting the ball to places where we had never seen it hit before, and simpson so followed up that they were reaching with a drive and an iron holes that it was at that date scarcely decent to approach in this metallic way. they were "gutty" balls, mind, which did not fly away off the irons like the rubber-cores. they finished that round to the good of us, and in the afternoon made us look very foolish indeed. i do not think that leslie or i ever got over that match till we read the result of the open championship, played very shortly afterwards at prestwick. it went "jack simpson first, douglas rolland second." after that we could make a better reply when we had to listen to the very kind and pointed enquiries of friends as to "what sort of golfers are the stonemasons of elie? are they any good?" i think, but am not sure, that it must have been in the interim between that match of ours and the championship, that there was a great home and home match, with something of a scotch and english flavour about it, got up between douglas rolland and johnny ball. captain willy burn wrote me an account of the first part of the match at elie, which he went over from st. andrews to see, and one of the phrases in it i remember now: "both men drove like clockwork." it seems that rolland, for all his great hitting, had nothing the better of johnny--who was a very fine driver in his youth--in that respect, but hole after hole went from johnny on the putting green. he came to hoylake, for the second half of the match, no less than nine holes to the bad. the local people said that he would pick it all up on his own green. but he did not: on the contrary he lost more holes. then, on the following day a second match was arranged--of thirty-six holes, all to be played on his own hoylake. of course he must have started with the moral effect of his previous hammering still deeply impressed upon him, but his friends still had all confidence in him. and he seemed to justify it grandly, playing such a fine game that he was five up and six to play and the match was virtually, as probably rolland himself deemed, over, when suddenly he struck a very bad streak, lost hole after hole until all the lead was gone, and rolland, winning the last hole too, actually won this extraordinary match. it was a very sad day for hoylake, and that is the aspect of the match which seems to have impressed everybody. but, after all, there is another aspect--perhaps well realized at elie--what a first-class fighting man that rolland was! johnny ball had in fact to go through a very long baptism of fire before he was able to bring his wonderful powers and skill to their full use at the moment they were most needed. chapter xii the beginnings of the amateur championship golf had jogged along very comfortably up to this time with its one championship, open to amateurs as to professionals, but never as yet won by an amateur. then, in the winter of 1884-5 it occurred to some original genius of the club at hoylake--"why not a championship to be restricted to the amateurs?" i do not know whose great brain first flashed out the idea, but they wrote and explained it to me, asked me to serve on a committee for the purpose, and gradually the scheme was licked into something more or less like shape. it was decided to hold, under the auspices of the royal liverpool club, a tournament, under match play rules, open to all amateurs. the club gave a handsome prize, or, rather, two prizes. i went up to hoylake a little while before the affair came off, and there found the committee in charge in something of a difficulty. douglas rolland had sent in his entry and they did not know how to deal with it. you see, at that date we had no definition of a professional, nor of an amateur, and had to decide on the analogy of other sports. i was all for accepting rolland's entry then, and i am of the same opinion now--that it ought to have been received. his offence was that, having come in second to jack simpson in the previous year for the open championship, he had accepted the second prize money, thereby violating the law common to several sports and pastimes forbidding an amateur to receive a money prize when in competition with professionals. that would have been all plain sailing but for the unfortunate fact that it was discovered that johnny ball, some years before, and while still quite a boy, had played himself into the prize list at an open championship and had been offered, and without a thought about the matter had accepted, a sum that i think amounted to no less than ten shillings. it was, of course, unthinkable that johnny should be deprived of his birthright as an amateur for such a boyish error as this. there never was the faintest suspicion of professionalism about any act of johnny ball's extraordinary golfing life, but technically, at that date, his case and rolland's were very much on all fours. i saw that the committee, or a majority of them, were resolved to reject rolland's entry. i did not care to be a member of a committee which rejected, for a cause i could not quite approve, the entry of one who would certainly be a very formidable competitor for a tournament which i had a distant hope that i might possibly win. i therefore asked leave to resign from the committee, before the vote was taken on the point, and did so, with perfectly amiable sentiments all round. i have been rather long-winded perhaps in this explanation, but i wanted to make clear to those who are not informed about it the reason why the present amateur definition is drafted just as it is, with a time limit beyond which--that is to say before sixteen years of age--a man shall be held guiltless of having done any action to spoil his amateur status in playing for a money prize in competition with professionals. so that was settled, and rolland's entry disallowed. it passed off with less trouble than i had expected, perhaps just because rolland was such a thoroughly good fellow, whether he were professional or amateur, and not at all of that small spirit which is apt to take offence where none is meant. we set to work to play our tournament. it was considered best not to entitle it a championship, seeing that it was the installation of a single club only, and had no official recognition. funny things began to happen from the start. it gave much delight to the men of hoylake that i should have drawn, as my first foe, my old enemy at westward ho! arthur molesworth. him i managed to beat with tolerable ease. i think he had even then begun to lose the sting of his game. after that i rather forget my fortunes until the semi-final heat, when i came up against johnny ball. in a previous heat, by the way, he had committed the crime of parricide, knocking out his own father, who put up a stout fight against him, nevertheless. johnny and i had a great contest, and i thought he was going to beat me, for he was two up at the turn; but i began to play rather well from there onwards and beat him by two upon the last green. in that tournament we had not the arrangement which was made as soon as the amateur championship was put on an official footing--that is to say, in the very next year--of all byes being played off in the first round. the effect of that was that alan macfie, the other semi-finalist, had a bye in the morning. the final was decided in a single round to be played in the afternoon. i had been wound up to high concert pitch by that morning round with johnny and could not play a bit in the afternoon. macfie, on the other hand, putted like a demon and never made a mistake, so very likely the result would have been just the same if i too had been idle all the morning. he beat me, i think, by eight holes. so that was the conclusion of it, and really it was most unfortunate for macfie that he had not official right to place his name at the head of the list of amateur champions, for this was in all respects, except the title, equivalent to a championship. leslie balfour was not there, but johnny laidlay was. it was the first time that i made his acquaintance, though i did not have to play him. he was knocked out at an early period of the campaign. in fact i am pretty sure that he was not playing as fine a game then as he developed later. his putting, in particular, improved greatly, and so did the direction of his driving. his iron play was always, from the first, unsurpassed. i think that according to the arrangements of that tournament all ties must have gone on into the next round, for i well remember that walter de zoete tied twice with macfie and was beaten by him on their third time of meeting, when macfie, amongst other atrocities, did the short hole (the rush hole) in one. de zoete went very strongly in the tournament. one of his victims was mure ferguson, whom he beat by eight and seven. there must, of course, have been something wrong here: i am not sure that gout would not come into the diagnosis. and somewhere or other, among the crowd of lookers on at that tournament, with a heart very black with rage against me at my presumption in daring to beat the local hero, johnny ball, would have been a little boy of the name of harold hilton: a name to be heard of in later years. [illustration: john ball. (from a water-colour drawing by the late t. hodge.)] [illustration: a.f. macfie. (from a water colour drawing by the late t. hodge.)] that was the beginning, the preface, the preliminary canter, of the amateur championship, and it is to the initiative and enterprise of the men of hoylake in getting up that tournament and conducting it to success, that we owe all the fun and all the tears we have had out of that championship since. no doubt it, or something like it, would have come sooner or later, whether or no, but it was due to the hoylake club that it came just as soon as it did. in the later course of that year it was taken properly in hand: the chief clubs in the kingdom gave it their sanction and subscribed to buy a challenge cup for it; rules were drawn up; the definition of an amateur was framed, and the first amateur championship meeting on these lines was put on the programme to be held at st. andrews the following year. now, seeing that this veracious and highly egotistic record aims at being a serious contribution to the golfing history of modern times, as well as a sketch of my little personal share in it, it might be worth while just to note the names of the clubs which subscribed for that amateur championship cup. for the subscribers were all the principal clubs of great britain at that time, and anyone who has not looked over the list lately may very well feel something of the same surprise that the little boy experienced when he found himself in heaven--surprise both at some of those who were there and also at some of those who were not there. all the more notable of the great inland golf clubs, for instance, are conspicuous by their absence; and for the perfectly sound reason that they had not yet come into being, nor indeed had inland golf yet begun to be deemed at all worthy of consideration. there are, to be sure, the royal blackheath and the royal wimbledon. these are great in respect and veneration, but they no longer lead. st. george's at sandwich was admitted to the sacred number of contributing clubs many years later, when it came into existence and when its merits were proved well to warrant the inclusion of its course among the championship greens. and during all the first years of the amateur championship's existence it was my duty, acting on instructions from the royal north devon club, to point out how very worthy was westward ho! to be the scene for that encounter, and also (but this was ever received with a bland smile in which, after a course of years, i began to join) how very central was its situation and how easy of approach from all directions. it has taken a lapse of many years and a more moving eloquence than mine to convince the management of the championship on these so obvious points; but now that they are convinced they accord the links of the west all their due recognition. the original subscribing clubs then, who gave the weight of their authority to the new championship, were the following:--royal and ancient; royal liverpool; royal albert, montrose; royal north devon; royal aberdeen; royal blackheath; royal wimbledon; alnmouth; north berwick, new club; panmure, dundee; prestwick club; bruntsfield links, edinburgh; dalhousie club; edinburgh burghers; formby; gullane; honourable company of edinburgh golfers; innerleven; king james vith, perth; kilspindie; tantallon; troon; west lancashire. is it not the case, that there are surprises in this list, both in the form of those who are in it and those who are not? chapter xiii on golf books and golf balls in the year 1886 i perpetrated a book on golf. the only excuse to be made for it is that which was offered in another famous instance, that "it was a very little one." it was a much more notorious thing in those days to write a book about golf than it is now, for who is there now who has not done so? but in that golden age the whole bibliography of the game was comprised, i think, in four volumes--_golf, a royal and ancient game_, by that gallant old warrior at the game, mr. robert clark; stewart's _golfiana miscellanea_; and two small didactic treatises, the one by chambers and the other by forgan. i had a great many compliments paid me on my little book, _hints on golf_, when it first came out. i sent the manuscript to mr. "bill" blackwood, and he eagerly consented to publish it, "for," he wrote, "i am sure there must be something in that book. ever since i read it i have been trying to play according to its advice, and the result is that i've entirely lost any little idea of the game i ever had." that was gratifying praise, and an edition or two was soon sold out. then it occurred to me to illustrate its wisdom with figures in single lines. a little later i was dancing with a young lady i had just been introduced to in london and asked her whether she played golf and she replied, "oh, yes, we all play, and we learn out of a most idiotic little book we've got." "ah, yes," i said, "is it a little book with single line figures illustrating it?" "yes, yes," she said eagerly. "that's it. do you know it?" "a little," i replied. one remark in the book took the popular fancy--that "golf is not agriculture." it was made to point the moral that the golfer should replace his divots. but the only passage that seems to me at all worth quoting at length, although i did write the whole book myself, is one which illustrates the temporary and historical importance of a controversy which is entirely forgotten now. the passage is number i. of "the miseries of golf," and runs thus:-"discovering, as you walk down to the tee, to start a foursome, that your partner has never in his life played a round with a 'putty' (eclipse) ball, while you yourself know that you cannot play within one half of your game with a 'gutty' (gutta-percha) ball." all through the early eighties a good deal of experimenting had been going on with the view of discovering a substitute for gutta-percha for the golf ball. when i first went to st. andrews, commander stewart was there, having just produced his "stewart patent" balls. they were of some composition, and were filled with steel filings. they had some merits, but were very heavy. all golf balls used to be numbered then: 27 and 28 were the usual sizes, supposed to signify the weight in drachms, and i remember logan white telling commander stewart, "we tried weighing your balls yesterday. we put a 27 of yours in one side of the balance and we had to put a 28 gutty and the coal-scuttle in the other, to make it level." slight exaggeration, but pointing towards a truth! it was the fault of these balls that they were too heavy. then some firm in edinburgh produced a ball called the eclipse, and after several modifications they put out a ball that had distinct qualities of its own, in some points superior to gutta-percha balls. they would not carry so well--they were dead, and with wonderfully little resilience when dropped on a stone--soft, so that a finger and thumb squeeze could compress them sensibly, but the compression came out again. that was one of the merits of this ball, which inevitably--its qualities being such as they were--received the nickname of "putty," to rhyme pleasantly with "gutty": it would come out again, resuming its spherical shape without any disturbance of contour, even after the most desperate hammering on the head with an iron. it was indestructible. then it was a wonderful ball for keeping its line on the putting green--far the best putting ball that ever has come into being during the half-century or so of golf that i have known. but the quality, which perhaps was its highest virtue, was that it did not go off the line nearly as much as the gutty when pulled or sliced. i used to play with a "putty," as a rule, when i played against old tom. the old man hated the ball, as indeed did most of the professionals. trade reasons weighed heavily with many of them, but i do not think that the old man was commercial-minded enough for these to have the slightest effect with him. he might have made a large fortune had he possessed but a little more of this spirit, but it was in his utter freedom from it that much of his charm consisted. still he cordially hated "the potty," as he called it. of course it was possible to pull or slice the putty, if you played badly enough, though it did not take the cut nearly as freely as the gutty, and whenever i pulled or sliced one of them to perdition the old man's delight knew no bounds. the fun would come twinkling out of his eyes under their shaggy brows and he would say, "eh, they potties--i thocht they potties never gaed aff the line." willie fernie was the only one of the professionals who ever condescended much to them, and i have been playing with him when he used a putty going out at st. andrews, in the teeth of the wind, and then took a gutty coming home down wind. but he did not make much of it. the two balls required such a very different touch for the short game that it was very difficult to go from one to the other--it is in that that the point lies of the above quotation from my "idiotic little book." but willie fernie was a man of infinite ingenuity. the ball, evidently from what i have said of it, was a fine ball against the wind--it kept so low and so straight. on hard ground it would make up in its run for its loss in carry, and therefore it was a better ball on the flatter than on the more mountainous links. but in this account of its qualities, i have also indicated its defects. running as it did when it pitched, it was an impossible ball to stop on the green off a lofted shot; and just as it would not take much cut, so as to go far to right or left when heeled or toed, so it would not take a cut when one purposely tried to put a cut on to stop it. on the whole i liked the ball. it was very economical, because it would last for ever and because its soft substance did not inflict such damage on the clubs as the hard "gutty." i won both the first two amateur championships with a putty ball. i do not mean that i used the same ball in each. but andy stuart had a putty ball with which--the same identical ball--he won three st. andrews' medals. the great argument against them was the difficulty aforesaid of stopping them off the pitch. that, and their lack of carry, were their weak points: their straight travel, especially off the putter, was their strong point. and then, all at once, the manufacturers began to make them less good. just what happened i never knew. i think that they changed the mixture in order to get them harder, and, so, more like the "gutties"; but whatever the reason, the effect was that they lost much of their merits and never overcame their defects. result--exit the putty ball towards the end of the eighties, and the gutty holding the market until the americans sent us what at first were called haskells; which is another and more modern story. i had written, at the commencement of my little book, that i had seen a recent advertisement of an outfitting firm, "the game of golf complete, in a box." it suggested a _multum in parvo_. i went on to say, "if anyone would only write us 'the art of golf, complete, in a book'--why, what more could be left to wish for?" but i added, "i am afraid no one will ever be quite bold enough to attempt that." and hardly were those words published before out came sir walter simpson, greatly daring, with a book actually called _the art of golf_. he did not add "complete, in a book"; but no doubt that is how he meant it. and an admirably witty and humorous book it was, and is. its wit and humour abide with us. just what value it ever had as an education in the art i hardly know. walter simpson, poor fellow (he died while comparatively a young man), never was a first-class golfer, though he was a first-class companion for a round. we who were pleased to rate ourselves the best of the amateurs could give him about a third, and there were many strokes in the game of which he had no idea, but his book, like himself, is excellent company. quite a modern book, having the same title (which is rather a pity), has come out lately, by joshua taylor, the champion's brother. i will refrain from comparisons. but i suppose that at the date i am writing of, the world, for the time being, had enough of golf literature, for i cannot think of any work in book form on the great subject until the badminton golf volume, in 1890; and i remember an article of professor tait's written in the late eighties in which he speaks of "the magnificent clark, the voluminous simpson and the sardonic hutchinson," with the suggestion that these three virtually comprised the whole of the bibliography of golf as generally known to the public. how far pens have travelled over how many of the reams of the paper so appropriately termed foolscap in the quarter of a century or so since, we may consider with much amazement--and here am i still piling up the leagues! chapter xiv the first amateur championship the first amateur championship, as by law established, was played at st. andrews, and started for me, as i suppose did most things at that time of life, on the note of comedy. it must be understood that this institution meant a great gathering of clans and of clansmen not very well known to each other. i dare say some of us had our own ideas that no one was likely to be unearthed from the dark places able to upset reputations more or less established; but everything was possible. i had, carrying for me, one of the numerous family of greig at st. andrews; i presume some connection of the fine golfer of that name and of his brother, the lion-voiced starter. of course, the prospects of the championship were the great subject of discussion, and during my first match of the tournament--i think things must have been going fairly easily, and that i had my opponent pretty well in hand--he said to me, "there's a mon fogie, frae earlsferry, and they say he's gaein' tae win the chompionship. he's a terrible fine player an' he daes na' mind the gallery a dom." this was terrific news to me. by "the mon fogie" i understood him to mean a mr. foggo of earlsferry, whose name i had noticed on the list of the draw, and had noticed further that this mr. foggo would be my own fate in the second round of the tournament. that is, of course, always on the assumption that he and i both survived; and of his survival, after greig's remarks, i had no doubt. when i came in i heard to my surprise, as well, i may say, as to my relief, that this terror of earlsferry had actually been defeated and knocked out on the last green by dr. mccuaig. of dr. mccuaig i did not know very much; and then, on the evening of that day, it was reported to me that he had said, "i shall beat horace hutchinson to-morrow. i believe he is a good player, but he is a young player. you'll see; i shall beat him." this was retailed to me, and whether it were a true saying of the doctor's or whether the retailer had merely invented it to see how i should take it, and to raise my ire, i do not know to this day; but i do know that it did raise my ire, and that i went out in the morning with a very grim determination to play my hardest. i had no idea of any amateur starting out with the expectation that he was going to beat me, unless, indeed, it were johnny ball. i played steadily; the doctor was not at all at his best, and i won--i think it was the first seven holes. at all events, it was such a number as made the match a very comfortable one. the doctor took his beating in the best of spirits, and bore no ill-feeling whatever. altogether that was a comfortable championship. after the first thrill of the terror inspired by the reputation of "the mon fogie," it went on oiled wheels. mure ferguson, i remember, whom i met in a later heat, was a hole up going to the eleventh, and i was a little anxious, but he let me win in the end, though only by a hole, and then it looked very much as if i should have to play johnny ball in the final--which was never to be regarded as a holiday. but the unexpected happened. in the semi-final he had to meet henry lamb. henry lamb was a beautiful golfer. it was he who invented the "bulger," that club with its convex face, off which the ball flew with a straightness that was a revelation. you see, before the bulger was invented, the faces of our wooden clubs, by the perpetual contact and hammering of the hard "gutty" balls, always got worn away, so that instead of being flat, they were very decidedly concave. and you may understand what the effect of that gradient of face would be--to emphasize and aggravate every sin of heeling or toeing to which golfing flesh is heir. therefore, the good influence of the bulger was not really so much in introducing the first convexity, though that in itself helped the ball to go straight off it, but it also corrected that fatal concavity which all clubs soon assumed of which the faces were flat to start with. instead of being concave, after much battering, the face of the bulger became merely flat. so it was a blessed invention; and as to its inventor, he was not only a player of a very fine and graceful game of golf, but he was also the most delightful fellow to play with that could be imagined. he had a temper which in its perfect serenity was a most valuable golfing asset to himself, and also most valuable in the charm of the companionship which it brought into a round of golf with him. his mode of addressing the ball was remarkable, for he stood as if he were going to drive at an angle of at least forty-five degrees to the right of the hole. i remember, at some inland course in the south, where his strange method was not known, a caddie calling out to him as he was on the point of driving from the first tee: "stop, stop, you're playing to the wrong hole." henry lamb gave the boy one of his sweetest and most lamb-like smiles, and proceeded to drive the ball two hundred yards straight down the middle of the course--to square leg. he used to swing round so far as he came down that really it was to the cricketer's square leg that he drove; and yet his style was a singularly graceful one, which seems as if it could not be. it was a singularly effective one no less, and he was a medallist on most of the courses then known to the golfer. still, he was not a johnny ball. on that day, however, he proved himself a greater than johnny ball, who was far from being at his best, and when i came in from my own semi-final effort i learned, with a breath of even deeper relief than i had given to the shade of the defunct "mon fogie," that henry lamb and not johnny was my man for the final. neither of us started well in that final round--it was only of eighteen holes in those days; but i began to get going after the fourth hole, and henry lamb was, i think, a little done after his match with johnny. at all events, he let the holes slip away very quickly, and i had an easy win, on which he was the first to offer his congratulations--a very courteous gentleman! the intelligent student of golfing history up to this period might very well note, and with some surprise, that whenever reference is made to johnny ball it always seems to be as of one disappointing expectation. and that, in truth, was very much the case. men of hoylake used to come to me almost with tears in their eyes, because they knew that they had my full sympathy and understanding. they knew that i knew what a terror johnny ball really was on his own course and when playing his right game. but what afflicted them almost to hysterics was that he never seemed able to produce this wonderful best of his when he went away to play anywhere else than at home; and the consequence of that was that the other folk, the scotsmen, laughed at them, saying: "this local idol of yours has feet of very poor clay"--or gibes to that effect. they took it very badly. it is hardly to be believed now, when we know what a brilliant lot of victories in all fields johnny has to his credit, that he had to wait a very weary while, and to suffer a number of disappointments, before he began to come to his due. when he did come, he was not to hold nor to bind. johnny laidlay did nothing effective in this first championship. he, too, had to "bide a wee" before he did all that was expected of him; but i made his much better acquaintance about this time and acquired the greatest respect for his game, especially for the accuracy and delicacy of his approaches with the mashie. it was a new club to me, and something of a revelation in its possibilities. for it would, of itself and without any special effort of the player, do all to the ball that might be done with our old irons only after a deal of cut had been carefully put on. i do not at all regret that labour; it was an excellent education; but there is no doubt that the mashie simplified the approaching problems. it made an easier game of it. i have been looking up the details of this championship, and find one of its "points" to have been the meeting of johnny ball and johnny laidlay, the first of very many encounters of its kind, resulting in the english johnny's win by three and two. so that was the fate of the scot; he fell by no unworthy hand. there is always consolation in this reflection. henry lamb, as i read on the same record, had fought his way to the final over the corpses of some stout foes. the first round gave him a bye; but then he had to meet mr. charles anderson, forgotten by golfers of to-day, but a stalwart in his time. next, harry everard fell to him; and then he had a bigger man than either, especially at st. andrews, in leslie balfour. he beat leslie at the last hole. then, in the semi-final, he beat johnny ball by no less than seven and six to play, and it was by the same sufficient margin that i defeated him. what johnny can have been doing i hardly know. that he must have been playing some game widely different from his real one is very certain. chapter xv mr. arthur balfour and his influence in golf it is not on first sight very obvious how the appointment of a statesman to the chief secretaryship for ireland can have an intimate bearing on the history of the game of golf. nevertheless that appointment, in the year 1886, of mr. arthur balfour had, in my humble judgment, an important influence and bearing on the game. it so happened that about this time an eminent weekly journal had propounded the statement that none but stupid people played golf, and even that the successful playing of golf demanded, as an essential condition, that the player should be stupid and destitute of all imagination and of all intellectual interests. it was rather an extravagant statement. at the same time also the office of the irish secretary was invested with a peculiar importance in the public eye. it was not long after the tragic affair in the phoenix park. ireland was seething with murderous discontent. the man who accepted the secretaryship took his life in his hand with that acceptance, and this risk mr. balfour took with all his characteristic coolness and courage. he became at once, both on this account and because of his record as a still rather untried statesman, as a "philosophic doubter" and as a distinguished figure in a certain set of society to which the name of "souls" had been rather foolishly given, perhaps the most popular figure in politics. the public eye was upon him and it was known that this man of so many and so varied gifts was an enthusiastic golfer. he went round the links as an object lesson to contradict the unfortunate pronouncement of the aforesaid respectable paper about the stupidity essential to the man who would confess himself a golfer. he also went round the links accompanied at a decent interval by two detectives. i used to play a good deal with him at north berwick at that time, and it was rather curious to know that we were being stalked every step of the way by these guardians skirmishing among the sandhills and the fringes of the course. it did not in the least interfere with arthur balfour's equanimity and concentration on the game. of course he was not a great golfer, though he brought to the game that faculty which was so invaluable to him in politics of rising to an occasion. you were in good hands if he were your partner and you left him with a putt of just the doubtful distance to win the match at the last hole. but though he was not a great golfer, he was a very great figure in golf; and just because it is very human to be influenced by an example, the effect of his example was to make many a man play golf, on the principle that "there must be something in a game if a fellow like arthur balfour plays it." he had been a fine tennis player at cambridge, and was an extraordinarily good shot at a stag. i used to stalk on the splendid forest of strathconan which he sold to mr. combe, the father of christian combe, the present owner, and the stalkers there have spoken to me with bated breath of his deadliness of aim with those old-fashioned rifles which tossed the bullet along in a high curve, and with black powder that made all nature invisible for a minute after the shot. twenty-six stags without a miss, was his record, as reported to me by one of these stalkers, for one season, and it is a wonderful record in the conditions, especially as he was short-sighted. but then he had, by compensation, not only an accurate vision, but a coolness of nerve which made any idea of "stag-fever" an impossibility to conceive in connection with him. and "putt-fever" at golf was equally far from him. i am very far indeed from saying that if golf had not been at this moment just ready for a "boom" the example of arthur balfour would have set the boom going, but as a matter of fact it was just ready. courses were being made and clubs founded all over the country, the amateur championship was both a cause and an effect of the new impulse, and then came the beat of the balfour drum and the note of "ca ira" came from it triumphantly. i date from that year, and principally as arising from the sources indicated, that "boom" which has never ceased to march and which is marching still. so much for what the incentive of one man's example may be in a race still generously capable of hero-worship. for a while at north berwick arthur balfour's chief henchman was crawford, big crawford, as he was most appropriately called, about whom many a legend clings in north berwick tradition. the big crawford was also the caddie of little sayers in any of the important matches played by that great little man. the crawford legend might run to far lengths, farther than i care to spin it now, but of all the instances of his wit and repartee the best i think is that which he produced, perfectly impromptu, so far as i know, when there arose a great discussion as to the precise nature of a toad-stool in course of a match which sayers, his little man, played against andrew kirkaldy at st. andrews. it was lifted, the lifter saying that it was a dead and loose-lying toad-stool, the objector that it had been rooted in the ground and therefore was not legally liftable. the discussion instantly raised numerous side-issues, as to one of which crawford, having delivered his opinion, heavily, of course, in favour of the view of the case that would assist ben sayers--pronounced, finally, "weel, het's the rule o' the game, an'----" at this point he paused an instant and lifted an enormous fist, "an'," he repeated, indicating this leg of mutton bunch of knuckles, "there's the referee!" it is not the first time, nor the seventh time, that i have told this story; nor do i care if i repeat it seventy times seven. it is good enough to bear it. at the conclusion of an historic home and home foursome in which sayers and davie grant defeated andrew and hugh kirkaldy, crawford would demand of any whom he could get to listen who it was, in their opinion, that had won the match, and when they professed a doubt, he would draw himself up with enormous dignity to his immense height, and striking himself dramatically on the chest, would exclaim with conviction, if not with grammar--"me!" and really it was not altogether too large a claim. his overmastering size and the fearsome aggressiveness of his manner might very well give pause to any tactics of an aggressive nature on the other side. he was a tower of moral (or immoral) support to little sayers, and his presence at the hole when a hostile putter was attempting to approach it had all the effect of a black cloud overshadowing the atmosphere. but beneath all his dourness, and his sardonic air, he had a kindly nature, and of his loyalty to him whom he regarded as his chief, and incidentally the greatest man that ever lived, arthur balfour, there is not the slightest question. with his rugged independence, he might stand as the type of the old scottish caddie, now practically extinct. in later years he set up a booth at the far end of the north berwick links where he would dispense ginger-beer and the like innocent refreshment, though it was said that to the initiate few a more generous and cordial liquid might be proffered. i do not know. what i do know is that when we went out, of a morning, and came to crawford at his booth, he would often ask us, "is ar-rthur oot the day?" rolling the "r's" upon his tongue as if he loved to prolong the sound of his hero's name. it is thus that he would put the question--for all his worship, making use of the familiar first name. and then, if we were able to comfort his soul by the assurance that the great man would soon appear, he would hoist a little flag on the booth's peak, for honour's sake. and one day it happened that the grand duke michael of russia, coming to the tent and seeing the flag, inquired of crawford in whose honour it was flying. i do not know whether the grand duke had been put up to making the inquiry, and asked it humorously, to see what crawford would say. at all events he had his satisfaction, for in answer to the query, "whom is yon flag flying for?" the uncompromising reply was given, "a better mon than you." no doubt loyalty here leaped over the bounds of courtesy, but there is sign of a better quality than mere rudeness in the reply. very well must crawford have known that if he had chosen to reply to the foreign prince that it was in his honour that the bunting waved, it might have meant a piece of gold transferred from the princely pocket to crawford's, but he did not hesitate. partly perhaps the native disdain of the foreigner rang in the reply, but chiefly i think a very rugged honesty, which, in spite of the lamentably rude form of the speech, has its dignity. [illustration: a.j. balfour.] [illustration: crawford. dispenser of refreshing drinks and counsel.] we had great fun on the short north berwick course, in those days, where nothing really paid you but accuracy in the pitch, developed to a nicety by johnny laidlay, who was always there. and besides him were walter de zoete, poor john penn and many good golfers besides. i think it was with me as partner that arthur balfour first played that foursome against de zoete, and penn, which afterwards, with johnny laidlay taking my place, was played times without number. "mike" mitchell was one of the regular frequenters, in the eton holidays, and playing with him as partner he and i once did three successive holes in two each on that old short course. chapter xvi the second amateur championship in 1887 we were back, for the amateur championship, on that hoylake links which was the arena of the preliminary trial trip that macfie won in 1885. i see that arthur molesworth was in that tournament of 1887, and survived until the fourth round, where he was beaten by j.g. tait, eldest brother of poor freddy. another name of note is that of a small boy, appearing in such big company for the first time, harold hilton. he was beaten in the third round by mr. john ball, "old john ball," as we called him for many years, although when i first went to hoylake he was only john ball the second, his father and johnny's grandfather being still alive. one of the most remarkable points in the championship of the year was the game that johnny's father put up all through it. it never was a showy affair at all, that game of his, but it was wonderful how effective it was on the hoylake course which he knew as well as the inside of his own pocket. he beat hilton, as noted, then he knocked out j.g. gibson, the black-heathen, who had been going strongly and had defeated henry lamb the round before; and in the fifth round, which was the semi-final, i came up against him. i had only survived the previous round by the skin of my teeth, and remember all about it well. it was against mr. gregor macgregor, a sound player, and a scot, as his name suggests. i was getting on fairly comfortably with him, with a hole or two in hand, when he played a stroke in which i was morally sure that he hit the ball twice. i did not know whether to claim the point or not, and, not being possessed of the ideally equable temperament, was upset by the incident and played the last holes very badly, halving the round and being rather lucky to win the nineteenth hole. i forget whether, in point of fact, i did claim that foul, which i knew that mr. macgregor was quite unconscious of making, but what i do know is that i received from him afterwards one of the very nicest letters ever written, saying how sorry he was that anything of the kind should have happened, and that i should have been upset at all. so the conclusion of that nineteenth hole left me with john ball, the elder, to play in the semi-final; and meanwhile that other john ball, whom we distinguished as johnny, was knocking jack tait out in the other semi-final. they were playing ahead of us, and as we went to the seventeenth (now the sixteenth) hole old john ball was one up on me. and i had not played at all badly; only he had played in the most gallant way and had really hardly made a mistake. he was one up sheerly on the merits. then he said to me, as we walked after our second shots to the seventeenth hole and an emissary came back to say that johnny had beaten jack tait, "it would be a funny thing if father and son had to play it off together." it was an innocent remark enough, and yet it nettled me a little, and i said in answer, "wait a bit, mr. ball: you haven't done with me yet." perhaps i ought not to have said it: it was rather a boastful answer. i can only plead the excuse of comparative youth. i sincerely hope it was not that reply which put him off his next stroke, but something bothered him as he played it. i saw him look up once, as he addressed the ball, at the legs of the people standing (or not standing as still as they should have been) opposite him. anyone who knows hoylake will know the stroke he had to play--to pop the ball over the cross bunker before the green, of the then seventeenth and now sixteenth hole. what happened was that he took his eye off and popped the ball into the bunker instead. i lofted mine over all right and won that hole. then, by a lucky approach and a good putt, i got the last in three; and that was a stroke better than the hole ought to be done in and one too good for mr. ball. so then the next, and the final, problem was the worst--johnny! i dare say i was a little lucky in that match: i know i had one rather lucky shot. i got into the bunker just before the green, going to the short hole, called the cop. i dug the ball out, pretty near the hole, and holed the putt. it was fortunate, but i have always contended that with practice, the judgment of the strength with this dig shot is not nearly so difficult as it seems to the uninitiated, and at westward ho! there was every opportunity for initiation, in the shape of bunkers close to the hole. moreover, in those days, there was no rule forbidding you to test the consistency of the sand by a trial dig into it before the real shot. i have always thought the rule which forbids the testing dig a very bad one, because a clever bunker player ought to have the advantage of his cleverness, and this prohibition takes away much of the advantage and puts him more nearly on a level with the man who has no idea of judging strength with this shot. then, two holes from home, johnny broke his brassey. i see that mr. everard, speaking of this incident in the badminton book, described it as "the very bad luck to break his favourite brassey." that is interesting to note now, as a sign of the times. it indicates an importance belonging to a brassey which it certainly would not have now, when a full second shot with a wooden club is hardly ever wanted. but of course it was hard luck then, and perhaps it was due to that that i got dormy one up. then johnny obligingly topped his tee shot going to the last hole. i did not play the hole very bravely, and had to hole rather a good putt to get a four. i do not think johnny troubled to putt out. he was a little nearer than i was, but not stoney. anyhow, that was the conclusion of a lucky championship for me. this reference to the far greater importance, in those days, of the brassey reminds me of a queer notion that johnny laidlay had. if he had a big match to play he always bought a new brassey for it. his theory was that he could play better with one that was strange to his hand. if this paradox is at all to be explained it must be by psychic, rather than physical reasons. i take it to mean that, just because the club was strange to his hand, the strangeness subconsciously suggested to him the need for a closer keeping of the eye on the ball. and the subconscious suggestions are always the best. i may be quite wrong, but that is the only explanation i can find for it. but in this again we see the vastly greater importance of the brassey in the days when the gutta-percha balls were used. it was equally important with those eclipses with which i won both these championships. johnny ball and johnny laidlay always stuck to the gutties, i think. certainly the latter did, and so would i too, had the old short course at north berwick been my chief golfing haunt; for there the value of the pitch shot was out of all proportion greater than on the larger courses elsewhere. but as for the reason why the brassey was so much more in vogue then, it has been rather misunderstood. it was not because you drive so much further off the tee with the rubber-cored balls than with the gutties--if both are hit dead true there is not a mighty difference in this. but it is because you can drive the rubber-cored balls so very much further with the iron clubs than you could the gutties. that is the great difference. ironing range means a considerably longer distance with the rubber-cores than with the solid balls, and the distance gained by taking a brassey instead of a driving mashie or a cleek is as nothing compared with what it used to be. it is very difficult to draw a correct comparison between these courses of st. andrews and hoylake, then and now, in respect of the difficulties that each presented to the golfer. the whins at st. andrews encroached, on what is now either the clear ground of the course, or is dotted only with occasional trappy bunkers amongst which the ball often finds quite a good lie, in such a dense mass that a wandering ball was hardly worth the trouble of looking for among them. at hoylake the little rushes, which are now scarcely to be regarded as a hazard at all, used to be very dense too, and in the summer and autumn a tough long grass grew among them, so that your ball lay as if in a plover's nest, and sometimes it took you several strokes to get out. it was a horrid hazard. then at some of the earlier and later holes of the course the remaining posts and rails of the disused racecourse were very vexing. to find yourself tight up against a post was only a little less annoying than to hit it with a full shot and to find your ball come dancing back to you or flying past your head as if it meant to brain you. all these things happened. then the rabbit holes were more numerous and came farther out on the course. it was about this time that i was moved to much fury in course of a match by seeing my ball lying at the bottom of a burrow, where i could not reach it, and, when i was on the point of dropping another ball with loss of stroke (as was specifically permitted by the local rule regarding rabbit holes), being told, "you mayn't do that--it's a lost ball." "lost, be d----d," i said. "what d'you mean by lost? why there it is: you can see it for yourself." "yes," said the other, "but a ball is lost unless you can garther it"--he was a scot, with a patriotic accent, and he spoke of the ball as if it were a daisy or other flower. i concluded the round under protest and a cloud of wrath; and, what made the cloud blacker--the committee upheld the view of the "gartherer." possibly they may have been right, but certainly i did not think so at the time. chapter xvii the first golf in america in the autumn of 1887 i did a very foolish thing: i went to america. i do not by any means imply that it is not an essential part of a liberal education to visit that great country, nor do i mean that it would be any act of foolishness on the part of a golfer to go there now, but i do mean that in my own golfing circumstances, and in the golfing conditions of the states at that time--which was a condition of no golf at all--it was very silly of me to go away from golf for so long. for that is what it involved. i was abroad for several months. at that date there was no golf in the states. i did not touch a club while i was there; and after i came back, after this long while of letting the hand grow unfamiliar with the club, the game never came so easy to me again. from that experience i believe that it may be taken as a maxim by all golfers who have learnt the game as boys, that they run a risk of losing a measure of skill and confidence, which they may never regain, if they do not touch a club for many months together. you see, this game that a man has grown up with, learning it as his muscles grow, so that it is more or less literally true that he has "grown into it," is rather different from the game that he learns later, after his muscles have set. the effect of going away from golf for a long time is that you lose some of these lessons that you have acquired as you grew; you have then to re-learn them, so far as you may, as if they were a new acquisition that you had to take possession of after you have finished growing; and you never acquire quite the same unconscious and instinctive grasp of them. i went to america again the following year. but it did not matter then. the harm had been done; the first and best lessons, or a large number of them, were lost--their teaching laboriously and only partially to be regained. and on that second visit i actually did take out some clubs. it is a condition of things hardly to be realized now, but at that time there was not, to my knowledge, such a thing as a golf club or a golf ball in the united states. canada had its established clubs and courses at quebec and montreal. probably somewhere, in secret places, some few scots were pursuing their national pastime, on very "natural" courses, in the states too: it is impossible to think that it must not have been so. but probably their sanity was shrewdly doubted, and they did not court the public eye. as for "natural" courses, the whole boundless prairies at certain seasons invite the knocking of the golf ball about on them. on this my second visit to america it had been suggested, i think by mr. "bob" purdey, with whom i stayed near meadowbrook, on long island, that i should bring some clubs over and show the people what sort of a game golf was. but i went first to mexico and subsequently to california, leaving the clubs in new york the while, and when i came back sundry members of the meadowbrook club turned out on a certain sunday to see me give an exhibition show. we cut some holes in the soil, probably with carving knives, and i proceeded to instruct them, by precept and example, as to what golf meant. i cannot think that my exposition was very effective. they did not seem to think that it meant very much. they tried shots for themselves, and the result of those trials was not such as to give them a very exalted opinion of golf. the most favourable criticism that i can recall was that "it might be a good game for sundays." i do not think it was extravagant praise. i believe that was the first time golf was ever played in the states, though there may, of course, have been these secret scots, as i have said. however, the meadowbrook people were so far impressed as to ask me to send them out some clubs, when i got back--which i did, from the shop of peter paxton, then at eastbourne. but what became of those clubs i never heard. neither they nor my excellent example inspired america with golfing zeal. that great country had to wait before awaking to a true sense of the merits of the great game. but time has its revenges and the awakening has come. also, at the moment of writing, it has the effect of making england conscious that she must "wake up"; for that twenty-year-old mr. ouimet has just taken the american championship, in a manner that has made history, out of what seemed the securely holding hands of either ray or vardon. i think it was in 1888, soon after i came back from america, that i had my first match of any public note with johnny laidlay. i think it was the town council or some other people anxious to attract golfers to north berwick--is it conceivable now that there should be a desire to attract more?--that gave some prizes for a scratch tournament open to all amateurs. johnny laidlay persuaded me to enter (he was my host for the occasion), and he gave me a good hammering in the final bout. for we both survived till the final, and i remember that, starting out, we both played badly enough for a hole or two. then i lighted a pipe and smoked it, and it is a sign of how times have changed that one of the scottish papers, commenting on the match, said, "at this point mr. hutchinson lit a pipe and smoked it and actually did not remove it from his mouth while playing the strokes--a thing never seen before in a big match." that seems queer comment at this time of day, when the incense of tobacco curls perpetually upward from the pipe of champion ray and when the cigarette of harold hilton is like the fire that is never quenched. but the soothing of the nerves and accuracy of game that i had hoped to follow from the lighting of that particular pipe did not ensue. mr. laidlay found his game, while i was still looking vainly for mine, and he hammered me, if i remember right, pretty easily. the reporters were fairly out after me that day. they criticised the pipe unfavourably, and then one of them recorded a painful incident of the game in the following terse and pregnant sentence: "here mr. hutchinson broke his niblick, his favourite club." i do not know whether this literary gentleman had seen me in bunkers and niblicking out of them so frequently that he inferred the niblick to be the club that i most loved to have in hand; at all events, that was his comment, and it went home. i think they must have had a golfing reporter at this time with a vein of ironic humour about him, for it was then, or nearly then, that one of them wrote about captain willy burn: "here the captain hit one of his characteristic shots--far into the whins!" whether it all was irony or innocence we did not know, for this commentator did his good work by stealth and we never found him out. i was in no way surprised at losing that match with mr. laidlay, especially at north berwick, where he was very strong. but i did lose a match about this time which i had not thought of losing, and by its loss did a little towards the making of golfing history. all history is curiously made. the coming of a little sandy-haired boy from northam village to do the work that an odd boy does about our house near northam village is not an incident that looks big with history, but when the little boy's name is known to be j.h. taylor, the historical importance becomes evident. he left that "odd boy" work and went as a gardener's assistant, where, for a short while, we lost sight of him. but then he was put on as an assistant on the westward ho! links in aid of sowden, the old californian forty-niner, who looked after the green, or left it to look after itself. we passed the time of day with him, quite as if we were his equals, with no notion of his future greatness. then the northam village players (i hardly know whether their club was formally instituted by that date) said they would like to play the royal north devon club a match. i was put to play taylor. i did not think much about the job. i had hardly seen him play a stroke before. going to the very first hole i remember a shot of his with a cleek: it went low; i thought he had half topped it; but it continued going. it had seemed certain to fall into the bunker guarding the green. but it carried that bunker and lay close to the hole. again and again i found the same deceptive low-flying shot going a great deal further than i had expected it to. i began to realize then that it was because of his stance, with the ball so very far back towards his right. i also began to realize that i was a hole or two down. i did not play well; really, at that date, i ought to have beaten him. but he was one up with four to play, and then i laid him a stimy. he had two for the half. but instead of putting round, as all ordinary men of experience would, he tried to loft, for the hole, with his ordinary--and his only--flat iron. he just failed: but he holed the next putt, though he was not dead. finally he beat me--i think at the last hole--and i congratulated him, as in duty bound, adding that when he knew a little more he would not be trying to loft stimies when he was one up and had two for the half. so i said, thinking to be wise, whereas it was i really who did not know--not knowing of what taylor even then, and even with a flattish iron, was capable in the way of putting stop on the ball. chapter xviii how i lost the championship and played the most wonderful shot in the world in 1888 i lost the amateur championship at prestwick, and i lost it badly. i do not mean by that that i lost it to a bad player. it was andy stuart who knocked me out, and for his game i have always had a high respect. but i do not think that either of us played very well in that match. i know that i did not. for one thing (or for two things) i topped two tee-shots running, and one of them was going to the "himalayas coming in," which, as all who know prestwick will realize, is not a good place to choose for a tee-shot "along the carpet." he was three up and five to play, and i worried him down to one up and two to play, but he did the seventeenth hole better than i and finished by laying me a stimy. but i do not think i should have holed the putt anyhow--i was by no means dead--and at all events he won the hole and so the match. and then the next morning, when he was stropping his razor, he cut his hand so severely that it was against the doctor's advice that he played at all, but play he did, and seeing that he was far from his best by reason of this damaged hand and that it was johnny ball that he had to play, it is no great wonder that he was defeated; and he had all my sympathy. he had my sympathy by reason both of his damaged hand and of his defeat, but still i did think that if he were going to cut his hand at all, it would have been as well that he should have done so the morning before. in that case i, and not he, might have been up against johnny on the morrow. i have no reason to look back on that match with pride, but i remember it with special interest, because it had one of the most extraordinary incidents in it that ever did happen in any match at golf. and this notable incident was as follows. going to the hole after the himalayas going out, which was much the same then as it is now, save that the green was not levelled up and that the tee-shot probably did not run as far, i sliced my second very badly, right over the hillocks on the right of the green. i went over the ridge, with my caddie, to play the ball, and pitched it over, with a loft, to the place where i thought the green to be. then i ran up to the top of the ridge, and looked, but could see no ball. i asked then, as i came down over the ridge, where the ball was. there was a small concourse of perhaps a score of spectators. "oh," they said, "the ball has not come over." "not come over!" i repeated, filled with astonishment. "why, i know it has!" as a matter of fact it had been lofted high into the air and both i and the caddie had seen it with the most perfect distinctness. still, it appeared that it was not there; it almost seemed as if the ordinary operations of nature's laws had been suspended and the solid gutty had been dissolved into thin air in mid flight. then, as we all were looking about, in much surprise, a man spoke up. he was a mr. kirk, a townsman of st. andrews and a fine golfer. he took part in the first amateur championship when it was played at st. andrews, but he had come to this one as a spectator only. he said, "well--i did think i felt a tug at my pocket." (by this time we all were very much intrigued to imagine what could have happened to the ball.) and at that he looked into the outside breast pocket of his coat; and there the ball lay, on his handkerchief, like an egg in a nest. has a more wonderful thing ever happened at golf? i, at all events, have never heard of any more extraordinary series of small marvels ever taking place. in the first instance it was wonderful enough that the ball should thus plump down so cleanly and neatly into the pocket at all; then that none of the score or so of watchers should have seen it; next, that not even the man into whose pocket it thus plumped should have noticed it as it came down, imperilling his very nose and eyes; and, finally, that it should have landed so gently that he did not actually realize that anything had struck him--only "fancied he felt something tug at his pocket." naturally, if it were not for the cloud of witnesses, i should never have ventured to tell the tale. my own character, if i have any, for veracity is not nearly high enough to stand such a strain. these are the facts; and then of course arose the question as to what should be done with the ball. as it happened, it did not arise in a form very acute, because andy stuart was well on the green in two and i, in mr. kirk's pocket, standing on the edge of the green, in three. we agreed finally that the pocket should be emptied where the pocketer stood, and from there i played out the hole and lost it. it is almost a question whether such a shot as this did not deserve to win the hole. curiously enough the only other golfer i ever knew who played a ball into a man's pocket is andy stuart himself. he hit a full drive right into the coat tail pocket of lord lee, the scottish lord of session. but his lordship was very far from being unaware, like mr. kirk, of the pocketing. he was quite painfully aware of it. as andy was at that time at the scottish bar, it seems to me that it was a very injudicious stroke for him, as a rising young advocate, to play. the curiosities of that great shot of mine are not exhausted yet. for a full quarter of a century i told that story, saying that not a soul had seen the ball come over the hill, and that, but for mr. kirk bethinking himself of the fancied tug at his pocket, i should have had to treat that ball as lost. and then, one day when i was waiting before the clubhouse at biarritz, there came up to me one whom i knew by sight only, colonel von donop, of the royal engineers. he introduced himself, using as the medium of introduction that stroke and that ball. it appears that he, though i had not known it all those years, had been standing further along the ridge at a point whence he could see both me as i played the shot on the one side and the little crowd of spectators on the other. he saw the ball rise into the air, and also saw it drop, as he thought even at the time, into a spectator's pocket. he also saw the discussion and the search which took place when i came over the hill, and when i replied with some indignation to the statement that the ball had not gone over also. he was just about to come forward to explain what he had seen when mr. kirk found the ball and the incident terminated. it was the last and crowning act in the curious comedy, that i should discover, twenty-five years later, and in the south of france, that there had been an unsuspected spectator of that funny little episode in the west of scotland. johnny ball, thus defeating andy stuart, found himself in the final face to face with that very frequent foe, in this and after years, johnny laidlay. the latter had been playing very finely: he had won a tournament with a good entry at carnoustie, and had picked up many medals in the lothians, but he could not hold johnny ball in that final. the sassenach seemed to have the better of the match all the way and won quite comfortably. the hoylake folk had comfort at length in the long deferred fulfilment of their great hopes for the local hero, and certainly they have not to complain that he has disappointed them since. there was something very attractive about the prestwick golf at that time. nor has it lost that special attraction since. the west of scotland did not then, nor does it now, take the same general interest in golf as the east, but there was a very zealous and very friendly society of golfers belonging to the prestwick club. it was the country of the houldsworths, the iron people, who took the keenest interest in golf. mr. william houldsworth, known as big bill, was most kind to me when i was a boy at westward ho! he made frequent pilgrimages to that green. he was my first host at prestwick, at his house of mount charles, some miles out, and i think looked on it as some disgrace that, coming from his house, i should lose the championship. at prestwick itself too, looking out on the fourteenth green, lived mr. whigham, the father of a family of great golfers, both the brothers and the sisters. and about the whole course there was, and still is, an air of friendliness. it is not great golf, but it is exceedingly pleasant golf and also it is exceedingly difficult golf. in the days of the "gutty" ball it was great, as well as good, golf, but the golf there has never, to me, worn the very business-like aspect of the east coast golf. i do not say that it is any the worse for that--on the contrary. it lies in a district of more kindly climate and more rich pasturage than the east, and i remember one open championship there when willie fernie, always a fellow with a ready jest, came in humorously lamenting that he had lost his ball twice "on the putting green." it was a sad grassy year that season, and if you might not actually lose the ball on the putting green itself, you might, and you did, spend many a minute in search for it only just off the green. no mowing could overtake the growth. and of course prestwick has all the picturesqueness of the clyde estuary--the kyles of bute, arran and the rest of the professional natural beauties of that coast--for its setting. chapter xix johnny ball and johnny laidlay i have not said very much, or not as much as the subject deserves, about johnny ball as a golfer; have not attempted any appreciation of his game. he would not, as i have indicated already before, do himself any kind of justice at the beginning of his career, when he was off his native hoylake heath, and this failure was a source of bitter disappointment to his friends at home. they began to be afraid whether he ever would make that mark which they knew his golfing talents ought to put within his achievement. they need not have feared. so now that i have brought the course of this faithful history to the point at which he and the scottish johnny--laidlay--came together in the final of the amateur championship, it seems as if both of them had at length "arrived." they have set their names on the scroll of fame and will grave them constantly deeper as the years go. the one, to be sure, was destined to perform many more deeds of glory than the other, and the english johnny to win a big balance of their matches, but they were in constant competition with one another, and for four successive years at this time one or other of them was amateur champion. it was not indeed until after that great tournament had been going for six years that another name than theirs and my own was inscribed on the championship cup. [illustration: john ball. as a yeoman (s. african war).] [illustration: _from "golf and golfers" (longmans, green & co.)_ j.e. laidlay. characteristic throw forward of the body at the finish of approach stroke.] i may have suffered--probably i have--under many illusions with regard to my ability to play golf, but i never so deluded myself as to suppose i was as good a player as johnny ball. i believe i am right in thinking that johnny laidlay has just the same opinion of him, in comparison with himself. he, too, i believe, would put johnny ball on a pedestal by himself, and leave him there, as the best match-player that we ever have had among the amateurs. i say match-player with deliberation, for of all amateurs by far the best score-player that we have seen is, in my judgment (and i cannot believe that anyone is likely to think differently), johnny ball's younger schoolfellow at hoylake, harold hilton. but of course his is rather a younger story, and so, too, is that of jack graham, another hoylake prodigy, of freddy tait, of bobby maxwell and others. still, i make no exception of any of those later ones when i claim that johnny ball is the best amateur that has ever been seen, for a match. it did not need that he should win the open championship and the amateur championship eight times, in order to prove this. i knew it well, even before he ever won either championship once. it has always amused me, as it has amused johnny laidlay too (we have compared notes about it), to hear people in some of these latter years saying, as johnny ball won championship after championship, that "he is as good as he ever was." but the one who has always been most of all amused by these statements is johnny ball himself. perhaps the most humorous thing about it is that they are invariably statements made by those who never saw johnny ball at all when he really was at his best. those who did see him then know better than to make them. i know that i never started out to play a match with johnny ball without the full consciousness that if we both played our game i was bound to be beaten, or, rather, that it could only be by an accident if i should win. it is a feeling i have never had, when i was playing tolerably well, with any other amateur, except when playing bobby maxwell over muirfield. but then i cannot pretend that i was playing at all as strongly as i once might have played when i had to encounter that great man. still i do not suppose i could ever have held him at muirfield. he was not quite as terrible elsewhere. curiously enough i have had rather the better of the exchanges, in the so-called "big" matches, amateur championship matches, and the like, that i have played with johnny ball. he would sometimes miss a short putt--in fact, i always rated him as good for a couple of missed short putts in the round--and that just gave one a chance to come in. but as to "friendly" matches--though i am sorry to say i have had but few with him--i think he has beaten me every one. it is true they were always on his native hoylake. with johnny laidlay, on the other hand, of whom i never had the same consciousness of being in the hands of a stronger man as i had with the english johnny, i have had the worse of it in the "big" matches. i beat him, i remember, in an international match, but he beat me at least twice in the amateur championship, and i have not a win from him to my score in that encounter. yet in the "friendly" matches--and we have played a great many, for i have very often been the guest of his kind hospitality, both at north berwick and elsewhere--i do not think that i have come off at all the worse. but johnny ball, at his best, and especially at hoylake, was a terror. for one thing he was so very long. generally driving with a hook, the ball carried very far and then set to work to run till it made you tired watching it. and then he had that wonderful long approach with his brassey, banging the ball right up to the hole, with a concave trajectory--you know what i mean--the ball starting low and rising towards the end of its flight, then dropping nearly perpendicularly, and with no run. it is a shot that i have seen played in any perfection only by three players, and all young ones--johnny ball, hugh kirkaldy and jamie allan. only the first is still alive, and he does not, probably cannot, play the stroke now. i believe it is a stroke that was easier with the gutta-percha balls than with the modern rubber-hearted things. at all events no one plays the stroke now. perhaps that foolishly named "push-stroke" of vardon's comes most near to it, and now and again taylor gives us something of the sort: but this is with iron clubs, not with wood. in the old days bob ferguson had the stroke, with his irons, played up to the plateaux greens at north berwick with great accuracy; but he did not achieve it so well with the wood. then johnny could drive that gutta-percha ball most ferociously with his cleek. i remember colonel hegan kennard saying to him, as he and i were playing a match, "i wish you could teach me to drive as far with my driver as you can with your cleek." johnny had just driven a huge cleek shot to the end hole. and kennard was a very fair scratch player of the day. johnny was full of resource too. when you had him, as you thought, in a tight place, he would bring off some _tour de force_, with a great hook or slice, and lose very little. he delighted, too, in an evil and windy day: the harder it blew the better he could play and the more he enjoyed controlling his ball through the storm. the short game was where he gave you your chances. if you could live with him at all through the green and up to the hole you need not despair of stealing a shot or two back from him, now and then, on, and from just off, the putting green. and that was the very last point at which you might think to have any advantage over that other, the scottish johnny. he never could quite trust his wooden clubs. the occasional hook or slice was apt to put in a sudden appearance, after he had been playing perfectly straight for a number of holes. on the putting green he improved very much after i had known him for a year or two. but always, from first to last in a golfing career which has been crammed full of glorious achievement, once he came within ironing reach of the green there was no man, till taylor came, that was his equal. that is my humble opinion. bob ferguson, who was really his teacher, on that fine old nine-hole course at musselburgh, may have been even better at the full iron bangs up to the hole: he had the concave flight and the straight drop which are worth anything in the approach; but johnny laidlay was better than his master at the little chip shots. he learned them, no doubt, at north berwick, where you are undone, if you cannot play them, and where the other man is undone if you can. and, then, johnny laidlay was a very fine finisher in a tight match. how many times i have known him do that last hole at north berwick in three--a hole hardly to be reached from the tee and guarded by a very tricky valley--when the match depended on it i should be sorry to say. i always thought his stance, as he addressed his ball all "off the left leg," an ungraceful one, and am inclined to think it the cause of the occasional uncertainty of his driving, but his manipulation, by which i mean his hand and finger work, of his iron clubs was beautifully delicate. i do not think he had given much thought to the way in which the different strokes were played--the slice and the pull and the rest of them--but there was not, so far as i know, a stroke or a subtlety with the iron clubs that he was not master of. his clubs were all curiously thin in the grip, and one of his great theories was that the club should be held as lightly as possible. there is not a doubt that most men can put more cut on the ball with a lightly than with a tightly held club, but further than that, there is not any very general recognition, so far as i know, of a virtue in the light grip. after i lost the amateur championship at prestwick in 1888, these two johnnies, the english and the scottish, held it between them, winning two apiece for four years, so that it was not until mr. peter anderson won, in the seventh year of its institution, that we let it go out of the hands of one of the three. neither johnny laidlay nor i were fated to win again, but as for the other johnny, there seems to be no saying when he will be done with it. to be sure he has a few years' advantage. chapter xx a chapter of odds and ends in 1886 my father took a house at eastbourne, and i was no longer at westward ho! as constantly as before, although a frequent visitor there at the house of claud carnegie. he and i used to have many matches on terms that are rather to be commended as a means for bringing together two players of different handicaps. we used to play level, but i had to give him five shillings before starting and at the end he paid me back a shilling for every hole that i was up. it came, of course, to the same thing as giving five holes up, but it is rather a more amusing way of stating these odds. the five shillings puts me in mind of a very much more gambling match that was played about that time, when i was at hoylake. there was at that date a very festive company of edinburgh golfers going about the various links under the leadership of old mr. robert clark, who edited the great book on golf. there was sir walter simpson, who also wrote a great golf book and was the son of the doctor who discovered the blessed uses of chloroform, hall blyth, valentine haggard, cathcart, jack innes, and a few more--all, i fear, except hall blyth, gone over to the majority.[4] five of these warriors started out one day at hoylake to play a five-ball match, for a fiver a hole, and--this was the prudent stipulation of mr. robert clark, in his ancient wisdom--they were to settle up at the end of each hole. the man who happened to fall into bad trouble would thus have to part with four fivers on the putting green, so it must have needed a well-filled notebook to make a man sure of living through to the finish without bankruptcy. i had suggested that a six-ball match would be really more fun than a five-ball, and that i was willing to make the sixth; but the well-meant suggestion was not taken in good part. i forget the ultimate result of the encounter. naturally i was at eastbourne a good deal, as i had no other home than my father's, and i arrived just at the time of the first laying out of the original nine-hole course there. mayhewe was the most active of its originators, and he and i planned it together. it implies no reflection on the designers of the later eighteen-hole course to say that the old nine-holes were better than any of the later developments. it is a very different problem laying out nine, and laying out eighteen holes on almost the same circumscribed piece of ground; for the later additions to the area do not amount to a great deal. it is amazing to me now to think how ignorant we were in those days of the proper treatment of inland putting greens. we could plan the rest of the course well enough. but the great idea was to keep on rolling and rolling and rolling--the heavier the roller the better--until we had the surface just round the hole so slick that if there was any gradient at all the ball would not stay near the hole even if you placed it there by hand. there was (there still is) a green called "paradise"--and no green was ever named more aptly according to the classic principle of _lucus a non lucendo_. if you were below the hole, and below it on this green you were sure to be, because the ball would not rest above, you might putt up to the hole, and if you missed the hole the ball would come trickling down to you again, and so you might go on putting "till the cows came home." by which time there might probably be a little dew which possibly might allow your ball to come to rest in the hole's vicinity. but long before that you would have come to the conclusion that golf, on paradise green, was not a good game. one device used to be to cut some jagged raw edges to stick out on the ball's surface, before driving off the tee for this hole. thus jagged, the ball would not fly properly, but it was better to lose a shot, owing to this jaggedness, through the green, than to lose twenty on the putting green. on the rough edges of its scars the ball would come to rest even in paradise. however, this is a picture of that green at its most grievous worst. it was not always thus, and on the whole the course, with its drives over a great chalk pit and over the corners of one or two high woods, gave us great fun and was not a bad test of golf. peter paxton was the professional, a humorous little fellow and a wonderful putter on those tricky greens. i remember, when he sent us his credentials, he added the comment "and, sir, i drink nothing stronger than cold water." i liked the "cold," as if he feared that water with the chill off might go to his head. he grew braver later. this course at eastbourne, be it understood, was technically of the "inland" kind, though at the seaside. it was of the chalk-down soil; and it was among the first of the new supply of inland courses which the ever spreading vogue of golf demanded. still we looked on these inland greens as giving us at best only a poor substitute for the real game. we had yet to learn of what inland soil, cleverly treated with an eye to golf, might be capable. the only inland club which was at this time of any weight in the general golfing councils was the royal wimbledon, which had seceded from the london scottish, building itself a club-house at the opposite end of the common. some of the golfing leaders of the day, such as henry lamb and purves and others, made this their headquarters, and there they were already hatching schemes which were ultimately to lead to all that great development of golf in the east neuk, so to say, of kent, and at first were to take form in the st. george's club and links, at sandwich. purves, with characteristic, energy, was scouring the coast of england in these years, looking for links as by nature provided, and it was here, at this point, that he had his great success. of course there was much palaver and indecision, as well as prolonged negotiations with the landowner--or his trustees, seeing that lord guildford was then a minor--before any real move could be made; but when it was made it meant a very great deal for london golfers and gave an immense drive forward to the already fast booming boom of english golf. in 1886 mr. du maurier, the _punch_ artist, was at st. andrews, already, as i remember, in large goggles and having trouble with his eyes, and he then drew a picture of "the golf stream," as he called it--a succession of pilgrims of all sorts, sexes and sizes, making their way to st. andrews. will it be believed that this was the first golfing picture in _punch_; that it was the very first mention, as i think, of golf in a comic paper? what would _punch_ do to-day, we may ask with wonder and dismay, if all the humorous opportunities which golf gives its artists and its writers were withdrawn from them? they would feel impoverished indeed. a year or two later, when i was editing the badminton book on golf, mr. harry furniss showed me a letter he had just received from mr. frank burnand, then staying at westward ho! and then editing _punch_. harry furniss was, and is, a golfer; frank burnand was not. "i think you would like this place," wrote the author of _happy thoughts_--"there are fine golfing sands (_sic_) here." therein he expressed an even happier thought than he knew, for westward ho! at that moment happened to be suffering from a considerable drought, and a heavy gale had scattered the dry sand far and wide out of the bunkers, so that "golfing sands" gave rather an apt description. the badminton library of sport was then coming out, volume by volume, and delighting all to whom sports and pastimes made appeal. i do not wish to bring too great discredit on a very eminent firm of publishers, but it is a fact, sad as it is true, that when i first waited on them, obedient to their summons, in paternoster row, and they broached to me the subject of a golf book in their series, they made the very shocking suggestion that it should be included in the same volume with other scottish sports, such as skating, curling and perhaps tossing the caber. they did not know, they said, when i met them with some mild expostulation, whether the game was "of sufficient importance to carry a volume to itself." i must do them the justice to say that they quickly saw and repented of their error, and i believe that ultimately the golf volume did better than any other in all that popular series. while i was doing some of the writing for this book, sir ralph payne galway was writing the shooting volumes, and we were both staying with poor john penn at his house in carlton house terrace. one night john penn asked mr. purdey, the gun-maker, to dinner, to talk guns with sir ralph; and these two sat long over the dessert, after the rest of us had left the table, talking of loads and bores and so on. the next morning, while we were at breakfast, a four-wheeler drove up to the door, and sir ralph, looking out, said in dismay, "by jove, john, i believe that under the influence of your champagne i must have ordered a whole 'bus load of guns from purdey." we looked out, and the four-wheeler was filled, from roof to floor, with guns. it appeared, however, that they were not all on order, but had merely been sent round by mr. purdey for inspection. this, however, is not golf; nor was sir ralph then, i think, a golfer, in spite of the good service he has since rendered to the dynamics of the golf stroke and in spite of the excellence of the "p.g." ball. footnotes: [footnote 4: re-reading this, in 1919, even hall blyth's name has to be added to those that have gone.] chapter xxi a more liberal policy at st. andrews in those days professor tait used to be a great deal at st. andrews, in the intervals, which were wide, of his professional duties in edinburgh. he used to play a round of golf, generally by himself, generally talking to the ball all the time, as if asking it why it behaved as it did, and very frequently laughing at it--for he was essentially a laughing philosopher--long before the ordinary golfer had his breakfast. six o'clock, it was said, was his hour for starting, and the rest of the day, when he came back, he had at his own command for study, of which he did an enormous amount, for tobacco, of which he consumed a mighty deal, and for chaff and talk, of which he was most genially fond. he was a lover of humanity, and not even the biggest fool on the links (which is a liberal order) was made conscious of his folly when it came up against the professor's learning. he used to let me come into his laboratory in edinburgh, and in return used to employ me in driving balls at a revolving plate of clay and all sorts of experiments. poor young freddie was not yet of the stature to drive very fiercely, though he was already fiercely keen. he was at school at sedbergh, in yorkshire, where fred lemarchand, who had been at oxford with me, was a master. lemarchand putted the weight for the university, being a very strong fellow, and developed into a very useful golfer. and he, apparently, made it his business to get "rises" out of young freddie, telling him in chaff that the scots did not know how to play golf: that johnny ball and i were better than their best amateurs, and so on. i have always wondered whether this chaff helped to incite freddie to become the great golfer that he was. golf, to be sure, was bred in him--his eldest brother jack was a fine player--but perhaps lemarchand's chaff gave him an added zeal. i remember him first as a stalwart, very cheery little boy hitting a ball about with very slight respect for human life or limb. it was about this time that i moved a resolution at a general meeting of the royal and ancient club that their local rules, such as that touching the dreary palisaded cabbage patch magniloquently styled the stationmaster's garden, should be taken out of the body of the rules and be printed under a separate heading, in order that the many clubs which were being established in divers places might adapt more easily for their own use the rules capable of universal employment, and might make their own separate local rules besides. this was passed, and was a useful move for those other clubs, which heretofore had included in their own rules regulations dealing with a stationmaster's garden, a railway and other "amenities" which had no existence at all on their courses. and a little later a committee, of which i was a member, was appointed under lord kingsburgh to revise and amend the rules. we worked hard at the job and evolved something that we thought very admirable, whereupon sir alexander kinloch, on the presentation of our work to the general meeting of the club, proposed "that the committee be thanked for their labours and that the result be put into the fire." i think if it had been any other than sir alexander that had brought forward the proposal we should have been very angry, but we all knew him and liked him too well to mind. he was rather a specially licensed person with a knack of putting things into words which might give offence if anyone chose to take it. "what's the good," he said once, to another general meeting, "of all this talk about first-class players? there are only three first-class amateurs, johnny ball, johnny laidlay and horace hutchinson." that is as it may be; but evidently it was not a remark that was likely to be received with universal favour. sir alexander, father of the present baronet, sir david, and also of frank,[5] the writer on golf, was not a first-class player by any means, but he had all the qualities that are connoted by that phrase which was much more often heard then than now--a "first-rate partner in a foursome." he was one of those who liked his caddie to point out to him the line of the putt. taylor, the one-armed man, who became the caddie-master at st. andrews later, used to carry for him, and there is a picture of him in the badminton book showing the line. we used to be allowed to do a great deal in the way of brushing loose impediments, often more imaginary than real, out of the line with the club: there was no rule against the caddies indicating the line by a club laid right down on that line, and a cunning caddie would often select the roughest spot on the line on which to lay it--with the result that when the club was lifted again that spot was just a little less rough than it had been before. some of these good old "partners in a foursome" were not at all pleased when the rule was so changed that the caddie was not permitted to touch the line in giving this indication. at first the modification was only to the extent of requiring that the line should be pointed out only by the end of the shaft of the club, and not by the head, but this too was liable to abuse, for the effect often was to leave a little mark on the turf, which served as a guide for the eye. i do not know whether our general recommendations regarding the rules were actually consumed by fire, as advised by sir alexander kinloch, but at all events they were not passed. they were remitted back to lord kingsburgh, as a committee of one, to revise, and he brought them back with one only, so far as i know, modification of importance. it was a modification of great importance to the slow player and the short driver, and probably is largely responsible for the modern congestion of greens. it is also responsible, no doubt, for the saving of some lives; but they would be, at best, the lives of short drivers, who, perhaps, do not matter. there used, even of old, to be a rule that parties behind should not drive off the tee until those in front had played their seconds. obviously this put people who could drive only a hundred and fifty yards very much at the mercy of others coming behind who could drive two hundred yards. in the new version of the rules, according to lord kingsburgh, the parties behind had to wait to drive off, not only till those in front had played their seconds, but also until they were out of range. manifestly that gave the shorter drivers a much better chance for their lives. at the same time it delivered the longer drivers behind right into their hands. they could be as slow as they pleased, and had no fear, under the law, of being harassed by those who came after them. lord kingsburgh himself was a short driver, and of course sympathized with his kind. i imagine he made golfing life much more pleasant for himself for the remainder of his days by this enactment. for his version, which altered the old in hardly any other respect than this, was passed by the meeting. there were more short drivers than there are now, in the days of the solid "gutty" ball. the best of the players more or less resident at st. andrews in the later eighties were leslie balfour, jim blackwell (it was extraordinary to what extent he lost his game after a residence of some years in south africa), mure ferguson, andy stuart and david lamb. leslie i have always regarded as one of the soundest golfers i ever met. "if you're playing your best you'll beat him, but if you're playing anything below your best he'll beat you." this used to be johnny laidlay's verdict on him, and it always seemed to me to express the reliable quality of leslie's game very well. i cannot but think that mure ferguson became a better golfer in the later years than he was in these early days at st. andrews, but it is rather difficult for me to do justice to the great game that he had in him because he seldom happened to play his best against me. i have seen him play great matches. in the amateur championship at hoylake he was in the final with johnny ball, and though that champion of champions was four up at one moment of the match, mure had him square with two holes to go--a great performance! then johnny went out for a great second shot to the then seventeenth (now the sixteenth) hole, right across the corner of the field, and so gained the green with his second; and that stroke virtually settled the match. johnny asked me afterwards if i thought he was right in going for it. all i had to say was, "absolutely, if you felt that you could do it." it all lay in that--in this confidence in himself. and no man knows hoylake distances better. no doubt mure was, and even is, a fine match-player, especially a fine finisher of those few last holes when the match is to be decided by them. david lamb, brother of henry, who has been often mentioned, was a great player in his day, but he could not make much of the game unless all was going right with him. and the quality of match-playing depends very largely, as i think, on the ability to make something of the game (if possible sufficient to avert defeat) when things are not going kindly. but of all these st. andrews' players, just a little the best of the bunch, in my opinion, was andy stuart at that particular moment. his golfing day was rather a short one, but few folks realize how great a player he was, when at his best. footnotes: [footnote 5: frank kinloch, as gallant a golfer of his class as ever held a club, has died since this was written.] chapter xxii the first amateur win of the open championship in 1889, having, as aforesaid, exhibited to the meadowbrook club, on long island, a specimen of what they were good enough to say "might be a very good game for sundays," i returned to great britain a brief while before the amateur championship and went up to st. andrews, very short of practice, to take part in it. the second or third round brought me up against johnny ball, and i put up a very poor fight against him. he was playing respectably enough--not more, for he never has been a real lover of st. andrews--but i know that he had some satisfaction in thus getting back on me a bit of what was his due. i know that he had a little of this feeling because johnny laidlay told me that hilton said to him, as we started off, "if there is one man that johnny ball would like to beat in the amateur championship, it's horace hutchinson." so he had his wish, by some four or five holes, and it was at this same championship, i think, that we first began to have an idea how sore a trouble hilton was going to be to us in the years to come. for he was playing johnny laidlay, who was then at just about the best of his game--which is saying much--and he stuck to johnny like a man, though he was hardly more than a boy, and johnny confessed to me afterwards that he acquired a great respect for hilton's play from that time forward. now the outstanding feature of that meeting was, beyond all possible question, the match between the two johnnies, laidlay and ball. it was not the final match, but probably it decided the final result. they halved the round. then, setting forth for extra holes, they halved the first of these--and not too creditably, if the truth be told, for i think the figure was five apiece. but the second hole they both played like tigers. they had two good tee shots, johnny laidlay's being a yard or two the longer. so johnny ball had to play. he took his cleek. now to reach that second hole in those days, when the ground was not so keen and it was a gutty ball that had to be dealt with, with an iron club, at all was no easy matter; but johnny's shot looked a beauty. i judged it, as it ran over the gradients, after pitching, to be as near perfection as a shot could be, and to be resting very near the hole. johnny laidlay then had to play; he, too, took a cleek; he, too, played a shot as near perfect, as it seemed to me, as might be. my only doubt was whether it was quite strong enough, whether it would quite hold its way over the undulations, whether it might not possibly die away, even towards the bunkers on the left, a little short of the green. i was, as events proved, wrong in my estimate of both shots. johnny laidlay's had just the strength to take the undulations at the right curve: it lay on the green quite near the hole. johnny ball's had been a shade too strong: it had even over-run the green and was in the bunker, just beyond. of course that was the end. no doubt it was a most unlucky shot; no doubt it was a shot that deserved to win, rather than lose, a championship. but i do not mean, saying this, to imply that there was any luck in johnny laidlay's winning that match and that championship. his shot was perfection. but johnny ball's was very perfect too. it must have been given an unduly running fall. however, such is golf, and such is life. then johnny laidlay had to play leslie balfour in the final, and beat him, as he really was likely to do, if both played their game. gallant player as leslie was, johnny had all the advantage of the years on his side. yet the time was to come, and many years later, when leslie actually should win the championship, beating johnny in the final, and in a very wonderful manner, as shall be told in its due place in the story. now all this while i have said mighty little about the open championship, because really the golfing world in general took little interest enough in it at that time. it was regarded as virtually an affair of the professionals. now and then a few of us amateurs took part in it, but it was with scarcely an idea of possible success. and then, all at once, something happened, in 1890, which put the open championship within the possible grasp of the amateur, and therewith the general interest in that great competition became at once very much more vivid. johnny ball had won the amateur championship that year at hoylake, defeating johnny laidlay in the final. my own part in the contest was an ignominious one, for i allowed myself to be defeated rather weakly by johnny laidlay at the last hole after being one up with two to play. i missed a short putt at the last hole, of which the memory is still painful. i was playing fairly well that year, notwithstanding, and went to prestwick for the open championship--began by missing a very holable putt at the first hole and continued in a like vein throughout the two rounds. so that was the end of me. and then i, having finished my futile efforts, heard that johnny ball, who was still out, was doing terrible things. i went out to meet him, and as he reeled off hole after hole in the right figure it became apparent that "bar accidents" he was going to do the most terrible thing that had ever yet been done in golf--he, as an amateur, was going to win the open championship. dr. purves was hurrying along at my elbow as we went, with the gallery, towards the sixteenth hole. "horace," he said to me, in a voice of much solemnity, "this is a great day for golf." it was. johnny was playing with willy campbell, poor willy campbell, splendid player, most gallant of match-fighters, certainly deserving of championship honours and only missing them on the last occasion of the championship being played at prestwick by one of those fatal accidents, very near home, bar which, as aforesaid, johnny ball was bound to win the championship of 1890. but poor willy on that occasion got heavily bunkered; lost his head a little and perhaps his temper more than a little. he had strokes to spare; but he wasted them hammering in that bunker, and when i came into charlie hunter's shop at prestwick half an hour later i saw a sad sight. willy campbell was sitting on an upturned bucket on one side of the door, his caddie had a similar humble seat on the other side of the door, and both were weeping bitterly. this, however, is a digression into a vale of tears. johnny ball did not digress into any such vale. he continued the scoring of the right figures and accomplished the great feat, for an amateur, of winning the open championship. it was a win which made a difference. it seemed at once to bring the open championship within the practical horizon of the amateur for all years to come. it had broken a spell. incidentally it may be noted that it put johnny ball's name higher than any other's had ever been, for he held the championship of the amateurs and of the professionals at the same time. and what interested me much at the moment was the attitude of the professionals towards the result. i had expected that they would feel rather injured by seeing the championship which they had been used to regard as theirs going to an amateur. to my surprise that did not appear to disconcert them in the least. what they did resent, however, so far as resentment may be carried within the limits of perfectly good sportsmanship, was that it should be won by an englishman. you see, it was not only the first time that it had ever been won by any other than a professional, but also the first time it ever had been won by any other than a scot. that is a fact which will strike the reader with astonishment now perhaps, when the poor scots must have become fairly well inured to englishmen annexing the championship. taylor and vardon, to say nothing of harold hilton, have taught them to grin and bear it as best they may. but up to that time a scot had ever been open champion of the game of scotland, and scotland did not much like another taking it. so that was "a great day for golf," as dr. purves had truly said to me. it gave an added interest to all further competitions for this open championship; for what an amateur had once done, it seemed as if an amateur might do again, and thus the active interest was no longer confined to the professionals. the amateurs became at once something more than mere lookers on. there was only one man who did not seem to realize that johnny ball had done a big thing, and that was johnny ball. a week or so later he was playing a friendly match at hoylake, and just as he was starting a stranger came up to him and said, "can you please tell me, is the open champion playing here to-day?" and johnny answered, "yes, i believe he is." on which the stranger started out at score over the links in search of this "open champion," whom, presumably, he expected to recognize by some special halo set about his brow if he should come across him. willie park, fine all-round golfer and magnificent putter, was the previous holder of the championship, which he had won in 1889 at musselburgh; and that was the last occasion on which this open championship ever was played on that excellent old nine-hole course. just at this time the honourable company of edinburgh golfers migrated down to muirfield, and that green, instead of musselburgh, became the third championship arena, the other two, at that date, being st. andrews and prestwick. chapter xxiii golf on the continent and in the channel islands in 1890 i took rooms in london, near a studio, and begun the serious study of anatomy and sculpture, with the idea of taking up sculpture as a profession. it was an idea which conflicted a good deal with the whole-souled devotion to golf. but following an attack of influenza, i went out to biarritz in the winter and there found some of the most curious and amusing golf to be played that a man could meet with--up and down immense cliffs, in lies that were unspeakably bad, and yet, withal, the whole making, by some extraordinary means, not only an interesting species of golf, but also a species that has produced some fine players. massy was then a boy there, going out in the sardine boats when he was not at golf, and thus gaining a perfect indifference to stormy weather which has been very valuable to him in his after life at golf. the storms on the basque coast are not to be beaten: they are scratch, or even _plus_, as tempests. then lord kilmaine gave that cup for foursome match competition between biarritz and pau, which has been the occasion of grand fun every year since. we had a terrific match on the first occasion of its playing. eric hambro and i--he was only a boy then, though a big one--played johnny low and poor bobby boreel, for pau. we were any number of holes up--i forget how many, but the result looked a dead certainty--and then at one hole we put three shots running out of bounds. that was the beginning of our undoing. hole after hole slipped away, and i know that it was only by a kindly dispensation of providence that we even halved that match, which we had reckoned as safely in our pockets. and in playing off the tie, i think (i am not sure) that we were beaten.[6] [illustration: the chasm on the old biarritz course.] [illustration: arnaud massy.] but the result of these matches mattered little. what did matter was the admirable fun we had out of them, the going and coming, to and from pau and biarritz, the entertaining, the mutual compliments, the eating and drinking. all the amenities of the match were so pleasant; for, with the foursome for the cup, was played, at the same time, a team match, of sides representing the two places. some humorous incidents nearly always occurred to make us all happy. after i married, my wife, walking in the gallery, would often hear delightful comments on my play and other qualities, and one or two of the most pleasant of these were culled in these pau and biarritz matches. on one occasion i had roller, the old surrey cricketer, as my partner. he was not playing with very great confidence, and my wife overheard one man in the gallery say to another: "old roller seems a bit nervous, doesn't he?" to which the other replied, "well, you'd be nervous, too, if you were playing with horace hutchinson." "why?" asked the first man, innocently. "because he's got such a devil of a temper" was the reply. that is the sort of comment which it is most unfortunate that a wife should overhear. a failing common in our family is that of going white-haired at a comparatively early age. i began to put on that "crown of a virtuous life" when i was no more than sixteen. partly on that account i have usually had the credit of being some years older than i am, and the golfing reporter, with the usual unconscious humour of his kind, began to write of me as "the veteran" at the age of thirty-five. one of the most constant habituã©s of biarritz was the fine old sportsman mr. corrance, in his day the best shot in norfolk, and, besides, a fine fisherman, billiard player and expert at all sports and pastimes demanding quick harmony of hand and eye. in the course of one of these pau and biarritz matches, when i was playing for the seaside place and we were not going very strongly, mr. corrance found himself walking beside my wife. he knew her quite well, but for the moment had forgotten her name, and at once began to discuss with her the chances of the match. "the mistake is, you know," he said, "playing horace hutchinson. he was a good player once, a very good player; but he's too old now"--i think i was thirty-eight at the time--"they ought to have put in a young man." one of the attractions of returning year by year to biarritz was to note the constantly increasing skill and power of massy. just off the green at biarritz the course was very loose and gritty. the accurate approach was most difficult to play. massy, of his own genius, had developed the playing of the stroke very perfectly, and very curiously. he used to swing the mashie very far back, in proportion to the distance that the ball had to go, and to let it come back to the ball very slowly, with very loose wrist. it is a stroke quite of his own invention, so far as i know, and i never saw anyone else play it quite in the same way nor as accurately. and out of the ranks of the biarritz caddies came other good and great players, such as gassiat and that daugã© of whom braid declares that he can drive a ball to carry as far as his (braid's) ball will go with run and all. it seems a large order, but no doubt this frenchman is a wonder. on the way home from biarritz we used sometimes to take a rest at other french golfing places, and most delightful was dinard, where the course goes out beside a sparkling sea. it was good golf and beautiful. and on one occasion we took the channel islands on our way, and there my wife had yet another chance of hearing pleasant things said of me. stuart anderson was at jersey. he was son of the english clergyman whom we have all known at north berwick. a match was arranged--i think with some little money on it, though i had none--that i should play him thirty-six holes; and coming out in the train from st. heliers to gorey, where the links are, my wife heard some one say to another, discussing the match, "i hope anderson beats that fellow hutchinson; he swaggers so." however, on that occasion, i escaped the salutary chastisement. i played fairly steadily, and after a while stuart anderson broke up a little and let me win pretty easily. the course at jersey is a worthy school for those great golfers, the vardons, ray and so on that it has sent out since; but at that time the one who gave most promise was renouf. he was not more than a boy, but he was a demon putter. i had for caddie at jersey a very small and very stolid little boy. most of the jersey folk are bi-lingual, speaking english and french indifferently, but this little boy seemed to have no tongue at all; i could not get a word out of him. but towards the end of the round there is, or there was, a hole which was just to be reached by an extra long drive from the tee. i made a very fine drive to this green, and the ball, as we came up, proved to be stone dead, just six inches to the right of the hole. and then this astonishing little boy did open his mouth, and, still with the solemnity of a cod-fish on his face, ejaculated this comment on what was perhaps the very finest stroke i ever played in my life--"too much to the roight!" it was perfectly just criticism. the shot was "too much to the roight"--by six inches, at the end of a very long drive. had it not been so, the ball would have been in the hole. i do not know to this day whether that little boy was a humourist of the very finest and dryest--really of the _extra sec_--quality, or whether he was just the very stupidest thing ever made in the channel islands. from there we went to guernsey, where the caddies were certainly anything but stupid. they were little girls, bare-legged and bare-headed, but wonderfully keen and wonderfully pious, for they would make the sign of the cross over the line of the opponent's putt to prevent the ball going into the hole. and really it is extraordinary how difficult it is to putt straight along a line that has been thus crossed. guernsey has a course which is finer in some of its natural qualities than that of jersey, yet it does not seem to have grown a single great golfer, whereas the jersey soil seems to bring them up like weeds. it is rather curious. but the great days of the jersey professors had not yet dawned. harry vardon was still working in a garden not far from the gorey links, with dreams, perhaps, of future glory, but no present achievement. massy was picking the ball up with his marvellous nicety from the loose rubble of the stuff just off the biarritz greens, but had not yet gone in the train of sir everard hambro, my own most kindly host at biarritz, to north berwick. the scottish golfers had received the first shock to their national pride, in seeing the open championship of their own game won by an englishman. it had not yet entered into their astonished heads that it was to be won by invaders from outside the british islands. footnotes: [footnote 6: i have been since assured, by eric (now sir eric) hambro, that we won on the last green.--h.g.h.] chapter xxiv about harold hilton, freddy tait and others what between trying to be sculptor and succeeding in getting married, i did not pay all the attention that i should have done to golf in the early nineties. hilton was runner-up in the amateur championship, first to johnny laidlay and then to johnny ball, in 1891 and 1892 respectively: so we may regard him as thoroughly well arrived. in 1893 mr. peter anderson, at prestwick, beat johnny laidlay in the final for the amateur championship and so broke up our triumvirate. i was not there, and know nothing of the merits of that champion, who soon, on account of an unfortunate chest weakness, migrated to australia. but the amateur championship of 1892 deserves a special word, because it was played for the first time at sandwich. it was a sign of the times, sign of a generous policy on part of the scottish clubs, sign of an extension of the golfing spirit, that this south-country green was welcomed into the sacred number of those on which championships should be played. in that same year, though i was not golfing very assiduously, i was at north berwick when the open championship was played at muirfield, and had a narrow escape of winning that open championship. it was the first year that the competition was extended to an affair of seventy-two holes, stretching over two days. previously, two rounds, or thirty-six holes, had decided it, and at the end of the first two rounds i astonished myself and most other people by finding myself heading all the field. i forget by how many i had the advantage, but i think it was by two or three strokes. then, on the morning of the second day, hitting off from that first tee at muirfield, which then was not far out from the wall, i pulled my very first shot over the garden wall, and took i forget how many to the hole. but i remember intimately that this evil start had a baleful influence against which i struggled in vain; i went from bad to worse, and what my eventual score was for the seventy-two holes i do not know. [illustration: j.e. laidlay. horace g. hutchinson. john ball, junr. p.c. anderson.] [illustration: h.h. hilton.] really it was rather hard luck: if only they had deferred that extension of the test, from thirty-six to seventy-two holes, for one year more i might have written myself open champion, but it was not to be; and as it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, so that extra day gave hilton just the opportunity he wanted. i can see him now as he came up to the last hole--i had gone out to meet him hearing that he had been doing very well--walking along at top speed, chatting volubly with his friends, very pleased with himself, as he well might be, brimful of confidence and with the smoke trailing up from his cigarette, even while he was playing the ball, so that it seemed impossible that he could see through it to hit the ball correctly. but he did hit it mighty correctly, for all that, and won the championship. i believe he did several conjuring tricks during the course of the round, such as holding mashie pitches from the edge of the green. but however he did it, he won, and therewith, from that time forward, established himself as very distinctly the best amateur score-player that we have ever seen. of that there can be no question. so far as i can make out i played very little golf in 1893. probably i was amusing myself with being ill, in some form or other, but in 1894, i had golf and greatness thrust upon me by being elected captain of the royal liverpool golf club. the local people showed me no little kindness, and made my year of office very pleasant. i stayed at the ever hospitable house of alec sinclair, most cheery of companions, just beside the links, and i see by the record that they were kind enough to let me win the first medal on the first day of the spring meeting and again the first medal on the first day of the autumn meeting. the following year i was not at the spring meeting, but at the autumn meeting i won the first medal on both days. the next year again i won the second medal on both days of the autumn meeting--rather a quaint record and one that i am proud of. i am proud, because those hoylake medals were not very easy to win. the local talent, with johnny ball and hilton always on hand--jack graham was not yet a force to reckon with--was very formidable. but i remember that on one of these winning occasions i had a portentous piece of luck. it was playing to the then third hole. we drove from the present second tee, but the green was about where some estimable gentleman's dining-room now stands--far to the left of the present second green. it was a ridge and furrow green, so that though you could reach the hole with an iron club for the second shot you were grateful enough if you holed out in four. by some providential chance my second, with the driving iron, found its way into the hole, saving two clear shots. it is the biggest and best fluke i ever had on a medal day, and i took good advantage of it. by way of showing what an extraordinary condition the handicapping at some of the clubs had fallen into at that date, i may note that johnny ball, hilton and i were all handicapped at hoylake, for a short time about this period, at _plus_ eleven! you see what the effect was--you see what kind of player a scratch player would be, when there were such penalty handicaps as this. as a matter of fact i believe the absurdity arose from a tender feeling for the too acute sensibilities of certain players who had been what was known as "scratch" in the old days and liked to style themselves so still, and yet could only be kept on the scratch mark, in any reasonable handicap, by penalizing the good players to such a terrific extent as this. in that year, 1894, when i was captain of the club, the amateur championship was played on the hoylake course, and i have a lively remembrance of it because it was the first time that i came up against poor freddy tait, as a grown golfer, and suffered at his hands and from the peculiar characteristics of his game. again and again i had the better of him, in a tight and well-fought match, and again and again he came up, from somewhere right off the green, with a wonderful approach, which he followed by a good putt and so halved the hole. going to the last hole we were all even. his second was away to the left, far off the green. he laid up one of his usual approaches and put himself within holable distance. my own second was a very good one, and i had a chance of a three. i know even now that i went for it all too boldly, rather tired by the recoveries of the gallant freddy. he holed his putt. i, with a much shorter one to hole, missed: and so he won hole and match. he was really but a lad then, though a strong and sturdy one, but in the next round he met his master in mure ferguson. that brought mure into the final with johnny ball against him, and very gallantly mure played. johnny had some holes the better of him to begin with, but he was not, even then, playing quite like his old self, and he let mure wear him down, and only by a very daring and splendid shot at the seventeenth hole did he take the lead and practically settle the match, and the championship. freddy tait was the very keenest golfer, as a boy, that i ever saw. i had watched him at st. andrews, growing up from small boy's to young man's estate, and acquiring the mastery of his clubs as he grew. he was a favourite with everybody. at this time, when he beat me at hoylake, he was still in the hard-hitting phase of his game, rejoicing, as a young man will, in his strength, and delighting to let the ball have it. and he had great strength. later, as his game developed, he grew to play more within himself with more reserve force to call up when occasion required it, than any other first-class player, and at times he played very finely and very accurately indeed. but at all times, even when he was not playing accurately, he was very dangerous, just by reason of this, his marvellous faculty for recovery, which he exhibited even in this match against me at hoylake. you never had him beaten at any hole. that not only made him in himself very formidable, but it also made him very difficult to play against, because you never felt any confidence that you had him. i do not know whether it was this quality of his game, or some other influence more psychic and personal, but for some reason harold hilton appeared to find it almost impossible to produce his true game when he was brought up against freddy tait. he gives some account of it in his own reminiscences, showing too that by steadfast work and stern endeavour to get the better of that influence--really it was as if freddy put the evil eye on him--he was succeeding in conquering it. he made a progressively better fight in their later matches. for johnny ball, on the other hand, freddy had no terrors. i was surprised, looking through poor freddy's biography, written by johnny low, to see how consistently johnny ball had the better of freddy--i think with only one exception of any importance at all--in the many matches that they played together. i had thought the balance would have stood far more level, especially as johnny was not quite at his best when freddy began to tackle him. their matches were well fought and close, but johnny won a very big majority. [illustration: freddy tait. (with championship cup.)] chapter xxv. the coming of the three great men i have said that a little white-haired boy used to carry my clubs at westward ho! in my oxford days. also that, a few years later, reappearing as an assistant greenkeeper on the course, he was put against me, representing the northam village club against the royal north devon, and gave me a beating. the next year the club organized a professional tournament. archie simpson, at that time in the best of his form and one of the most likely champions, though he never did win the championship, came down to take part in it, and at a certain point in the competition word came in to the club-house that taylor (he was the little white-haired boy, and the lad who beat me for the village club) was leading the great archie, and likely to beat him. therefore there sallied forth a gallery to see this great thing happen; and thereby effectively prevented its happening, for the gallery affected the untried nerves of the lad, he fell away from grace, and archie simpson just got home on him. soon after that, canon, now monsignor, kennard, carried him off to take charge of the green at burnham in somersetshire, and a year or two later, at the open championship at prestwick (i think in the year that auchterlonie won) taylor electrified everybody by putting in a first round which was better than ever had been heard of before. but he could not keep it going and failed to make good. [illustration: _from "golf and golfers" (longmans, green & co.)_ j.h. taylor. (with his eye on the place where the ball used to be.)] [illustration: harry vardon. "will it go in?"] in 1894 the open was at sandwich. from first to last there was one, and one only, most likely winner--j. h. taylor. his driving was of so marvellous a correctness that it was said that the guide flags were his only hazards, and his pitching was perfect. he was but twenty-three, and i feared all the while lest he should not be able to keep it up. coming to the last hole he had strokes to spare to win it. i think a seven would have served him. i found myself beside philpot, so long at mitcham, but an old northam man, and said, "he's bound to be right now, unless he goes to pieces altogether." philpot answered with confidence, "he won't do that, if i know anything of 'un." and he did not. he played that last hole quite sufficiently well. the championship was his. it meant a great deal, that championship. it meant a great deal not only to taylor personally, but also to all english professional golf. you see, taylor was really the first english professional. hitherto, when we wanted professionals, we had always been importing them from the north. it did not occur to the english caddie that he might become a professional, that there were possibilities, and money, in it. but all these possibilities the success of taylor revealed to the english. moreover, taylor in himself was not only a very fine golfer; he was also a very fine, in some respects a very remarkable, man. he had a character. he was determined to go straight, to give himself all chances. he was teetotal. he had himself perfectly in hand in every way. he was a great example to the profession and to all the english that should take it up, following his example. it is not easy to over-rate what that success of taylor's meant for the professional golf of england. it was an influence which re-acted upon scotland too. the next year, at st. andrews, taylor won again, and really there seemed no particular reason at that time why he should not go on winning indefinitely. he was distinctly more accurate and certain than any of the older men, and there seemed no immediate sign of any younger man coming up to dispute his supremacy. and then at muirfield, the following year, i heard (i was not there) to my surprise that one harry vardon, a jersey man, had tied with him. we had heard of the vardons by this time, but the common idea was that tom, the other brother, was the stronger man. it was not taylor's idea, however. he told me afterwards that he had realized, even then, even before the competition, what a terror this harry vardon was. perhaps it was the consciousness of this that helped harry vardon to beat him in playing off the tie; for beat him, to my great surprise, he did, and so there we have the second of our great men already arrived. in spite of this defeat by the great harry, whose unique greatness even then we did not at all fully appreciate, the big man in golf was still taylor. he was still at the very top of his game. and about the same time we began to hear that there was a young fellow working as a club-maker at the army and navy stores, who was capable of playing a very good game of golf. he was said to be a cousin of douglas rolland, the great driver, and, like him, to come from elie, in fifeshire. his name was james braid. few people knew much about him, but the few who had seen him play had the greatest opinion of his game. he was brought forward, on half-holidays when he could get away from the stores, to play exhibition matches, and amongst these matches was one that he played against taylor at west drayton; and he played that great man to a level finish. that was a result which caused a buzz of talk. the young fellow at the stores was evidently worth watching, perhaps worth exploiting. not very long after this the newly formed club at romford, in essex, found itself in want of a professional. james braid was engaged for the post. i had a game with him shortly after he was appointed to that job, and what impressed me about him more than anything else was the enormous distance that he could smite the ball with the cleek. i remember that this ability to get huge distances with the iron clubs was the quality that had most struck me when first i became acquainted with the game of rolland, and i said to braid, "it seems to me you can drive just as far as douglas rolland can." he looked at me a moment, as if in a kind of mild surprise that i should make such a comment, and said, "oh yes, sir, i think i can do that." it was an amusing answer: also it was an answer which meant a good deal, coming from a man so absolutely unable to swagger or to over-rate his own power as james braid. i realized that we had here a great force in golf; but it was rather a long while before he made that force fully felt. nevertheless it was there: he too had "arrived," though it was not for a year or two that he was fated to begin the writing of his name first on the championship list. but he was there: the triumvirate was complete. never, as leaders at any game, were there three men so closely matched with methods so widely different. you may put that down in large measure, if you please, to the physical, anatomical differences of the three: there was taylor, square, short, compact, stubby; there was braid, long, loose-jointed; and there was vardon, a happy medium between the two, and really a very finely-shaped specimen of a powerful human being. it is hardly to be questioned which of the three had the most perfect and beautiful style. vardon hits up his body a little, away from the ball, as he raises the club--that is a movement which we should tell a learner was apt to unsettle the aim a little. it did not upset vardon's aim; but then vardon was rather past the learner stage. for the rest his style was the perfection of power and ease. taylor, with the ball opposite the right toe and every stroke played rather on the model generally approved for the half iron shot, had a style as peculiar as his "cobby" build, and specially adapted for it. braid swung in a loose-jointed way at the ball that did not suggest the mastery and the accuracy which he achieved. i have spoken of a kind of "divine fury" with which he launched himself at the ball. those were long before the days of his studies in "advanced golf" and so on. i doubt whether he played according to any very conscious method. but the results well justified the method, or the method-lessness. for a while there was little to choose between these three great ones. [illustration: james braid.] [illustration: horace hutchinson and leslie balfour melville at the starting box at st. andrews.] but by degrees it became evident that there was a choice: that one really was distinctly better than the other two. certainly there was a while, just before he had to go to a health resort, with a threatening of tuberculosis, when harry vardon was in a class by himself. for a while he was, i think, two strokes in the round better than either taylor or braid, and, i believe, better than any other man that we have seen. he was the first professional i ever saw play in knickerbockers, and with the flower at his button-hole he set a mode of gaiety and smartness to the rest which younger men were not slow to follow. there was a gay _insouciance_ about his whole manner of addressing himself to the game which was very attractive. it was as different, as their styles were different, from the imperturbability of braid or again from the tense and highly strung temperament of taylor. the three great men provided a striking contrast in every particular. but they had this in common, that they all took the game earnestly and kept themselves very fit and well, in order to do their best in it; therein marking a new point of departure from the usual mode of the scottish professional of old days, who was a happy-go-lucky fellow, not taking all the care of himself that he should if he was to excel in such a strenuous game as golf. and the example of these men was infectious, so that we have now arrived at the date of the coming of the great army of english professionals. chapter xxvi the revolt of the amazons lord moncrief (then wellwood) writing in the badminton book on golf, had said that ladies were relegated and restricted to a species of "jew's quarter" where they were graciously permitted to play with a single club, the putter, those little strokes which we all of us are fond of saying are the most important in the game of golf, but which we all feel to be the least interesting. it was either in 1892 or 1893 that lord eldon asked me to stay with him at his gloucestershire place, stowell park, on the cotswolds, and there, incidentally, i received quite a new impression as to the possibilities of feminine golf. i had already played on the long links at prestwick in foursome matches with the misses whigham--johnny laidlay being the man on the other side, and taking one of the sisters as his partner, while i took the other; but they had not then come to their full golfing due. they were rather in the phase which would now be known as the "flapper stage." still, they played remarkably well. but the most remarkable thing, as we thought then, was not that they should play the long game so well, but that they should play it at all. it was like dr. johnson's comment about the dancing dogs. they played, and we as their partners played, with all consciousness that we were guilty things, doing that which we ought not to do. it was an enormity for ladies to play on the long links at all. at stowell lord eldon had a course of nine very good and interesting holes in the park, and there i found the scott brothers, osmond and denys, playing with their sister, lady margaret. i had never at that time seen any lady capable of playing at all the same kind of game that lady margaret could and did play. you must remember that these were the days of the solid gutta-percha balls, which were far less easy to pick up clean off the ground and raise, without putting a little slice on them, than the modern rubber-cores. the ladies have especially been helped by the more resilient balls which rise more readily. but lady margaret scott had a perfect facility in picking the ball up with her brassey, off the ordinary lie of the course, and sending it flying straight to the mark without any slice on it. she had a very long, an exaggeratedly long, swing back, but then the weakness of the extra long swing back was not realized at that time as it is now, and certainly she never seemed to lose control of the club, although there must have been some wasted labour about it. i never had seen a lady able to play golf at all as lady margaret played the game. she had all the crisp and well-cut approach strokes at her command. it was some years after this that the ladies' championship was started. meanwhile ladies, greatly daring, had begun to play on the long links. as a rule they would have been both better and happier on their own short putting greens; but there were exceptions who were quite able, by their skill, to appreciate the longer courses and to play them as well as the men. as soon as ever the ladies' championship was instituted, lady margaret scott (now hamilton russell) justified all the opinions i had formed of her game by winning that championship three times in annual succession. and i think that the only reason why she did not go on winning it was that she did not go on playing for it. surely she had done enough for glory. it is very unprofitable work trying to estimate the relative golfing merits of different generations, but i am disposed to think that our best ladies of to-day (whom shall we name? i think miss ravenscroft and miss leitch) are not greatly better, if at all, than lady margaret at her best. we have to take the difference in balls into consideration for one thing. it is certain that the change to the livelier ball has helped the best of the ladies more than the best of the men. but i get a certain line of comparison in this way: some of the finest of the lady golfers, when ladies first began to invade the long links, were the misses orr. they used to play at north berwick. but they did not, in the daring fashion of the ladies to-day, claim to play at reasonable hours. they started very early and were finishing their round when lazy men were finishing their breakfast. they were just about representative of the best feminine golf of the time, and on the only occasion in which they took part in the ladies' championship one sister beat another in the final. i played one of them at nairn, giving, as far as i remember, a half, and that seemed to bring us very nearly together. in these latter days, since the ladies have claimed, and as i think, quite rightly claimed, practically an equal right to our long links, we have had several matches at odds of a half, and again they have worked out very level. there was that much-talked-of match between miss cecil leitch and harold hilton. the lady won it. i do not think that either played up to his or her true game, unless it was perhaps miss leitch in the final round. but the match was a close one, showing that the odds were adequate for bringing the sexes to something like a golfing equality. then again, giving the same odds of a half, we played a team of men against a team of ladies at stoke poges. the one side was just about as representative as the other. our masculine side won. to this day i do not know how we won: i do not understand how it is that the best of the men (speaking of amateurs) is able to give the best of the ladies anything like a half, but it does appear that these are very approximately the right odds, and it also appears that these have been just about the odds ever since the ladies began to play the long game. the inference is that the quality of the game of the best of them has not greatly altered. i know that when i played miss violet hezlet in that stoke poges match, i found myself hardly at all in front of her off the tee, when we both hit good shots, going against the wind. down the wind it was quite another story: i could outdrive her usefully with the wind behind. and here i think it possible to give ladies a hint by which they might profit: if they would but tee their ball high, going down the wind, they would find it far more easy to give it that hoist into the air which is essential for its getting advantage of the favour of the breeze. they seem to have a lofty-minded idea that there is something not quite right about putting the ball on a high tee--that it is rather on a par with potting the white at billiards. it is splendid of them to have such fine and noble ideals, but it would be to their practical advantage to forget them now and then. and i am quite sure that the ladies, as a rule, do not take the pains they should about their putting and the short game generally. there is but one of them, miss grant suttie, so far as i have seen, who really studies her putts as a good man player studies them, and that is because she has played so much with men at north berwick and has adopted their methods. she has her advantage therein, for she is the most certain on the green of all the ladies. it is a wonder, seeing that it is a part of the game which demands delicacy of touch and no strength of muscle, that ladies do not putt far better than men. as a general rule they putt far worse. naturally, when this incursion of the ladies arrived on the links of the men, it intensified the trouble of those problems of the congestion of the green which were already beginning to be acute. naturally, too, men dealt with the incursion according to their powers and according to their gallantry. no doubt it was felt that it was a hard and discourteous thing to deny the ladies equal rights, even over the private courses. obviously, on the public courses they had the equal right, and they were not shy of claiming it. on the private courses we used to hear at first, "it's absurd, these ladies not sticking to their own course: they can't drive far enough to be able to appreciate the long course," and so on. but then it very soon became evident that they could drive further and play better than a large number of the male members of the club, which rather knocked the bottom out of that argument. as a rule some compromise was effected, the ladies being restricted to certain hours--after all, the men were generally workers, so that they had the more claim to have the course at their disposal in their hours of leisure. a very good form of compromise is that which is in vogue at biarritz, and it may be commended to the notice of other clubs. there is one afternoon in the week set apart for all and sundry ladies, but besides this there is a permission for ladies whose handicap is four or under to play at any time and on equal terms with the men. this seems to meet the case admirably, for it keeps off the links the inefficient lady players who would be apt to block the green and whose right place is their own short course, while it freely admits those who are capable of appreciating the blessings of the long course and are quite as good golfers as the average of the men whom they will meet there. as time goes on it appears as if we shall be fortunate if the ladies do not take exclusive possession of the links, and only allow us men upon them at the hours which are the least convenient. chapter xxvii the making of inland courses the first architect of the inland courses, when golfers began to learn that inland courses might, in some large measure, give them the game that they wanted, was tom dunn. he went about the country laying the courses out, and as he was a very courteous nature's gentleman, and always liked to say the pleasant thing, he gave praise to each course, as he contrived it, so liberally that some wag invented the conundrum. "mention any inland course of which tom dunn has not said that it is the best of its kind ever seen." his idea--and really he had but one--was to throw up a barrier, with a ditch, called for euphony's sake a "bunker," on the near side of it, right across the course, to be carried from the tee, another of the same kind to be carried with the second shot, and similarly a third, if it was a three shot hole, for the third shot. it was a simple plan, nor is tom dunn to be censured because he could not evolve something more like a colourable imitation of the natural hazard. a man is not to be criticized because he is not in advance of his time. moreover, these barriers had at least the merit that they were uncompromising. you had to be over them, or else you found perdition, and if you only hacked the ball out a little way beyond the first barrier with your first shot you could not carry the second barrier with your third. you were like a hurdle racer who has got out of his stride. the course, constructed on these lines, on which i used to play most, from london, was prince's at mitcham--the most convenient of access of all, before the days of motors. i used to have great matches here with jack white, before sunningdale was made and he went there in charge. subsequently the mantle of tom dunn, as course constructor in chief, fell on the shoulders of willy park, and his ideas were more varied. he was also a good deal more thorough, more elaborate and more expensive in his dealings with the inland courses. he was the first to advocate the wholesale ploughing up of the soil of the course, and the re-sowing. he architected broadstone, sunningdale and a host more, and when he had finished with the sunningdale green he had certainly produced the best thing in the way of an inland course that up to that time had been created. he did his work well, but it was not entirely or even mainly due to him that sunningdale was so good. the soil was more light and sandy, more like the real seaside links, than that of any other inland course. they had done wonderful things at new zealand, where mr. lock-king, with mure ferguson aiding and abetting, had fastened mighty engines to pine trees and dragged them up by the roots, fashioning a golf course out of a pine forest. that was pioneer's work in a double sense, for it not only engineered this particular course where the trees had covered all the land, but it also showed to other people how possible it was to make a course out of forest in other places. it is not only possible, but it is also a good deal less laborious, to grub up the forest trees than it is to get rid of a very dense growth of smaller undergrowth, such as there was to deal with at le touquet, in france, for instance. then the soil in all this pine forest country, such as we see about woking and byfleet, is very light and sandy, as the inland soils go, so that it was fine natural material for golf when once the trees had gone. the latest construction of the kind is at st. george's hill, near weybridge, where the trees had been much better cared for for generations and in consequence were far larger and more difficult of up-rooting than at new zealand. there they had to blast the boles of the trees with dynamite before they could get them out of the ground. but of course the bigger timber was of greater value and helped to pay the labour bill. these forest courses have done another thing for us, they have taught us the value of a tree as a golfing hazard. our forefathers would have scoffed at the idea of a tree on a golf links, although there was for many a long year opportunity for the golfer to find trouble in the trees which came out threatening the course at a certain point at north berwick. but then they did not have their actual roots in the soil of the links itself. they were outside it, over the boundary wall. but as for the opportunities which the tree hazard gives for those subtleties of slicing and pulling round, or of cutting the ball up with a very vertical rise, let those who have seen harry vardon on a course of this tree-beset kind bear witness. and the tree has at least this virtue: that it is permanent. it does not get trodden down and hacked out of existence by a niblick as the faint-hearted whin does. at woking the natural trouble on the ground was heather rather than trees, and a fine course they have made of it. but of all, that at sunningdale has always seemed to me just about the best of the inland ones--certainly the best of the earlier made ones. then i was at walton heath, as a guest of mr. cosmo bonsor's kindly hospitality, when that great inland green was opened. harry colt had by that time gone to sunningdale, and was making improvements on the original plan of willy park, but walton heath was a monument to the skill of that other of our amateur course constructors, herbert fowler. he made a very good thing of it, as the wonderful success of that club has testified since. but it soon passed out of the hands of mr. bonsor, and for how much the energy of sir george riddell, who acquired the chief interest in it, counted in its popularity it would be very hard to say. assuredly it counted for a great deal. then they had james braid, importing him from romford, and his attractive personality and great fame helped the club. another like him, our old friend taylor, was by this time established at mid-surrey, and the club there was a power, by reason of the goodness of its green, its numbers and the strong players belonging to it. it would be a very dull and futile business to go into all the development of the inland golf which went on during these years. enough has been said. but you could not draw anything like a full picture of the golf of the last fifty years without noticing this development. the inland clubs, and especially those about london, have become a force. as their members go forth to play from the big city which is the common centre they are the better able to make their opinion felt; and their word has become of importance in modern golf. it is possible that it is destined to have a larger importance yet. but i have no business with prophecy. and also there are big inland clubs, which have already brought weight to bear on golfing counsels, in the midlands. they have associated themselves into a union, as have several other clusters, and all these help in the forming and expression of opinion. but, apart from all this, the great reason why they attract members and why they are able to carry weight at all is that their courses are so good. the course constructor has been learning, and so has the greenkeeper. i had a delightful letter from peter lees, the famous greenkeeper to the mid-surrey club. he writes: "when i find the worms too numerous, i reduce them." the worm used to be the great trouble and despair of the guardian of the inland putting green in the old days, but here we have lees writing of dealing with them as it were by the very nod of jove. when he finds them too numerous, he "reduces them." the mode of reduction is so well known and so easy that he does not think it worth while to waste a word of explanation on it. we have the nice story of a certain greenkeeper of the olden school being asked, "what kind of grass is this?" the inquirer referring to a sample that he had just picked up from the course. "oh," came the puzzled reply, "there's only one sort of grass--green grass." that is a reply that is almost typical of the "green-ness" of the greenkeeper in the earliest days of the management--if that is the right word for it--of the inland greens, but the modern keeper has to "discourse in learned phrases" of such varieties as fescues and poas, and hardly thinks himself entitled to full respect unless he can fire you off all the latin names of the varieties of grasses that occur on our inland greens and courses. the keeping has really become quite a science. and at their best, that is when the weather is treating them kindly, there is not that vast difference in quality between the best of our inland greens and the seaside greens which our forefathers have led us to suppose. the big merit of the seaside links, which the inland can never hope to match, is that it is such a good all-weather course. with its porous soil it does not become so water-logged in the wet years, nor does it become so dessicated in the dry. it is a more perpetual joy. but the days are long past when men could say that the seaside links were the only ones worth playing on, or that the seaside clubs alone were worthy of attention. chapter xxviii various championships and the wandering societies whether on account of ill-health, or for what reasons, i do not know, i was not a very sedulous attendant at the championships in the later nineties. the consequence was that i missed seeing one or two very notable finishes. i was not at st. andrews, for instance, that year when leslie balfour-melville won, having carried each of his last three matches to the nineteenth hole, and each of his three opponents being obliging enough to plop his ball into the burn at that very crucial point of the business. what made it the more notable is that the last of these burn-ploppers was no other than johnny ball himself. neither was i at muirfield when dr. allan won, bicycling over each day, from a considerable distance, to the course, and playing without a nail in his boot--surely the most casual and unconcerned of champions. and i missed, too, that great finish between johnny ball and freddy tait, at prestwick, when they were all even at the end of thirty-six holes, after playing the ball out of water and doing all kinds of conjuring tricks at the thirty-fifth hole: and then johnny settled the affair by getting a scarcely human three at the thirty-seventh. but i was at sandwich a year or two before when freddy tait did win the championship, beating harold hilton in the final. i was even one of his victims on that occasion. he was playing well, but he gave me a chance or two going out and i was two up at the turn. then, at the tenth hole i had a bit of bad luck: i lay, off the tee shot, in the middle of the course, right in a deep divot-cut left by a never identified but never to be sufficiently execrated sinner. so freddy won that hole, and he out-played me soundly on the long holes coming in. i remember that i had a great fight the day before with that very gallant golfer, who never did himself full justice in the big fights, arnold blyth. we halved the round and i only beat him at the twenty-second hole. [illustration: amateur championship, st. andrews, 1901. j.l. low (driving) and h.h. hilton.] [illustration: amateur championship, st. andrews, 1895. john ball. f.g. tait (studying his putt).] i was at st. andrews, too, in 1901 and saw the finish between harold hilton and johnny low, one of the best that ever has been played. here, too, i was the victim of the ultimate winner; and i do not know that i had any need to be beaten by him, for though hilton won this championship, he has said himself in his memoirs that he was not playing as he should, at the time. i believe the truth to have been, as he himself suggests, that we were all a little frightened of him. i remember we started in pouring rain, and he won the first three holes off me. then the weather improved and so did i, so that i wore off these three holes and got one up with five to play. at this fatal point i pulled my tee shot into one of those pernicious little bunkers on the elysian fields called the beardies, and the final holes hilton played more strongly than i did and won by two and one to play. it is a curious thing that the only other time of my meeting him in the amateur championship, which was at hoylake in the year that johnny ball won from aylmer in the final, the match was almost a replica of this former one. again he won the first three holes, again i wore him down and got one up with five to play, and again i chucked away the advantage, and it looked almost sure that he would again win by two and one. but i holed a good putt at the seventeenth to save that hole. he gave me no chance of winning the last, and so again he beat me. these are the only two meetings we have had in the championship, and neither, from my point of view, is very glorious in the telling. the year 1900 was a very unhappy one in the history of golf. in that year a boer bullet ended the life of one of the most gay and gallant-hearted fellows that ever took up a club, freddy tait, and incidentally took a good deal of the interest out of the golf of our generation. that year, and also the next, johnny ball was out at the war, and did not take part in the championship; and i think that these are actually the only two occasions since the institution of the amateur championship that he has not had a hand in it. he is very capable of taking a master hand still. i have said little of the open championship during these years, for the reason that it has never had anything like the same attraction for me, either to play in or as a spectacle, as the amateur, in which golfers are brought together in matches, and there is the clash of temperaments, the man to man contest, the one bringing out (or driving in, as the case may be) all that is best in the other. i cannot see that any scoring competition ever competes, in the human and psychological interest, with such duels as these. but the story of the open championship for very many a year now--that is to say, from 1899 right away to 1913--is the story of the repeated triumphs of three men, taylor, vardon, braid, one or other accounting for the championship in no less than fifteen of these years, and for the rest allowing a win each to harold hilton, to herd, to white, to massy and to ray--a wonderful record, but one which shows a certain monotony. of the championship of 1902, both amateur and open, the story has its peculiar interest, because this was the year of the introduction of the indiarubber-cored--then called haskell--balls, about which many fables are to be narrated. and i am going to cut the story of these championships rather short, at this point, because i seem to have so much to say both about the first haskell ball championship and also about the amateur championships of 1903 and 1904, that either one of them cries aloud for the dignity of a chapter all to itself. these, or just about these, were the years of the formation of the wandering teams, notably of the oxford and cambridge golfing society, formed on the model of the wandering cricket clubs, such as the i. zingari and the free foresters. these admirable institutions had no club-house, no green, only a corporate existence, and they said to the various clubs, "now, you give us the free run of your course and a free luncheon and other entertainment, and if you do this we'll be so good as to come down and play a team match against your members and probably give them a jolly good beating." that was the kind of proposal which they made to the clubs, and the pleasant sign of the times and of good sportsmanship and feeling is that the clubs were so very ready to entertain it--both the proposals and the societies. there were the bar golfing society, the solicitors', the army--every self-respecting profession had to have its golfing society. the oxford and cambridge, of which i had the honour to be first president, being succeeded in that honourable post by mr. arthur balfour, went on pilgrimage actually as far as the united states; and very well they did there, under the leadership of johnny low and with johnny bramston, the hunter brothers and other fine golfers assisting. but as for the most part of these golfing enterprises of the wanderers, who, generally speaking, had their headquarters in the great metropolis, it is evident that they had to find their happy hunting grounds somewhere round about london, within reasonable reach, and that was only possible by virtue of the rise of all those inland greens within a short distance of the big town, which has had the further effect of drawing down into what we call the "southern section" the very big majority of the best professional players. this geographical golfing phrase of "southern section" is one that has arisen only out of the conditions created by that great tournament for the professionals promoted by the _news of the world_ newspaper; and that competition itself is a witness to the growing recognition by the english world of the importance of golf and of its financial meaning. golf was of use in the way of big advertisement. also, the largest proprietors of the _news of the world_ were, and are, very good golfers and sportsmen, and doubtless appreciate all the good sport that this tournament provides. but, at the same time, we should, i think, wrong their commercial instincts if we did not realize that they see good advertisement in it besides. men's motives are mixed. how well that team of oxford and cambridge graduates that went to america performed, we hardly realized at the time. we had a tendency to under-rate the american ability for golf, and the very fact that these pilgrims did so well inclined us all the more to make light of the american prowess. we are now, in course of the story, within sight of the year when mr. walter travis, coming over here, was to give us a very different idea of the american capacity. we then began, perhaps, to go to the other extreme and to over-rate what they could do. they seemed to have "established a funk," to put it in homely phrase, which only harold hilton, going to america as our amateur champion and coming back with all the glory of the american amateur championship about him too, could altogether dissipate. but before that happened a lot of water had to run under the bridges. chapter xxix the comic coming of the haskell ball in 1891 my brother-in-law, returning from a visit to america, came down to stay and to play golf with me at ashdown forest, and brought with him a dozen or two of a new kind of ball which, he said, had lately been invented in the united states and was the best ball in the world. the balls were called, as he told me, haskells. we went out to play with them. he, as it happened, played very badly, and in a very short time he was perfectly ready to go into any court of law and take his oath that they were the worst balls in the world. i had formed my own opinion of them, much more in accord with the verdict with which he had first introduced them to me than with that condemnatory one which he passed on them after two days of being off his game; but i refrained from expressing my opinion too emphatically, with the result that when he went away he said that, as for the remnant of the balls, he was not going to be bothered "to take the beastly things away," so that i found myself the possessor of a couple of dozen or so of excellent haskell balls--being, as he had said, in the first instance, the best balls in the world--at a time when no one else in great britain had such a ball at all! [illustration: old leather ball.] [illustration: hand-hammered gutty.] [illustration: machine-marked gutty.] [illustration: duncan. taylor. braid. vardon. gutty _v._ rubber core.] it is quite true that some months previously, at north berwick, i had been given to try, by a professional who had just returned from the states, a ball which i now recognized to be the same, in some of its essentials, as these haskells which my brother-in-law brought over. it was the same, except for one external but extremely important essential--its nicks were ridiculously too light and slight, not nearly enough indented. so i tried that ball and found it wanting--it would not fly at all. but what i did not realize at the time was the reason why it did not fly; or, if i did realize, as one could not fail to do, that the nicks were not emphatic enough, i had not a suspicion of the merit of its interior qualities. i had not appreciated that it was an amazingly good ball if only this slight matter of its exterior marking had been attended to. i had taken no more thought or notice of it. armed with these new weapons i prepared to go out to biarritz, where the annual foursome match against pau was just impending. my partner was to be evy martin smith, and as soon as i arrived i told him that we must use these new balls for the match. he strongly objected, being a firm conservative, tried the balls, with every intention of disliking them, and disliked them accordingly. the fact is that i was, at this moment, just the last man in the world to appear on any scene as an advocate of a new ball. only a year or two before i had taken an unfortunate interest in a patent substance called "maponite," of which, in addition to a thousand and one other things for which gutta-percha and indiarubber are used, golf balls were to be made. and wherein exactly was the weak point about the stuff as a material for golf balls i never knew, for the trial balls that they made for us were excellent--i remember that i won an open tournament at brancaster with them--but as soon as ever they began to turn them out in numbers they were useful for one end only--for the good of the club-makers--for they were hard stony things which broke up the wooden clubs as if one had used the clubs as stone hammers. so i was not a good apostle of a new ball--rather discredited in fact--but i did induce evy smith to play with the ball finally, under deep protest, and we justified its use by winning. meanwhile the balls were beginning to filter from america into england. it was difficult indeed to get people to appreciate their merits: the balls were not numerous, and were still hard to obtain. at johnny low's request i sent him one for trial. he was writing at that time in the _athletic news_. he wrote a most amusing article about the ball--said that he had tried a stroke or two with it in his room, and had found it so resilient that it went bounding about the room like a fives ball in a squash court and finally disappeared up the chimney and was never seen again. in fine, he gave the ball his banning, "not because it was an expensive ball"--it is to be remembered that it was rather a shock to be asked to pay two and sixpence for a golf ball, whereas before we had paid a shilling as the normal price--"but because it was a bad ball," meaning a ball "singularly ill-adapted for the purpose" of golf. so difficult is it for even a clever man and wise in the royal and ancient wisdom, as johnny low undoubtedly is, to keep an unprejudiced judgment about any new thing. expensive as the ball was in the beginning, it was soon found that it was far more economical than the solid "gutty"; both because it lasted in playable condition far longer and also because it did not knock about the wooden club to anything like the same extent. but within a very short while there came such a demand for those balls, so greatly in excess of the supply, that there was a time when as much as a guinea apiece was paid for them, and numbers changed hands at ten shillings. that was round and about the time of the championships, both open and amateur being held that year at hoylake, and both these championships were won with the haskell balls. i am calling these balls haskells, because that is the name by which they were known and spoken of, after their american inventor, at this time. the reluctance of players to use them, and the gradual overcoming of that reluctance, had many comic incidents associated with it. the amateur championship that year was full of wonders. it was won by charles hutchings, he being then a grandfather and fifty-two years of age. he knocked me out, among other better men, beating me at the last hole. and then he beat that brilliant and greatly to be regretted young golfer, johnny bramston. in the final he had to play fry, and established a very big lead on him in the first round. he had about six holes in hand with only nine to play, and then fry began to do conjuring tricks, holing putts from the edge of the green, and so on. in the event charles hutchings just won by a single hole after one of the most remarkable final matches in the whole story of that championship. and it is to be noted that these two finalists, who proved themselves better able than most others to adapt themselves to the new touch of these livelier balls--for nearly all the competitors used the haskells--were extremely good billiard players. fry had won the amateur championship of billiards more than once, and hutchings was quite capable of such atrocities as a three-figure break. i think the sensitive fingers of these billiard players helped them to get the touch of these livelier balls which were so "kittle" for the approach and putting. after the amateur came the open, in which i did not take a hand, but i heard a great deal of the preliminary discussions about it. of course, if the amateurs were difficult to convince about the merits of the new balls, the professionals, who had their vested interest in the old, and did not know how these were to be affected by the coming of the new, were harder still to convince. however, the balls were too good to be denied. andrew kirkaldy, a shrewd man, and one, besides, who had no interest in the sale of balls, solid or rubber cored, was one of the first and most enthusiastic converts. "the puggy," he declared, "is a great ba'." he called it "puggy," which is scottish for monkey, because it jumped about so. "ye canna' tak' eighty strokes to the roun' wi' a puggy--the puggy will na' gae roun' in eighty strokes." however, on the morrow of making that brave statement, he contrived, even with the "puggy," to take several strokes more than eighty to go round the hoylake course for the championship. alec herd was one of the most uncompromising opponents of the new ball until the very day of the championship. he had declared that he hoped everybody else would play with the haskell, but that for his own part he meant to stick to his old friend. and then, on the day of the play, behold herd, who had said these things, teeing up a haskell himself on the first tee, and continuing play with it until he had won the championship! it was a bit of luck for him, hitting on the truth about the merits of the ball just at the right moment. i do not think he would ever have won the championship save for the haskell ball. at the same time it is only fair to him to say this, that he was--at least i think so--quite unlucky not to win the championship two years previously. it was the year that taylor won at st. andrews, and at that date, and for some little while before the championship, herd had certainly been playing the best golf of anybody. then the weather changed, just on the eve of the championship. there came abundance of rain, which put the greens into just the condition that taylor liked. he won that championship, and herd, i think, was a little unfortunate not to win. but fortune restored the balance of her favours by giving him this win at hoylake with the new ball long after we had ceased to think him a likely champion. thus once again, "justice has been done." therewith the haskell ball made its reputation and came to stay. there was a talk of ruling it out, by the rules of golf committee, but hall blyth, then chairman, agreed with me and others that it had won its way too far into popularity to be made illegal, and the idea of legislating it out was dropped. chapter xxx an historic match and an historic type willy park, always a man of some practical ingenuity, as well as a magnificent golfer, had lately invented and patented a peculiar type of putter. he had also invented, by way of an advertisement of this crooked-necked club of his, the dictum that "the man who can putt is a match for anybody." now park, besides his other fine qualities, was a very gallant golfer. it had been his way for some years, as soon as some man--be it douglas rolland, or any other--had come to the top of the golfing tree, so that everybody was talking about him and saying what a fine fellow he was, to challenge this fine top bird of the roost, and back his challenge with a â£50 or â£100 stake. there may have been a tinge of advertisement about it, for park was a good man of business and the first of the professionals to realize what money there was in establishing golf shops, but chiefly, i think, he played these matches for the pure sport of the thing. so now, harry vardon, being beyond dispute, at the tree top, park must issue a challenge to play him for a money stake, a home and home match, two rounds at north berwick and two at ganton. now you have to realize that in those days harry vardon was so great a man, there was so much keenness to see him play, that when he went out the gallery followed him, they watched his every stroke, and they paid no more attention than if he had no existence at all to the poor wretch who chanced to be partnered with him. they would trample on this unfortunate creature's ball without the slightest remorse: he was rather lucky if he were not thrown down and trampled to death himself by the throng. [illustration: the amateur side at sandwich in 1894. standing (from left to right): a. stuart, s. mure fergusson, john ball, f.g. tait. sitting: h.g. hutchinson, charles hutchings, a.d. blyth, h.h. hilton.] [illustration: the professional side at sandwich in 1894. standing (from left to right): willie park, a. simpson, a. kirkcaldy, w. auchterlonie. sitting: j.h. taylor, a. herd, d. rolland, w. fernie.] [illustration: "fiery"--willie park's caddie.] willy park was a shrewd scot. he was not going to have any of this nonsense when "the man who could putt" set out to prove, for money, that he was a match for anyone, even for harry vardon at his best. the match opened, therefore, at its very second shot, on the note of comedy. park had gone a little further off the tee than harry vardon, toward the bunker guarding point garry hill. that meant that harry vardon had to play first, and after his play of the second shot the gallery made a start to dash in, in their accustomed manner, quite regardless of the other partner to the match. park proceeded to teach them their lesson at the outset. he did not hurry, like a guilty thing, to play his shot, as most of the others who played with vardon used to do: instead, he left his ball altogether, with "fiery," his faithful caddie, standing guard over it. the people crowded forward as far as fiery, but they were not at all likely to go beyond him, most faithful henchman, and rather truculent watch-dog, with round scotch bonnet and streamers floating behind, the clubs loose held, out of the bag, beneath his arm--i rather think he would have called it his "oxter"--because he had for years carried clubs before bags came into use, and the fine smoothness and polish of the club handles was apt to be spoilt by dragging them in and out of the bag. i never heard nor cared what other name he had than fiery, of which the propriety was written in flaming colours on his face. so he stood, facing and keeping back the crowd from the ball--a subject not unworthy of an historical picture and by no means to be disregarded as a point in the golfing story of the last fifty years, because he was a type, and nearly the last, of the old scottish caddies, and because this match was among the last of those of the old style. park's school was really a generation behind that to which belonged the modern triumvirate. so park walked on, having left his ball; he walked on to the foot of point garry hill; then he ascended it, with great leisure, quite regardless that the people raged together, and he looked at the flag, which he did not in the least desire to see. all he did desire was to teach the gallery their lesson, that he, park, meant to count for something in this match, that harry vardon was not the only player; and when he had thus taught the lesson, which it were better that the people should learn first than last, he came back leisurely to his ball again and played it. they took their lesson well--a scottish crowd is not slow at the up-take and has its sense of humour. moreover, park was their man, being a scot. they liked to see him taking himself seriously, and they did not crowd on him inconveniently again. and it was a most amusing match to watch, though just a little pathetic too. willy park was most emphatically "the man who could putt." he told me that he had been practising putting for that match to the tune of from six to eight hours a day. it sounds terribly dull work; but certainly park was rewarded for it, for i never saw such putting, day in and day out, as he was doing about the time of that match. and in the match he putted extraordinarily. i speak only of the first portion, at north berwick. i did not see the latter end of it at ganton; but i think the result, if there ever could be, from the start, a moment's doubt about it, was virtually all settled on the first thirty-six holes. park putted extraordinarily, but he still had to prove his dictum that the man who could putt was a match for anybody. vardon as surely could not putt; but then he played all the rest of the game to a beautiful perfection, whereas poor park could not drive. he developed, at its worst, that tendency to hook his drives which has always been a danger to him. he arrived on the greens one stroke, or even two, behind vardon. but then he put the putt in, whereas vardon often neglected the simple precaution of laying it dead. so it went on, park saving himself again and again by this marvellous putting, and at last, after he had holed one of fifteen yards right across the green, a crusty old scot in the gallery was heard grumbling to himself in his beard: "the on'y raisonable putt i've seen the day." what he had come out expecting, an all-knowing providence alone can say. but the strain of those repeated saves of holes apparently lost was too severe to last. vardon put a useful balance of holes to his credit even at north berwick. the final half of the match was to be played on his own course of ganton. there was only one possible conclusion to it. at the end of the north berwick contest i suggested to park that he would have to re-edit his dictum so that it should run "the man who can putt is a match for anybody--except harry vardon," and he confessed, with a melancholy grin, that he believed he would have to accept that emendation. with the disappearance of the old scottish caddie, of whom fiery might very well stand for the prototype, there passed much of the old order of golf, making way for the new. these old caddies themselves counted for very much more in the play of the game than our modern club-carriers, who are usually beasts of burden (and little beasts at that, just passed out of their board school standards) and nothing more. they know the names of the clubs, so as to give you what you ask for, and that is about as much as is expected of them. sometimes they take a keen interest, and identify themselves with their master's interests; but such fidelity and keenness are rather exceptional. the ancient caddie was a grown man: he was not, perhaps, an ensample of all the virtues, and if he turned up on a monday morning without a certain redness of the nose and possibly a blackness of the eye, indicating a rather stormy saturday night, of which the intervening day of rest had not wholly removed the damages, you might admire and be thankful. but his zeal for your matches was unfailing. he made it a point of honour to do all that the law allowed him, and all that it did not allow him, so long as he was not found out, to aid and abet your inefficiency. he expected that you should consult him about the club that you should take, about the line on which you should play and about the gradients of a putt. he was a profound student of human nature, discovered the weaknesses of your opponent and urged you by counsel and example to take advantage of them. in my early days at st. andrews, when i was playing a match with david lamb, i was surprised, and more than a little shocked, by the counsel that one of these sapient caddies gave me: "let us walk oot pretty smartly after the ba', sir. mr. lamb canna' bear to be hurried." that was the proposal--that just because mr. lamb had a dislike to playing in a hurry, we should hasten on after the ball so as to induce him, by the power of suggestion, to hurry also, and so put him off his game. needless to say, as soon as my innocence had succeeded in comprehending the inward meaning of the counsel, i repudiated it with scorn and rebuked the caddie bitterly for suggesting it; and, equally needless to say, he thought me both a thankless person and a very particular species of sassenach fool for so rejecting it. i have often thought that had bret harte known the old scottish caddie he would not have needed to go to the orient and to the yellow race for the type of mind that he has sketched in his _heathen chinee_. nevertheless there was very much that was attractive and likeable in these henchmen of a fervid loyalty and few moral attributes besides, and their extermination, with that of other strange _fer㦠naturã¦_, is to be regretted. chapter xxxi the international match certainly the royal liverpool club has deserved well of the golfing community. it started the amateur championship, and in 1891 or 1892 the idea occurred to some enterprising genius at hoylake of the international match. what though interest rather waned in it, and it has been abandoned now, during the years that it was played it was an interest to many, both of those who played in it and of those who merely looked on. they called me into their counsels and we roughed out some such scheme as was ultimately adopted. there was much talk as to whether it were better to score by match only, or by aggregate of holes won and lost only, or by a combination of the two. i favoured the combination, but lost, and "matches only" has always been the scoring adopted. it is not to be denied that we of england received a very grievous shock when we learned that jack graham was not going to play on our side, but intended to throw in his golfing lot with scotland, the country of his origin. of course he had a perfect right to do so. he is a scot,[7] i believe on both sides, but then the idea had been, in the institution of this match, trial of the golf learnt in england against the golf of scotland, and if jack graham himself was pure scot, his golf was pure sassenach, every stroke of it learnt on that hoylake where he lived. it is not too much to say that that decision of jack graham upset the balance of forces very materially, for this match was always (save for one occasion) played before the amateur championship tournament, and jack was, and is, a terrible player in the early stages of any meeting. it is apparently his constitutional misfortune that he is not able to last through a long sustained trial. twice certainly, and i think three times, i have taken one of the bronze medals of the championship while he has had the other: that is to say, that both of us have survived to the semi-final heat. but further than that, jack has never been able to last, and has been beaten at that point by men to whom he could give three strokes comfortably in ordinary circumstances and in the earlier stages of the tournament. he has been a terrible disappointment to us all, in this way, for a more brilliant amateur golfer never played. it is his health that has knocked him out every time--a lack of robust nerves. this going over of jack graham to the enemy, as we regarded it, introduced another small trouble into the international match. it was always said (with what basis of fact i hardly know) that it would cause too much "feeling" in hoylake if he were pitted against either johnny ball or harold hilton in this match. so the sides had to be so arranged that this terrible thing should not happen--it was all rather farcical. as it was, i had to play jack graham in the first international match, which was at hoylake, and took a sound beating from him. that first fight was the occasion of a battle royal between johnny ball and bobby maxwell, the former only winning, though it was on his own green, by a single hole on the thirty-six. during these years bobby was rather regarded as the champion of the scottish amateurs, and the international match would be notable, if for nothing else, for the homeric contests between these two. the most fantastic of them happened in the year when exceptionally, as i have noted above, the match was played before, not after, the amateur championship. it was at muirfield, in 1903, when i got into the final, only to be beaten handsomely there by bobby maxwell. we played the international match the next day, and i had to fight fred mackenzie, who afterwards went as a professional to america and is now at home again and playing very good golf at st. andrews. he did not play very good golf that day, however, though it was good enough to beat me; for i found myself not tired exactly, but utterly indifferent, after all the strain of the championship, which i had had to endure up to the final round, and could not tune myself up to concert pitch at all. but on bobby it was very clear that the strain had not told in anything like the same way. he played extraordinarily. i do not believe that johnny ball played badly at all, yet he was beaten, i think, by more holes than any other man ever has lost in the international match. whenever he did a hole in a stroke over the right number, bobby maxwell did it in the right number; and whenever johnny did it in the right number, bobby performed a miracle and did it in one less. one of the most amusing matches i ever did play was with gordon simpson, a few years later, in the international when again it was at muirfield. on the first round i was four up at the fourteenth hole; and then i let him win all the last four holes, so that we came in to luncheon all even. then, in the next round, he was four up at the fourteenth, and, exactly as i had done in the morning, so he, in the afternoon, let me win all the last four holes. he got a good three at the thirty-seventh--the hole was in a very "kittle" place and the green was mighty keen, so that the three was hard to get--and so won the match. but in the course of that match i did a thing that i never have done before or since. he laid me a stimy, with his ball so near the hole that the only chance was to pitch my own ball right into the hole. by a bit of good luck i did it, but by a bit of unconscionable bad luck, the ball, after rattling about against the tin inside, came out again and stood on the lip of the hole. as the match was played, it just made the difference; but even had i won, it would not have made the difference in the whole team match. scotland, as usual, were too good for us and had a match to spare. i had played gordon simpson once, many years before, in the amateur championship, when he was a student at st. andrews' university, and the circumstances had been amusing. he was the champion of the university, and when we set forth from the first tee we were accompanied by a gallery which appeared to me as if it must include all the youth of that venerable seat of learning. they behaved wonderfully well, with a great deal of sportsmanlike consideration for my feelings, but at the same time were naturally so dead keen on their own man that they would have been something more than human, or older than undergraduates, had they been able to refrain from a little baring back of the teeth, and just the murmur of a growl, when i happened to hole a good putt. unfortunately things went rather badly for their hero at the start. i contrived to get a lead of some four holes on him, and hung on to them till the match was finished. of course i did my best to win, but i never in my life won a match which gave me less satisfaction. it was so hard on the university champion, surrounded by all his best friends. however, he had his revenge, as said, at muirfield. but as for this stimy loft, into the hole and out again, it is quite sure that there was something not just right about the tins in use in the muirfield holes at that time, for it happened to bernard darwin to play precisely the same stroke with precisely the same result in the championship. the fact is that if the flooring of the tin is set at a certain angle this chucking out again of a ball lofted in becomes a dynamical certainty. the makers of the tins ought to see to it that the floor is not set at this angle. if it is set nearly horizontal the thing does not happen, and it is when set too vertically that it is almost bound to occur. but, except for this case of my own ball and that of bernard darwin's, i have never heard of another instance of the kind, though probably golfing history can furnish many. the last occasion, before its death of inanition, on which the international match was played, it was played in foursomes. i do not think that was an experiment likely to prolong its life. with all respect in the world for the foursome as a very pleasant pastime, i cannot believe in it as anything like the test of golf that a single provides. to me it is an infinitely more easy form of the game, though i am well aware there are good judges and good players who think otherwise. i can only say that for my own part it has always been easier for me to play well in a foursome than in a single. it is not, i believe, the common experience. i am inclined to think it is a pity that the international match is dead. there are many who would like it revived. it gave useful practice to the young players coming on, who thus had a chance, apart from the championship, of showing what they could do in good company. that was its value, more than as a spectacle of the two countries set in array against each other. scotland nearly always had the better of us. for one thing they have always seemed to lunch more wisely or more well than we of england. perhaps their digestion is more powerful. at all events it has happened again and again that we have been leading finely at luncheon, only to be beaten decisively in the end. but if we had had jack graham on our side even this lack of the gastric juices would not, i think, have turned the day so often against us. footnotes: [footnote 7: alas, if writing to-day, in 1919, it is in the past tense that this and some following passages would need to be phrased. he was gallant in volunteering, joined a scottish regiment, and met a soldier's death.] chapter xxxii how mr. justice buckley kept his eye on the haskell ball one night i was going north by one of the sleeping trains and, having business late in the afternoon in holborn, did not return to the civilized parts of the town, but dined at the inns of court hotel. there are little tables for two, and at mine was dining also a man with whom i got into conversation. he told me he came from glasgow and was in town on a business which he dared say i should think a very curious one--a big lawsuit pending about such a small matter as a ball used in the playing of the game of golf. did i play golf? i said, "a little." i also said that in all the history of coincidences this was just about the most singular, for that i, too, had been engaged as a witness in the very same case. it was the case that the manufacturers of the haskell ball were bringing against the manufacturers of the kite ball. the point was to prove the haskell patent good for their protection in a monopoly of making rubber-cored balls. the haskell people had asked me to give evidence, because i was the first man to play with these balls in england, and because i considered them, and _pace_ the law, still consider them, an absolutely new departure in golf-ball manufacture. it would be ungrateful not to think that providence designed this meeting at the inns of court hotel, for my new friend was able to tell me what the right fee was for me to charge as an expert witness. he told me that that was what i was--an expert witness. i did not know it before, although i knew, without his telling me, the ancient divisions of the species "liar," into "liar," "d----d liar," and "expert witness." i was prepared to play my part, especially when i heard, with pleased surprise, the large fees paid for witnesses of this expert and unimpeachable character. so, in due course of time, i was summoned up to london to attend the trial. i suppose other trials are sometimes as humorous, but i could not have believed it possible that there could be such good entertainment as i found in that court, where i sat with much enjoyment calculating, between the acts, the sum to which my expert witness fees were mounting up as i waited. the judge, mr. justice buckley, if i remember right, was not a golfer; yet the way in which he kept his eye on the ball during the three days or so of that trial was above all praise. and the ball took a deal of keeping of the eye on itself, for there were many balls of different sorts brought into court, and they were constantly running off the judge's desk, and tumbling and jumping about in the body of the court, where learned gentlemen knocked their wigs together as they bent down to search for them. there was an old lady who said she had made balls which were practically identical with these haskells all her life--balls for boys to play with. so she was commanded to go away and to come back with all her apparatus and to show in court how the balls were made. she returned, and it appeared that, after some winding of thread about a core, the next proceeding was to dip the balls into a molten solution of some boiling stuff which smelt abominably. she cooked this up in court, and the whole business was very suggestive of the making of the hell-broth of the witches in "macbeth," only that perhaps the court of law did not give a striking representation of the "blasted heath." the balls were apt to escape from the old lady when they were half cooked and to go running about the court where the barristers, retrieving them, got their fingers into the most awfully sticky state and their wigs seemed to be the appropriate places on which to rub the stickiness off. willie fernie was there, enjoying himself hugely too. he, it seems, had long ago made a ball resembling the haskell. there, too, was commander stewart, whom i had known in the early eighties at st. andrews. he was the maker of the "stewart patent" balls, which had a vogue for a time, though they had not the least resemblance to the haskell balls. they were of some composition, quite solid, and with iron filings in them. nevertheless, commander stewart, as it appeared, had made a ball similar to the haskell, though it could not have been the one known as his patent. all these were testimony to what the lawyers call "previous user." then an old gentleman was called who said that he had played at ball as a boy with another old gentleman whose name he gave, with a ball similar in all its essentials to the haskell golf ball. the other old gentleman was called then, and he was asked whether his memory corroborated this, and whether it was in essentials the same ball. to which he answered, to the delight of the court, that it was not the same ball at all. "what then," asked the counsel, in a profoundly shocked voice, "do you mean to say that you think your old friend is a liar?" "no," he replied quite readily, "i don't think so, i know it." i looked out to see these two old friends going out of court, to discover whether they were quite as good friends as they had been before, but i could not see them. i do not remember much about my own testimony. i think what i said was true, but i am nearly sure that it was quite unimportant. the present lord moulton, i remember, examined, or cross-examined me, but he did not turn me inside out very badly, and i believe i left the court "without a stain on my character," according to the stereotyped phrase. at all events the conclusion of the whole matter was that we lost our case very handsomely. the judge, considering the evidence of the old lady, of commander stewart, of willie fernie and so on, said that he thought there were sufficient witnesses to "previous user," and no doubt "messrs. hutchison, maine and co."--i think this was the name of the firm opposing us--fought a good fight in the best interests of the golfer, for it would have been a bad job for us all if there had been a monopoly in the hands of one firm of the manufacture of the rubber-cored balls. they put the prices up against us fairly high as it was, without that. had there been a monopoly of manufacture we might now be paying five shillings each perhaps, instead of half-a-crown, for the balls--a very solemn thought. they carried this case to the court of appeal, but that court only confirmed the finding of the court below, and thereto added this further comment, that whether there were "previous users" or no, they did not think that the invention in itself had sufficient novelty for the patent to be good. so that "put the lid on," to use homely phrase. a while afterwards i met the american manager of a big athletic outfitting house, and he told me that in his opinion, looking at the thing with the commercial eye of the manufacturer, if the kite people had been "real cute," they would not have driven this fight to a finish. instead, they would have come to the haskell people, when the case seemed likely to go in favour of the defendants, and come to a compromise with them. they would then have abandoned the case, as if despairing of success, under a secret agreement with the haskell folk to allow them to make balls on certain agreed terms. the effect of that would have been that the abandoning of the case would have frightened other companies out of ever bringing the like case against the haskell company, and the two might have gone on merrily working their monopoly, at the expense of the ball-buyers, "till the cows came home." that, as my friend the manager said, would have been "real smart," but i think we have to congratulate ourselves that this real smartness did not commend itself to the scottish firm that fought and won this historic battle. we pay enough for our golf balls even now, even under the relatively blessed conditions of competition. surely it is not for me, who went no further in study of the law than to eat, though indifferently to digest, those singular dinners at the singular hour of six o'clock at the inner temple, to criticise the high findings of the law, but it does seem to my uninstructed wisdom that if ever there were a substantially new invention, making a new departure, it was this of these that we then called haskells and now call indiarubber-cored balls. nobody, before haskell, had ever given them to us as reasonable things with which to play the game of golf. he gave them to us as the best balls hitherto invented. they spoilt the game in a sense, it is true. the ability to hit the ball absolutely exactly has not the same value now as in the days of the solid gutty ball; nor does forceful hitting count for as much. on the other hand, the greater resiliency of the ball makes the game more pleasant, especially for weak muscles. but that, the quality of the ball, is another story. the story the court had to sit in judgment on was woven round about the question whether substantially the ball was a novelty. they found that it was not, and we all should be very thankful that they did find so; but at the same time it is quite possible that we may think it a queer finding. chapter xxxiii the amateur championship of 1903 in the twentieth century i was no longer regarding myself with great seriousness as a likely champion, and it is very certain that i should not have troubled to go to muirfield for the amateur championship of 1903 had it not been for a kindly invitation from david kinloch to stay with him for it at his place gilmerton, about nine miles from the course. i was salmon fishing on the wye at the time, and the river was in good order, so it was a wrench. i remember that there was staying also at gilmerton on that occasion poor harold finch-hatton, most humorous of good companions. we used to drive the nine miles in a high dog-cart, the horse generally taking fright at the railway crossing at drem each morning; so the excitement of the day began long before we came to the links. i only arrived the day before the fight began, and i remember my first tee-shot in that championship as if it were yesterday. i was playing mr. frank booth, affectionately known as "father booth" to men of sandwich. the spectators were drawn up in a line parallel with the line of play to the first hole, and i hit my tee-shot on the extreme tip of the toe of the club, so that it went out to cover point and right away to the right of the spectators altogether. i had to play back over their heads, up to the hole. after that promising start i played quite steadily and beat booth comfortably. then i went along uneventfully till i met a.m. ross. a.m. ross was already something of a veteran, but he gave me some extremely tough work. the match had its element of humour. we had not, at that time, the rule that all putts should be holed out, and very early in the match he did not give a putt which i thought to be stony dead. therefore at the next hole, where he had a putt still more stony, i did not give that to him. he repaid me again by making me perform a still more ridiculous task of holing out; and so i him again, until at the end of that match we were scrupulously, but without a smile or a word said on either side, holing out putts of two inches with the solemnity of a religious rite. but it was all with quite good temper on both sides: i think both of us were too old stagers to take offence. in the last eight i beat dick, playing very steadily, and then i met angus macdonald. i had never played him before. he was, no doubt, an immensely strong man. he was so strong and big that he seemed unable to swing round his body, as it were. he was the shortest driver for a player of his ability i ever met; but he was also the longest putter. time and again, when i thought i had the hole, having arrived on the green a stroke before him, he upset calculations by holing a gigantic putt. he smoked all the time, a long meerschaum pipe, and had all the air of a man playing the game for pleasure--which is not at all a common aspect for a man to wear when he is playing a championship heat. and after he had been holing these prodigious putts time after time, and i had been following them up by holing humble little things of a yard and a half or so, he fairly petrified me with astonishment by remarking, in a tone of almost pained surprise, "you're putting very well!" i looked at him to see whether he was chaffing, but his face did not show the twinkle of a smile, and i had to assume that it was simple honest comment, and that he was accustomed, that he expected, to hole these gigantic putts, but that he did not expect his opponent to hole the little ones after him. perhaps that explains how, being so short a driver, he was yet so good a golfer. but eventually i defeated him, and thus came into the final. in the other semi-final tie a terrific battle had been raging between bobby maxwell and herman de zoete. of course i did not see it, being very fully occupied with macdonald, but i heard all about it, and what i heard was that herman de zoete was driving tremendous balls, very seldom on the course, and following up these huge erratic efforts by wonderful recoveries and putting, so that, as they said, if he had beaten bobby, who was playing a sound steady game down the middle of the course, it would have been a crying iniquity. but it was an iniquity that was as nearly as possible perpetrated: he had bobby, as a matter of fact, stone cold. this was at the nineteenth hole, which they had to go out to play, having halved the round; and at that hole i believe that bobby's first shot was in the neighbourhood of the wall and the second still some little way from the hole. herman's first was short of the green, but not very short. it looked as if he had but to do that hole in four to win the match, and it did not look as if he could fail to do it in four. but then, as he told me afterwards, for the first time in the whole match nerves got hold of him, and having hold of him they seem to have taken their hold very hard. he was unable, he said, to see the ball with any distinctness. it looked all in fog; and, playing at it through this obscuring atmosphere, he sent it about a foot. the end of the hole was that bobby, by holing a very missable putt, did get a four, and herman took five and lost the hole. the tale, as told me, was peculiarly painful to listen to, for though bobby maxwell is a very pleasant fellow to play with, still, for the final round of a championship, especially over muirfield, i would rather have had to play herman de zoete. however, there it was. and then an unfortunate thing, for me, happened. on the next day we found the wind exactly opposite in its direction to what it had been all the week before. of course that did not make any difference to bobby, to whom every grass-blade on muirfield was a personal friend and every distance known to a foot, no matter in what trend or force of wind. but to me, who had been painfully learning the distances all these days, the right about face of the wind put a very changed aspect on the business. not that i believe for a moment that the ultimate result was affected by it. i have no delusion that in the year 1903, or possibly in any other, i could make a match with bobby over muirfield. elsewhere it might be another story. as it was, i did make a very good match with him for fourteen holes, for at that point we were all even. but then i made the fatal error of letting him win the last four holes of that round. i hardly know how it happened, for i do not remember that i played these holes extraordinarily badly, but i do know that i did not have nearly as good an appetite, when we went in for luncheon, as i should have had if the break had come at the end of fourteen, instead of eighteen, holes. to start out, as i had to, afterwards, to give bobby four holes up, was rather a large order, and i found it a good deal too large for me to fill. i did not play badly. i had a vision of bringing him down to quite a reasonable number of holes up, and making a close match of it, at one point on the way out, but there--it was the hole before the windmill--he made a great recovery out of the rough and won the hole which i had looked forward to winning. i took three on the green and he only took one. that was the final touch. he played the rest of the round, as far as we had to take it, far better than i did--drove much farther, for one thing, which is always useful--and finally hammered me out by the tune of seven and six to play. he deserved to win by quite that margin; but i still cannot help rather regretting that attack of nerves which seized herman de zoete so unfortunately at the approach to the nineteenth hole the day before. one thing, however, that championship taught me, that if i was to live with some of these younger golfers and harder hitters i must do something to add yards to my driving. and the way i tried was by adding, as soon as i went south, inches--to the number of six--to my wooden clubs, both driver and brassey. and it had its effect. the extra length was useful at all angles of the wind, but especially against the wind, and for some years these long clubs did me very good service. of course, the longer the club the lighter you must have the head. that has to be understood, for otherwise you get a weaver's beam that is quite unlike the club of the balance that is familiar to your hand. but if you reduce the head-weight judiciously you can lengthen the shaft unbelievably without making accurate hitting any harder. and with the longer shaft it seems, according to my experience, that you get a longer ball. chapter xxxiv travis's year in 1904, the amateur championship being that year at sandwich, frank penn[8] entertained me for it at bifrons, near canterbury, about fifteen miles from the arena of action. he used to motor me in each day, and the driving of a big motor through the streets of sandwich town appears a very cork-screwy business. nevertheless he accomplished it perfectly and never once bunkered us by the way. i came across a lot of old friends and enemies at that meeting--first johnny laidlay in the international match, then mure ferguson, if i remember right, in the first round of the championship; i forget whom then, but i know that a few more heats brought me up against johnny ball. all these adventures, even that last and worst, i succeeded in getting through with success, and then i had to meet bobby maxwell on the last day but one of the play. i was playing fairly well, being much helped by the longer clubs i had taken to since the muirfield championship, where bobby beat me in the final. [illustration: walter travis.] [illustration: charles b. macdonald. from a portrait in plaster by prince paul troubetzkoy, presented to the national golf links of america of which mr. macdonald is the founder.] staying, as i was, with penn fifteen miles away, i did not hear much of the gossip going on at this championship, but from time to time i did find one man or the other coming to me and saying, "have you seen that american who is putting with an extraordinary thing like a croquet mallet? he's putting most extraordinarily well with it." of course i had not seen him: i had been too busy myself, putting by no means extraordinarily well. that sort of thing was said, now and then, but no one thought any more about it. it was known that some americans had come over and had entered for the championship, but if anybody had prophesied that one of them was likely to give trouble or to get into the final heats he would have been looked on as a lunatic. the truth is, that we much under-rated the american amateur at that time. partly, i suppose, this was our "d----d insular insolence," but partly, too, it was due to the very successful tour in the states, a year or two before, of a team of the oxford and cambridge golfing society. they won their matches so consistently as to give us the idea that the americans could not play golf. the man with the mallet putter was in process of teaching us better, though even yet we did not realize it. mr. harold reade, the irishman, ought to have beaten him, for he was two up and either two or three to play, but the american played the final holes very finely and just won. so he survived, until in the heath before the semi-final, wherein i had to meet bobby, he had hilton to play. but hilton was in no sort of form and travis beat him as he pleased. meanwhile i beat bobby and had revenge for the year before, in the muirfield final, but it was by no means as i pleased. i started badly and let bobby win the first three holes. then i steadied down and he gave me chances. it is always a different thing playing bobby anywhere else than at muirfield. had he gained this start there i should never have seen the way he went. but he let me get hole after hole back until on the eighteenth green we were all even, we had played three apiece, i was stone dead and my ball laid him a dead stymie. it was not a stymie at all difficult to loft. there was nice room to pitch the ball and let it run on into the hole. still, at that crisis of the match, it was a fine piece of work on bobby's part to play it perfectly as he did. then i holed my unimportant little putt and we had to start out to play extra holes. my second shot to the first (or nineteenth) hole, i put carefully into the bunker guarding the green. bobby, i suppose, determined to be over, seeing that i was in, rather over-ran the green. a bunker near the hole never had the terrors for me that it has for some people: we were too familiar with them at westward ho! tom vardon said to me afterwards, respecting the stroke which i played out of that bunker: "that was a plucky shot of yours, to go straight for the hole like that." of course it is always pleasant to be told one is a hero, but really there was nothing very heroic about this. if the sand were taken at the right point behind the ball there was no trouble about the stroke. if you hit differently from your intention there was bound to be trouble, but that is the case with most golfing strokes. what happened in this case was that i howked the ball out fairly near the hole, about a couple of yards off, perhaps, and bobby, playing from the far end of the green, put his just inside it. but whereas i had a straight up-hill putt to the hole, he had to come along the curve of the slope, so that my putt was far the easier. i holed it all right. bobby allowed a little too much for the slope and that was the end of that business. "now see, horace," he said, as we walked back to the club-house, "that you don't get beaten by that american." i started out in the afternoon without the smallest idea in life that i was to be beaten by "that american"; but i had not played two shots before i knew that all the best of the fight had been taken out of me by that stiff morning match. as andrew kirkaldy said to me afterwards: "that," pointing to bobby, "that was your murderer." he had, in truth, done most of the killing, and travis had but to finish it. he did not really play very well. still, he was one up on me going to the thirteenth hole, and there gave me every chance of winning it and squaring the match, but i played a very bad shot, and followed it with another indifferent one, and so let him win that hole which i ought to have won. he gave me no further chances, and beat me by, i think, three and two. but i reckoned things up afterwards and found, by the score of the holes, that if i had played as well as i did in any of the previous matches, i should have been up on him, instead of down, at the point where he beat me. that, however, is what makes an amateur champion--that, amongst other things--the ability to "stay" through a long fight and not to suffer reaction after a hard match. in the final, travis had to meet ted blackwell, and i never had great hopes for england as to the result of that encounter. i say this, with all respect for ted blackwell's great game as he developed it almost immediately afterwards; but he was not his great self then. at that time he was still putting with a thin-bladed little cleek which must have been forged about the date that tubal cain was in active work as a smith. very shortly afterwards someone, who deserves to suffer lingering death at the hands of all ted blackwell's later opponents, induced him to take to an aluminium putter. the difference it made in his game was nearer a third than four strokes, as i reckon it. from a really bad putter he became all at once a very good putter indeed. i knew all about it, for i had been playing him and beating him comfortably in several matches at st. andrews, in course of a little party which lord dudley took up there. i met him again in an international match at hoylake only a little later, when he had exchanged the tinkling cleek for the aluminium putter, and he beat me--not by length of driving, but by length of putting. as for this final at sandwich, which was played in his pre-aluminium days, travis has put it on record that he felt confident of winning from the start; and he looked like a winner all through. with the black cigar and the deliberate methods, including the practice swing before each stroke, he was perhaps rather a hard man to play against, but at the same time, and although i have said that he did not play very well when i met him, i think those critics make a great mistake who say that he was not a first-class golfer. he was, and is, a wonderful putter. i know that, not only by the wonderful week of putting that he put in over here at that time, but by what jim whigham and others who have played a great deal with him in america have told me. whigham said that you were grateful, thinking that you had a lucky escape, if you were his opponent and he did not hole the ball from fifteen yards. this was at garden city, where he knows the greens better than his drawing-room carpet. indeed, all travis's record disproves the statement that "he was not fit to win the championship." that he was "lucky to win" we must think. unless a man is a head and shoulders above his field, he has to have luck if he is to live through a tournament such as our amateur championship; and travis had no such head and shoulders advantage as this. but put him down at a hundred and eighty or any less number of yards from the hole, and there was no player, amateur or professional, better than he. perhaps there was no amateur as good. his weakness was out of bunkers and rough ground, but that was a weakness which troubled him little because he very seldom got into these difficulties. i hardly know whether he would have won our championship if ted blackwell and the aluminium putter had been introduced to each other a few years earlier; but it is no use arguing about "ifs." as soon as he had won that final, the price of schenectady putters went up a hundred per cent., and bobby maxwell, by way of insult, made me a present of one of them, with which i often putted till our legislation banned them. footnotes: [footnote 8: again i have to append the sad note, so often written, that in the interval between the telling of this tale and its publication, he, too, has been taken from the world of living men.] chapter xxxv how golf has gripped america the difference in the golfing condition of the america which i had last visited in the early nineties and that to which i went again in 1910, was striking, and not a little amusing. on that former visit i had given an exhibition of golf to a few indifferent spectators at the meadowbrook club on long island, on which they had reported that it "might be a good game for sunday"--conveying thereby a studied and profane insult both to the game and to the day. on my return in 1910 i found an america even more completely in the throes of golf than any portion of our native islands. but on this visit my approach to the american courses was made in an unconventional manner that is worth a word of notice. lord brassey had asked my wife and myself to come with him, on the _sunbeam_, to iceland, across the atlantic to newfoundland, and up the gulf of st. lawrence. the first golfing place at which we put in, after joining the yacht in the cromarty firth, was dornoch, where is as glorious a natural links as the soul of the golfer can desire or his most industrious inquiry discover. the conformation of iceland, chiefly mountain, or plain strewn with lava-blocks, hardly seems to lend itself kindly to golf; but on arrival, after many days, during some of them rather storm-tossed, at st. john's, newfoundland, we found there a golf course, still a little in the rough, carved out of primeval pine forest, of undulating surface, astonishingly good considering how new it was, and promising to give really amusing and good golf of the inland type in the future. neil shannon, a troon man, is the professional, and i astonished both myself and him by beating him. the next point at which we touched golf was tadousac, a watering-place at the mouth of the famed saguenay river which runs into the st. lawrence. it is the oldest fur-trading station in canada. here is a short course, much _accidentã©_, at two points traversing a deep ravine which has real sand in it. there is a more elaborate and carefully kept course at murray bay, a little further along the north shore of the st. lawrence. at quebec, on the heights of abraham, in a magnificent situation, is one of the oldest courses in north america. i was beaten by a putt by the better ball of two of the native golfers, mr. ash and mr. mcgreevy. noble hospitality was shown us, both in canada and in the states. scarcely could one be permitted so much as to pay for one's own caddie, and any question of green fees was dismissed as quite out of the picture. we sailed up to montreal on the night of august 12th, and on the 15th i find the following note in my diary: "mr. huntley drummond took me around in his car, after luncheon, to the bank of montreal, where we picked up mr. w. clouston, and went out to the beaconsfield course--not at all a bad green, of the inland type, flat in general, but with the club-house set on a hill from which most of the course is overlooked. they do themselves very well in the matter of club-houses in this country--most commodious, with bathrooms and all kinds of luxuries." on the following day i played on the dixie course, also quite near montreal, "a really good one--inland in its type, as all are over here, but interesting and varied and very pretty at a certain corner where much use is made of a stream, with weeping willows, and so on. there is one respect in which the architects of the course might have been more clever, for they have so ordained things that all the hazards are on the left, all the penalty is for the pulled ball, and a man may slice and slice to his heart's full content, and never suffer. the turf and the greens are very good, and the butterflies and grasshoppers very numerous, and large and splendid of hue." at montreal we said good-bye, with many tears, to the _sunbeam_ and her host, and made our next stop at toronto, where are two excellent courses. on august 19th i find in my diary that "self and a.e. austin beat lyon and breckenridge on the lambton course." this lyon is that mr. george lyon whom we have seen over here competing in our amateur championship. he has not done himself justice on this side, for he is a very fine player. he has won the canadian championship often--precisely how often, i forget. "lambton golf club very comfortable," my notes record, "piano set out on balcony, lawn tennis court and all 'amenities.' beautiful view of course from house--natural sand in bunkers--very pretty, with woodland, water and undulating open country. the course is laid on several big levels in terraces. you play across a stream again and again--it is no course for non-floating balls. some of the greens are irrigated by sub-surface pipes from the stream, leading to porous tiles, from which the hot sun sucks up the water to the surface. i saw a thing this day that i never saw before--played a ball up to a hole that had the flag standing in it; the ball jumped up, wrapped itself up in the flag, and stayed there swaddled up in the flag. query--what is the rule that meets the case?" the next day i played with mr. edgar on the toronto club's course, but this is being given up to the builders, and the club is moving to a course further out along the lake. there is a third course, also, for the toronto folk--rosedale--which is well spoken of. on the whole i was very much struck with the quality of these canadian courses of which we hear but little over here. among inland courses they take a very high place. thence we went on by night, a sixteen hours' journey to boston, where charlie macdonald, the creator of the national golf links of america, met us. immediately on arrival we started out for the myopia club, where macdonald and i beat t. stephenson and leeds. the last is the constructor of the myopia course, and for its construction deserves no little credit. from what i have seen of american courses i put the national golf links first and this myopia second, a very good second. the national is that much-talked-of course of which it was said that it was to be composed of replicas of the eighteen best holes that its creator could anywhere discover, and he journeyed over all the courses in europe discovering them. my notes on myopia course run: "fine inland course--rather many blind shots" (but some of these, i know, have been eliminated), "steeply undulating, sloping greens, no trees--good test of golf, long and trying. record in competition 75." my next golfing note touches the brookline course. "went out in willett's car to brookline, the county club. this is a tree-y course, like new zealand, really good, good greens, well bunkered, a trifle on the short side, but full of interest. at all the american clubs great care is taken in bunkering the courses." this last note is worth attention, because i see it is a comment of vardon, after his visit in which he and ray had to lower the british flag to mr. ouimet, that the bunkers on the american courses were not severe enough. but he did not see the national links. that would have satisfied even his passion for bunkers. my notes continue: "lunched at brookline, then motored thirty miles to essex club, where charlie macdonald and i again beat, as we had already beaten in the morning at brookline, t. stephenson and willett. the course tree-y, like brookline, with great hills here and there. natural sand in the bunkers--a fine course. rather in transition state, as i saw it, but with all the making of a good thing." i see that i was at myopia again on the 23rd, when charlie macdonald and i again beat stephenson and leeds. in the afternoon we went to see mr. fricks' grand collection of pictures at his house on north shore--a fine sight, though "not golf." but there was little rest from golf when we arrived, at 3 p.m. on the 24th, in new york, very hot and dusty. macdonald motored us out to his house at rosslyn and then took me for a round at garden city in the evening, where i beat him in a single. "course very brown and baked," according to my diary, "but quite long, and putting greens good. rather ugly surroundings, but fine test of golf. no trees as hazards, except a line of them on right of the 17th, which is a very good hole. the finish is to a short hole over a pond. doubtless a good course, but not very inspiring." on the 25th i see that "charles macdonald and self played f. herreshoff and l. livingstone, at garden city, in morning, but lost by a hole, and in the afternoon herreshoff and self played our better ball against the best ball of c. macdonald, l. livingstone and r. watson, but lost by a hole again." i have a note appended to this day's golf: "never played worse--eyes bad with heat and motoring." i may break off here to give a hint to the british golfer visiting the states. i doubtless got a little "touch of the sun" on this day at garden city, and it is a thing that the briton coming fresh to american golf has to be very carefully on his guard against. he is menaced, really, by three dangers--the blaze and glare of the sun, the abounding energy of the native golfers and their abounding hospitality. between the three he is in much peril of being overdone, as i quickly was. i played golf on various courses afterwards--on the shinnecock hills, finely undulating, but too short and with too many blind shots, where natural advantages have not been turned to the best possible account; at easthampton, where, for two holes, you actually find yourself among real seaside sand dunes (unhappily this blessed dispensation does not last); on the national links, of which i have already noted my high appreciation; at baltusrol, very tree-y and very hilly, but a good, interesting course, and others too many to name. their witness suffices. it suffices to show the zeal and kindness of your american hosts in taking you vast distances to play on many courses. it shows the vengeance that golf has taken on them for that comment on it of a quarter of a century ago when i exhibited to them some feeble sample of it and they said that it might do "for sundays." there are men in america now who will play golf even on a week-day. in fact golf is, with many, the real interest of their lives. they do a bit of work, no doubt, urged by the painful necessity of earning a livelihood, but there are many whom their work does not grip. a quarter of a century ago the business men of new york talked dollars: to-day they talk golf. it is a very sanitary change. and not only will they talk golf, but they will spend money on it. the care that they take of their putting greens would hardly be credited, without being seen. it is not enough for them that the turf shall all be of grass, with no blend of weeds: it is demanded that it shall be all of one variety of grass, and that variety the finest. the national golf links has not only every green watered; it is watered all through the green, from extensive sprinklers kept going all night long in the dry weather. chapter xxxvi the end of the round i did not see the finish of the amateur championship of 1905 when gordon barry beat osmond scott, but i understand what the moral of that match was--that indiarubber handles are not good things for a soaking wet day. we have had one or two terrible soakers for the finish of the amateur championship, and for the open championship too, in the last few years. the worst that ever i saw was that in which johnny ball beat palmer in 1907 at st. andrews. almost the whole links was water-logged, it had been raining during most of the week. johnny laidlay prophesied that the man who would win the championship would be the man that had most changes of clothes, for one got wet through every round. i do not know how many changes johnny ball had, but i do know that he looked dead beat both in the semi-final and in the anti-penultimate heats, and that anybody else would have been beaten. it was only his wonderful match-play ability that took him through. he was not playing at all well, in spite of his win. in the final it never looked for a moment as if he could fail to win, and his greater power, in weather like that, gave palmer, who was his opponent, mighty little chance with him. after that, to commemorate his sixth amateur championship, the royal and ancient club did itself honour by electing him an honorary member. but he was far from having finished with the championship even then; and i much doubt whether he has finished even now. one of the interesting features of recent golfing story is the rise of fine players of the working-men class in england, as well as in scotland, and at ashdown forest, where i lived for some years, the cantelupe club, and especially the great golfing family of mitchell, has become famous. they became famous even before one of the family, abe, rather took a big share of fame to himself. i had a cousin, tom mitchell, in my garden, who was nearly as good as abe, and when i had a golfing guest staying with me and did not want to play golf myself, i used to say, "there's a boy in the garden will give you something of a game, if you do not mind playing with him." that guest always came back from his game in a very chastened frame of mind. abe mitchell chiefly made good his name by fine play in the amateur championship, and most of all in that of 1912, when the tournament was played for the first time at westward ho! that is the last of its kind that i attended, and i had to go to that because it was on my own old home course. i drew denys scott to start with, and i am afraid neither of us played very faultless golf. but he redeemed the match by some very fine runs up with his aluminium putter, and beat me. one of the episodes of the match was that the poor "old mole" came out to watch it, bringing with him a small pack of whippet dogs which danced about us as we played, to the exasperation of tried nerves. i have already paid due honour to the great work that he did in early days for english golf, and it is only while these pages were in course of writing that his death happened, where so much of his life had been passed, at westward ho! johnny ball won his eighth championship at this westward ho! meeting, and his final opponent was abe mitchell. i was referee and saw the whole of that match. johnny had only escaped by the skin of his teeth, and by his imperturbable match-playing ability, from the hands of mr. bond, in an earlier heat. mr. bond had been five up, no less, and eight to play. and then he drank a bottle of ginger-beer, and never did a hole in the right number afterwards. but it is all to johnny ball's credit, and just like him, that even when his fortunes were thus apparently desperate he never did despair. he, for his part, went on doing the holes in the right number (which was more than he had done on the way out, when he lost five holes), and won at the nineteenth after a halved round. abe mitchell was not hitting the ball at his hardest in the match with johnny, but both played well. in the afternoon it came on to pelt with rain, which suited johnny, but abe did not mind it either. the match stood all square with three to play and abe laid johnny what looked like a very dead stymie at the sixteenth, but johnny somehow got round it. abe won the seventeenth, thus making himself dormy, and both were on the last green with two shots each. johnny holed out in two putts, abe just failed to do so. then they halved the thirty-seventh hole--not with quite blameless golf on either side--and at the thirty-eighth abe topped his tee shot heavily, and that was the end of it. i regret to say that i did not go to muirfield in 1909; for they had one of the finest finishes there of any championship. cecil hutchison was a hole up and two to play in the final against bobby maxwell: he did the last two holes in four and five, and the last on that day was very hard to reach in two. we may almost say that he did both in the right number. yet he lost both, and therewith the championship, to bobby, who did them in three and four. the three was scarcely human. it is not very easy to find a man who, all through his golfing time, has delighted more in the storms and the rain than johnny ball, but i believe there is one--that same who came as a little flaxen-haired boy to our house at northam--j.h. taylor. he is open champion, for the fifth time, as i write, and he won that championship at hoylake in weather as villainous, especially on the second day, as any that has generally been served out to us for the finals of the amateur championship. one cannot say worse of it. he had a stroke or so in hand, of the whole of his field, at the start of that second day, but the curious thing is that when the rest of the professors saw what kind of day it was, they never doubted that taylor would win. he has a mastery over the ball in these circumstances, both in the drive and in his low and heavily cut approaches, that none other can rival--not even vardon nor braid themselves. in respect of these more recent years i find that my reminiscences begin to deal more and more with things i have seen and less with things i have done--which is as much as to say that they must begin to lose the vivid personal touch. in 1908 the royal and ancient club did me the high honour to elect me, first of englishmen, as their captain. as one of my wife's relations was good enough to say--"i'm glad they've made horace that--it will look so well in his obituary notice." so it will; but i hope not yet. i had great ambitions to win the medal on the day that i struck off the ball whereby i played myself in as captain, but though i contrived to hit that ball, and actually to hit it into the air, i was not well enough to take part in the medal play. in the winter of 1909 a little party of us--tony fairlie, charles hutchings and myself had been at westward ho! i had not seen the course for seven years, and it struck us all, with one accord, as the finest thing in golf (did we make reservation in st. andrews' favour? i hardly think so) that we had ever seen. and during that visit i had played better than i had played for years and years before. i was in great delight and really had visions of a renewed youth and of having "got it back." and then returning home, i caught the worst go of influenza that i ever have had, which is a great deal to say, and never played golf properly again. at the moment of writing it is most unlikely, according to all the doctors say, that i shall ever play, properly or improperly, again; but it would not do for me to grumble. i have had a very full and pleasant golfing day--much interrupted, it is true, by illness, but still as extensive as a reasonable man could ask. and if all active part in the game is to be denied in the future, at all events i can still take interest undiminished in the work and play of others. golf is not only the best of games to play: it is also, in many respects, the best to look on at. you cannot sit still, it is true, in the comfort of the pavilion, nor are aeroplanes as yet fitted with silencers so efficient that a match can be watched from them without discomposure of the golfer's nerves, but in the very fact that you must walk, and even run, if you are to see much of the game--such a meteor as duncan is not to be caught without much sprinting--there are compensations. watching a modern golf match means a good deal of healthful exercise and produces a more hearty appetite than sitting in the pavilion at lords. as for the rival merits of the games, i need not raise so vexatious a question now at the very finish of the long round which the reader may have been patient enough to endure with me. let it suffice to say that, whatever other games may be, golf is good enough. if golf, taken sanely and considered in all its various aspects, fails to satisfy us, we must be hard to please; and i will ask you to note, as one of the aspects worth considering, the very striking growth of the game in favour during the half-century over which this record runs. so the last stroke is played. or is it, of a certainty, the last stroke after all? that is a question which at once is raised--not fancifully, but in all seriousness--if we are to place any credence whatever on such revelations as, for instance, sir oliver lodge gives us in _raymond_, as we have in _claud's book_--claud actually states that he has been golfing--or as sir conan doyle strenuously affirms to be proven true to his satisfaction. if any one of these even so much as approximate to the fact, in regard to that world to which we go after death, it must then be evident that it is a world so like that in which we live and labour and play golf for our relaxation now, that it is impossible but to think that there must be something of the nature of the same pastime in that "beyond." such revelations, if we attach value to them at all, inevitably carry the inference that we shall there find golf, together with other conditions not widely different from those that we have known on earth--not any "fancy" golf on illimitable elysian fields, with never a bad lie on the whole immense, monotonous expanse, but real golf, difficult golf, golf with bunkers and all incidental troubles to be overcome--not without vexation of spirit--golf in which (for we cannot presume an infinity of halved matches), one or other player will be beaten. so it may be. it needs at least equal boldness to deny it as to affirm it. and, if it be so, arises then the further question: "will those who are champions now, be champions then? are we to carry on, into that beyond, any portion of the skill acquired so painfully here below? will harry vardon still be, golfily speaking, harry vardon there?" it scarcely seems an equitable prospect. have we not more reason, and even some high authority, to suppose that the blessed law of compensation will be in operation: that the first here will be the last there, and the eighteen-handicap man, now the scratch player, or better, of that bright future? this is the vision splendid, for the many--on which they may gratefully close the page. _printed in great britain by_ butler & tanner, _frome and london_. a catalogue of books published at the offices of "country life" [illustration: 20, tavistock street, covent garden, london, w.c.2] _the "country life" library_ windsor castle an architectural history collected and written by command of their majesties queen victoria, king edward vii and king george v. by sir william h. st. john hope, litt.d., d.c.l. _imperial quarto, in two volumes, and a portfolio._ _bound in half sheepskin_, â£7 17_s._ 6_d._ _net_; _whole sheepskin_, â£10 10_s._ _net_; _full morocco_, â£13 2_s._ 6_d._ _net_. windsor castle stands alone among the buildings of great britain. it is the greatest among our early fortresses and the most splendid of royal palaces. the story of english building during eight centuries is very fully written in the stones of windsor, but not so that every one may read. the slow accretions of centuries are not easy to disentangle, and it needed the skill and wide archaeological experience of sir william h. st. john hope to set out in its true proportions the fascinating story of the growth of this great architectural organism. the edition is limited to 1,050 numbered copies, of which nearly 400 were subscribed prior to publication. it has been printed from new type on pure rag paper, specially made for this edition. it is illustrated by exquisite reproductions in colour of drawings by paul sandby; by a large number of collotype plates reproducing a unique collection of original drawings, engravings and photographs which show the castle at every stage of its development, as well as by beautiful woodcuts, prepared expressly by the great engraver orlando jewitt for this history, when it was first projected. many of the illustrations are reproduced for the first time, by special permission of his majesty the king, from originals in the royal library at windsor. the work is issued in two sumptuous volumes, together with a portfolio containing a notable reproduction of norden's view of windsor and a complete series of plans, specially printed in fourteen colours, which show the dates of all the buildings in the castle and their successive changes. _the times_ says: "a piece of historical research and reconstruction of which all who have been concerned in it may be proud." _the manchester guardian_ says: "it may at once be safely said that no monograph on a single building has ever before been attempted on such a scale or has been carried out in so sumptuous and at the same time so scholarly a manner." garden ornament by gertrude jekyll. _large folio (16 by 11), with over 600 matchless illustrations and charming coloured frontispiece_, â£3 3s. _net_, _by post_ â£3 4s.; _in half levant grain_, â£3 15s. _net_. with the continuous development of garden design there has arisen an increasing demand for a practical and comprehensive book entirely devoted to the right use of garden ornament, and this volume has been carefully designed to meet that demand. every word, every illustration in the volume conveys a lesson to the reader, and the publishers feel they are entitled to congratulate themselves and the public upon the fact that miss jekyll, whose reputation in garden design is world-wide, was induced to undertake the authorship of the book. the right use of water in the garden; the happy employment of steps and gateways; the skilful placing of garden houses, sundials, and seats; the definite value and proper construction of pergolas; the use of climbing plants; the wanton growth and misuse of ivy and other creepers, are all depicted and described in an authoritative and exhaustive manner. examples are furnished from the finest gardens in the country of beautiful balustrading; 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"miss jekyll's collection in this noble folio is a storehouse of examples, styles and method in the decoration of gardens, a compendium of the history and taste in english horticulture and a revelation of the treasures of beauty which our country holds."--_the times._ in english homes illustrating the architectural character, decorations and furniture of some of the most notable houses of england _volumes i, ii and iii_ and english homes of the early renaissance (elizabethan and jacobean houses and gardens) edited by h. avray tipping, m.a., f.s.a. â£2 12s. 6d. _net each_. _by post_, â£2 13s. 6d. these four notable volumes form together an unequalled pictorial survey of the domestic architecture of england of every style and period. they are, moreover, a treasury, not only of the life stories of the notable men and women who have lived in our historic homes, but of those county and village traditions which throw so much light on the larger issues that have made the history of the nation. "a veritable revelation of the wealth of internal adornments, architectural and other, contained in the great country mansions of england. to turn over the pages is to obtain keen pleasure, as well as enlightenment, concerning a treasury of domestic art and archã¦ology which to a large extent is kept closed from the common eye."--_scotsman._ gardens old and new the country house and its garden environment edited by h. avray tipping, m.a., f.s.a. the illustrations being from photographs specially taken by charles latham _crown folio (15 in. by 10 in.). handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges._ volumes i, ii and iii â£2 12s. 6d. _net each_. _by post_, â£2 13s. 6d. these three volumes illustrate the relationship between house and garden, and the beauties of every type of garden, both formal and natural, in a way never before attempted. they afford a complete survey of the whole history of garden design and garden architecture, considered from every point of view, historical, artistic and horticultural. "these beautiful books owe their charm to the wonderful collection of photographs of gardens and garden architecture which such a paper as country life has had a unique opportunity of making. the principle conveyed in the letterpress is that held by all great gardeners and architects--that house and garden are, or should be, intimately associated, and that the character of the possessors should be reflected in both. the accounts of lovely garden after lovely garden are most agreeable reading. there is no country in the world where man-created sylvan beauty can be found comparable to this in england, and as albums of charming pictures for the garden lovers and a mine of elegant suggestion to the garden-maker, these volumes are the best thing of their kind we have ever seen."--_daily chronicle._ twenty-five great houses of france by sir theodore andrea cook, m.a., f.s.a. with an introductory chapter outlining the development of french domestic architecture by w.h. ward, m.a., f.s.a., f.r.i.b.a. illustrations by frederick h. evans. _large folio, containing over 400 superb illustrations, plans and diagrams, with a map of france showing the position of each chateau. half bound in buckram, â£2 12s. 6d. net; in half morocco, â£3 2s. 6d. net; postage 1s. extra._ in this important work sir theodore andrea cook, author of "old touraine," "old provence," "rouen," etc., perhaps the most sympathetic and skilful english writer on french history and the romantic associations which linger around the chateaux of france, presents a pageant of the great figures who surrounded the throne of such kings as franã§ois premier and louis quatorze. louis of orleans at perrefonds, the duke of guise at blois, fouquet at vaux le vicomte, and condã© at chantilly--these are typical of the story that the author unfolds, with a grasp so sure that the men and women live again, while their great houses are depicted with a wealth of illustration never before achieved or attempted. small country houses: their repair and enlargement forty examples chosen from five centuries by lawrence weaver. _large quarto, cloth, gilt, 18s. 9d. net. by post (inland) 19s. 6d. foreign and colonial post, 21s. 6d. nearly 250 pages, and 300 illustrations._ the growing tendency to rescue old buildings from neglect and the important problems which are raised by such work prompted the issue of this book. detailed descriptions reveal how houses of bygone days have been re-equipped as modern needs demand, without destroying the witness they bear to the old traditions of building. incidentally, the author has shown in how many cases the records of modest little houses have been preserved, and how intimately their local story is woven into the larger fabric of national history. the book is an invaluable guide to all who are desirous of repairing an old house, and who wish to achieve it in the right spirit. the "country life" library of architectural monographs houses and gardens by e.l. lutyens described and criticised by lawrence weaver _large folio (16 by 11), nearly 400 pages and 600 superb illustrations, bound in quarter buckram, gilt, â£1 11s. 3d. net; in half morocco, â£2 3s. 9d. net; by post, 10d. extra._ this book is lavishly illustrated with photographs of about eighty of sir edwin lutyens' most typical houses and gardens, many of which have never previously been published. interspersed in the text is a large number of plans, and there is an appendix of 22 pages giving a valuable series of scale drawings of typical buildings. _the manchester guardian_ says: "it is only when we see a publication such as this that we realize what quality characterizes some of the building of to-day. abundantly and splendidly illustrated, this book shows the work of a great master, whose influence is even greater than his most enthusiastic admirers can appreciate." grinling gibbons and the woodwork of his age 1648-1720 by h. avray tipping, m.a., f.s.a. _large folio, containing 250 magnificent illustrations, including measured drawings, quarter bound in buckram, gilt, â£1 11s. 3d. net; half-bound in morocco, â£2 3s. 9d. net; by post, 10d. extra._ the author's profound knowledge of the period and his intimate acquaintance with the art of gibbons in all its manifestations give an unquestioned authority to a volume which, for the first time, gathers together a superb body of illustrations and detailed descriptions of all his best work. "the proprietors of country life are rendering admirable service with their series of architectural monographs. in writing a life of gibbons, mr. avray tipping had by no means an easy task, but with painstaking care he has collected all the available material, skilfully focused it, and for the first time we have gibbons presented in true perspective. but mr. tipping's work is of more than biographical value. equipped obviously with wide knowledge of his subject, he has written a comprehensive and luminous account of what may be described as the golden age of wood carving in england."--_the glasgow herald._ the "country life" series of military histories "_the best regimental histories that i have seen of late are the series published by 'country life,' all written by civilians who have learned how to write._"--the hon. john fortescue, m.v.o., librarian at windsor castle. the story of the oxfordshire and buckinghamshire light infantry. by sir henry newbolt. _large 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d. net; sheepskin, 13s. 2d. net; by post 6d. extra._ "the book ... noteworthily enriches the well-conceived series in which it appears."--_scotsman._ "sir henry can write, as we all know, excellent and vivid english; there are few men whose spirit is more deeply stirred by the great deeds of englishmen; the subject is a very fine one, and he treats it with evident enthusiasm."--_the times._ the story of the royal scots. by lawrence weaver, f.s.a. with a preface by the earl of rosebery, k.c. _cloth, 9s. 5d. net; sheepskin, 15s. 8d. net; by post 6d. extra._ "mr. weaver's book cannot but appeal to all sorts of readers of history, military or civilian."--_the times._ "it brings into a narrative always well digested and readable the story of a brilliant succession of achievements in the field from the fifteenth century onwards."--_the scotsman._ "mr. lawrence weaver writes with a contagious enthusiasm which is fascinating. there is none of the usual 'stodginess' of history in his chapters. it is a long romance with veracious chronicle for its atmosphere."--_western daily mercury._ the story of the royal welsh fusiliers. by h. avray tipping, m.a., f.s.a. _cloth, 9s. 5d. net; sheepskin, 15s. 8d. net; by post 6d. extra._ "the book should be scattered broadcast among the twenty battalions that now compose the regiment; and every man should be made to feel how great is the heritage of glory which he has been admitted to share."--_the times._ the story of the king's (liverpool regiment). by t.r. threlfall. with a preface by the earl of derby, k.g. _7s. 6d. net, in cloth; 13s. 2d. net, in sheepskin; by post 6d. extra._ "the author and country life are to be congratulated on the history of 'the king's regiment,' and the book will be greatly valued, especially in lancashire."--_broad arrow._ the story of the middlesex regiment. by charles lethbridge kingsford, m.a., f.s.a. _9s. 5d. net, in cloth; 15s. 8d. net, in sheepskin; by post 6d. extra._ "this, the latest of the series of regimental histories published by country life, comes fully up to the level of its predecessors, and will be welcomed by the 'die-hards.' ... we hope that civilians as well as soldiers will read mr. kingsford's book, and try to understand what a wonderful thing a great regiment can be."--_the times._ the o.t.c. and the great war. by alan r. haig-brown. with an introduction by col. sir edward ward, bart., k.c.b., k.c.v.o., etc. a full record of the foundation, organization and personnel of the officers training corps. _9s. 8d. net, in cloth; 15s. 8d. net, in sheepskin; by post 6d. extra._ the fighting territorials. by percy hurd. vol. i., _1s. 3d. net; by post, 1s. 7d._ vol. ii., _1s. 7d. net; by post, 1s. 11d._ the lancashire territorials. by george bigwood. with a foreword by general sir ian hamilton 2nd edition, _1s. 11d. net; by post, 2s. 3d._ memorials and monuments old and new: two hundred subjects chosen from seven centuries. by lawrence weaver, f.s.a. with collotype reproductions of 180 photographs and 80 other illustrations. _quarter bound, 15s. 8d. net; by post, 16s. 6d._ in this book the whole art of memorial design is for the first time examined in all its aspects--historical, critical and practical. most of the monuments of recent years, and notably those which followed the south african war, reveal a lamentable poverty of design, and the chief aim of the book is to establish a better standard. to this end the development of memorial design in england since the middle ages is clearly set out, and all possible treatments of modern memorials are discussed, with an exceeding wealth of illustration. to all who contemplate setting up a memorial, whether it be a small tablet to an individual or a monument to a great body of men, this book offers essential guidance. _morning post._--"this beautifully printed and well-illustrated volume is at once a history and a plea--a history of memorials and monuments drawn from seven centuries, and a plea for better workmanship and finer taste than are generally shown in the stone and brasses set up in our churches and other public places. its arrival is opportune. it will not be the author's fault if the lapidary sequel of the great war is not better than that of the south african campaign. if architects and sculptors will work together there is hope of better things, and here to hand in this volume is description and illustration of 200 subjects, chosen from examples of the last 700 years, which they may study to the end of learning the rules in proportion, in the use of materials, the spacing of lettering, and the like.... we agree with mr. weaver that our english ideas of what is correct in memorials should be revised." _the times._--"to guide and help those who need guidance in these matters." _the athenã¦um._--"many will be grateful for these timely and suggestive pages ... thoroughly well informed on the historical side of the question ... most catholic and soundly artistic in appreciation of certain exceptionally good work of the twentieth century." our common sea-birds cormorants, terns, gulls, skuas, petrels, and auks by percy r. lowe, b.a., m.b., b.c. with chapters by bentley beetham, francis heatherley, w.r. ogilvie-grant, oliver g. pike, w.p. pycraft, a.j. roberts, etc. _large quarto, cloth, gilt, with over 300 pages and nearly 250 illustrations. 18s. 9d. net. post free (inland), 19s. 6d._ unlike the majority of books dealing with birds, this volume is of interest to the general reader and to the student of ornithology alike. it is a book that enables the reader to identify our sea-birds by name, to understand their movements, their habits, their nests and their eggs. _the observer_ says:--"we marvel at the snapshots that have been taken of birds. every movement of their flight is now recorded; the taking off, the alighting, the swooping, the settling, the 'planing,' the struggling against the wind. and they are just the birds which the ordinary man wants to know about, because he has such opportunities of seeing them for himself on any walk along the cliff." the peregrine falcon at the eyrie by francis heatherley, f.r.c.s. illustrated with wonderful photographs by the author and c.j. king. _demy quarto, cloth, gilt, 6s. 3d. net; by inland post, 6s. 9d._ this fascinating book on the peregrine falcon--the grandest bird of prey left in england--combines the salient facts of almost innumerable field notes _written at the eyrie itself_. it is a book that should appeal with irresistible force to all true nature lovers. many striking and unexpected facts were revealed to the author as a result of unwearying patience in a diminutive hut slung from the precipice of a lonely islet. these records are now set forth in a wonderful narrative which discloses the life history of the peregrine falcon from the moment of its hatching to the day it finally leaves the eyrie. _the times_ says:--"we commend this faithful and truly scientific inquiry to all lovers of animals and to those who are in quest of a real knowledge of nature." pastime with good company pictured by g.d. armour with an introduction by horace g. hutchinson _royal quarto, tastefully bound, gilt, 18s. 9d. net; by inland post, 19s. 6d._ containing over fifty choice plates, thoroughly typical of mr. armour's art this volume is sure of a warm welcome from every sportsman and sportswoman of to-day. in the beautiful picture gallery disclosed through its pages, mr. armour presents a wonderfully representative collection of his art. whether it is the field in "full cry," the grouse coming over the heather, the polo player dashing towards the goal, or the otter hound surging through the rapids, all are portrayed with individuality and fidelity, by means which have the appealing merit of simplicity and directness. the plates are perfect specimens of pictorial art. each one deserves, and, indeed, demands, a frame. "a book for every sportsman's library."--_liverpool courier._ fishing edited by horace g. hutchinson _in 2 volumes, each 15s. 8d. net; by post, 16s. 6d._ _the fishing gazette_ says:--"i know pretty well every book in our language, and in french and german, on the subject of fishing, but i know no work which is so good, comprehensive and cheap as this. would be worth buying if it were merely for the illustrations." animal life by the sea-shore by g.a. boulenger, ll.d., d.sc., ph.d., f.r.s., and c.l. boulenger, m.a., d.sc. an indispensable handbook to all who wish to increase their knowledge of the habits and life-histories of the wonderful creatures which are to be found on our sea-shores. nearly 100 illustrations. _large 8vo. 6s. 3d. net; by post, 6s. 7d._ _the yorkshire observer_ says:--"such a book was sorely needed, for almost all the works of a popular character dealing with shore life are sadly out of date." the horse and the war by captain sidney galtrey beautifully illustrated by captain lionel edwards, with a note specially contributed by field-marshal sir douglas haig, k.t., g.c.b., etc. _crown quarto, 6s. net; by post, 6s. 6d. in special binding, 10s. 6d. net; by post, 11s._ "few of us realize the debt we owe to the horse and the mule and to the men who fitted them for their task. in any survey of the thousand wonders of the last four years this book must take a place."--_glasgow herald._ the increased productivity series paynter's system of poultry rearing; or â£500 a year from hens by f.g. paynter. _an invaluable book for all poultry keepers. crown 8vo. illustrated. 5s. net. by post, 5s. 6d._ the flemish system of poultry rearing by madame jasper. _illustrated. 4s. 5d. net. by post, 4s. 9d._ "a book which all who keep poultry ought to read."--_liverpool post._ our food supply; perils and remedies by christopher turnor. _3s. 2d. net. by post, 3s. 6d._ "we can heartily commend this practical book to landholders and farmers."--_spectator._ the manual of manures by henry vendelmans. _crown 8vo. 4s. 5d. net. by post, 4s. 9d._ "we heartily commend the book."--_scottish farmer._ reclaiming the waste; britain's most urgent problem by p. anderson graham. _4s. 5d. net. by post, 4s. 9d._ "the book deserves to be widely read."--_glasgow herald._ profitable herb growing and collecting by ada b. teetgen. _illustrated. 5s. net. by post, 5s. 6d._ "a practical handbook, well suited to assist a profitable industry, which has largely lapsed to germany."--_times._ first advice to would-be farmers. _the book for the allotment holders and small holders. by_ f.e. green. _5s. net. by post, 5s. 6d._ farm records and the production of clean milk at moundsmere _by_ wilfred buckley, _director of milk supplies, ministry of food. with an introduction by the_ hon. waldorf astor, m.p. _medium quarto with eighteen full-page illustrations and many invaluable charts and records, bound in buckram, gilt top. 15s. net. by post, 6d. extra._ economies in dairy farming _an important work on dairying, by_ ernest mathews _(the well-known judge and expert). 9s. 5d. net. by post, 9s. 11d._ my wood fires and their story _by_ w. robinson, _author of "the english flower garden." showing the beauty and use of the wood fire. the way to secure good draught and combustion. the native woods best for fuel. the abolition of the fender, and the economy and value of wood as fuel. with 16 full-page illustrations and index. large quarto. 6s. 3d. net. by post, 6s. 9d._ rabbits for fur and flesh by c.j. davies. illustrated. _6s. net; by post, 6s. 6d._ a practical and up-to-date treatise on the hutch rabbit-breeding industry. in this important volume the author convincingly proves that if rabbits are correctly fed, they can be reared to a larger size and at a much lower cost than by the old-fashioned methods; that it is easily possible to combine the breeding of exhibition and utility specimens; that there are other varieties and more useful breeds than those with which most english breeders are acquainted, and many matters of which numerous fanciers appear to be totally ignorant. runner ducks by e.a. taylor. illustrated. _3s. 6d. net; by post, 3s. 11d._ a practical and highly-instructive book on the new type of duck for egg production. novel and revolutionary ideas for the production of land-duck eggs in large quantities. 250 eggs per duck annually. the "country life" library of verse the "country life" anthology of verse _edited by_ p. anderson graham. _over 200 pages. cloth, 6s. 3d. net; sheepskin, 8s. 6d. net; by post, 5d. extra._ "there is something very fresh and fragrant about this anthology."--_western daily mercury._ "a book which every lover of poetry should buy."--_the teachers' world._ "all the pieces are of a high standard of excellence, and many of them are poetic gems of the first water."--_glasgow herald._ poems _by_ dorothy frances gurney. _daintily bound. 6s. 3d. net; by post, 6s. 8d._ "mrs. gurney has the gift of song."--_the times._ the little book of quiet _by_ dorothy frances gurney. _3s. 2d. net; by post, 3s. 6d._ "many of the verses are worthy of christina rossetti."--_western morning news._ songs of a day. _by_ isabel butchart. _3s. 2d. net; by post, 3s. 6d._ "polished little cameos of verse."--_the times._ more songs of angus _by_ violet jacob. _3s. 6d. net; by post, 3s. 10d._ "to give excerpts from these poems ... is like pulling roses to pieces to find the choicest petal."--_morning post._ "country life" library of garden books gardening for beginners _(a handbook to the garden.) by_ e.t. cook. _coloured plates and over 200 illustrations, plans and diagrams from photographs of selected specimens of plants, flowers, trees, shrubs, fruits, etc. sixth edition. 15s. 8d. net. by post, 16s. 6d._ "one cannot speak in too high praise of the idea that led mr. e.t. cook to compile this gardening for beginners, and of the completeness and succinctness with which the idea has been carried out. nothing is omitted.... it is a book that will be welcomed with enthusiasm in the world of gardeners."--_morning post._ wall and water gardens _with chapters on the rock garden, the heath garden and the paved water garden. 5th edition. revised and enlarged. by_ gertrude jekyll. _containing instructions and hints on the cultivation of suitable plants on dry walls, rock walls, in streams, marsh pools, lakes, ponds, tanks and water margins. with 200 illustrations. large 8vo, 220 pages. 15s. 8d. net. by post, 16s. 5d._ "he who will consent to follow miss jekyll aright will find that under her guidance the old walls, the stone steps, the rockeries, the ponds, or streamlets of his garden will presently blossom with all kinds of flowers undreamed of, and become marvels of varied foliage."--_times._ children and gardens _by_ gertrude jekyll. _a garden book for children, treating not only of their own little gardens and other outdoor occupations, but also of the many amusing and interesting things that occur in and about the larger home garden and near grounds. thoroughly practical and full of pictures. 7s. 6d. net. by post, 8s._ "little bits of botany, quaint drawings of all kinds of things, pretty pictures, reminiscences and amusements--why, it is a veritable 'swiss family robinson' for the bairns, and we shall be surprised and disappointed if it is not introduced into many hundreds of homes."--_liverpool post._ trees and shrubs for english gardens _by_ e.t. cook. _15s. 8d. net. by post, 16s. 5d._ "it contains a mass of instruction and illustration not always to be found altogether when required, and as such it will be very useful as a popular handbook for amateurs and others anxious to grow trees and shrubs."--_field._ my garden _by_ eden phillpotts. _207 pages. 60 full-page illustrations, 7s. 6d. net. by post, 8s._ "it is a thoroughly practical book, addressed especially to those who, like himself, have about an acre of flower garden, and are willing and competent to help a gardener to make it as rich, as harmonious, and as enduring as possible. his chapters on irises are particularly good."--_world._ annuals and biennials _the best annual and biennial plants and their uses in the garden. by_ gertrude jekyll. _with cultural notes by_ e.h. jenkins. _illustrated throughout, 9s. 5d. net. by post, 9s. 11d._ "a noteworthy addition to the special literature of the garden."--_the scotsman._ the diseases of trees _by_ professor r. hartig. _royal 8vo. 13s. 2d. net. by post, 13s. 6d._ seaside planting of trees and shrubs _by_ alfred gaut, f.r.h.s. _an interesting and instructive book dealing with a phase of arboriculture hitherto not touched upon. it is profusely illustrated, and diagrams are given explaining certain details. 6s. 3d. net. by post, 6s. 9d._ "mr. gaut has accomplished a piece of very solid and extremely useful work, and one that may not be without considerable influence upon the future development of coast-side garden work and agriculture."--_liverpool courier._ the book of british ferns _by_ chas. t. druery, f.l.s., v.m.h., _president of the british pteridological society. 4s. 5d. net. by post, 4s. 9d._ "the book is well and lucidly written and arranged; it is altogether beautifully got up. mr. druery has long been recognized as an authority on the subject."--_st. james's gazette._ the hardy flower book _by_ e.h. jenkins. _a complete and trustworthy guide to all who are desirous of adding to their knowledge of the best means of planting and cultivating hardy flowers. large crown 8vo, 50 illustrations and coloured frontispiece. 2nd edition. 3s. 2d. net. by post, 3s. 6d._ "the amateur gardener who covets success should read 'the hardy flower book.'"--_daily mail._ gardening made easy _by_ e.t. cook. _an instructive and practical gardening book of 200 pages and 23 illustrations, 1s. 11d. net. cloth, 2s. 6d. net. postage, 3d. extra._ "the a b c of gardening."--_scotsman._ rose growing made easy _by_ e.t. cook. _a simple rose guide for amateurs, freely illustrated with diagrams showing ways of increasing, pruning and protecting roses, 1s. 3d. net. cloth, 2s. net. postage, 3d. extra_. " ... ought to be in the hands of every rose grower."--_aberdeen free press._ fruit growing for beginners _a simple and concise handbook on the cultivation of fruit. by_ f.w. harvey, _1s. 3d. net. cloth, 2s. net. postage, 3d. extra._ "an amazing amount of information is packed into this book."--_evening news._ causeries on english pewter _by_ antonio de navarro. _treats of old pewter, pewter church plate, evolution of the tankard, the trencher and its uses, church flagons, chalices, patens, forks, salts, spoons and the custody of pewter. quarto. price 13s. 2d. net. by inland post, 13s. 9d._ the first and chief groundes of architecture _by_ john shute, _1563, with an historical and critical introduction by_ lawrence weaver. _facsimile edition, limited to 1000 numbered copies of this rare and important work, the first book on architecture published in england. folio, half-bound in sheepskin. 18s. 9d. net. by post, 19s. 4d._ photography for beginners _an instructive and practical book, worded clearly but non-scientifically for the tyro camera user. 1s. 3d. net. cloth, 2s. net. postage, 3d. extra._ french household cooking _by_ mrs. frances keyzer. _shows how simple and inexpensive is the art of cooking as the french understand it. 2s. net. cloth, 2s. 6d. net. postage, 3d. extra._ "mrs. keyzer's manual has become one that no housekeeper's library ought to be without."--_daily mail._ vegetable growing _by_ herbert cowley (_editor of "the garden"_). _2nd impression. 9d. net. by post, 11d._ rabbit-keeping _by_ c.j. davies. _6th impression. 9d. net. by post, 11d._ goat-keeping _by_ c.j. davies. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ pig-keeping _by_ c.j. davies. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ bee-keeping _by_ w. herrod hempsall, f.e.s. (_editor of "the british bee journal"_). _9d. net. by post, 11d._ poultry-keeping _cheap daily menus for fowls. by_ will hooley, f.z.s. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ storing vegetables and fruits _with chapters on drying in the oven and by the kitchen fire. by_ herbert cowley. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ home-made pickles and preserves _garnishings, flavourings, home brewed wines, etc. recipes new and old. collected by_ anne amateur. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ fruit bottling and preserving _practical and homely recipes. by_ mrs. edwin beckett. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ practical cavy keeping _with a chapter on the profitable breeding of fancy mice. by_ j.t. bird. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ lawn tennis hints _by_ f.r. burrow. _9d. net. by post, 11d._ the complete golfer the complete golfer by harry vardon open champion, 1896, 1898, 1899, 1903 american champion, 1900 with sixty-six illustrations second edition methuen & co. 36 essex street w.c. london _first published june 1905_ _second edition june 1905_ preface many times i have been strongly advised to write a book on golf, and now i offer a volume to the great and increasing public who are devoted to the game. so far as the instructional part of the book is concerned, i may say that, while i have had the needs of the novice constantly in mind, and have endeavoured to the best of my ability to put him on the right road to success, i have also presented the full fruits of my experience in regard to the fine points of the game, so that what i have written may be of advantage to improving golfers of all degrees of skill. there are some things in golf which cannot be explained in writing, or for the matter of that even by practical demonstration on the links. they come to the golfer only through instinct and experience. but i am far from believing that, as is so often said, a player can learn next to nothing from a book. if he goes about his golf in the proper manner he can learn very much indeed. the services of a competent tutor will be as necessary to him as ever, and i must not be understood to suggest that this work can to any extent take the place of that compulsory and most invaluable tuition. on the other hand, it is next to impossible for a tutor to tell a pupil on the links everything about any particular stroke while he is playing it, and if he could it would not be remembered. therefore i hope and think that, in conjunction with careful coaching by those who are qualified for the task, and by immediate and constant practice of the methods which i set forth, this book may be of service to all who aspire to play a really good game. if any player of the first degree of skill should take exception to any of these methods, i have only one answer to make, and that is that, just as they are explained in the following pages, they are precisely those which helped me to win my five championships. these and no others i practise every day upon the links. i attach great importance to the photographs and the accompanying diagrams, the objects of which are simplicity and lucidity. when a golfer is in difficulty with any particular stroke--and the best of us are constantly in trouble with some stroke or other--i think that a careful examination of the pictures relating to that stroke will frequently put him right, while a glance at the companion in the "how not to do it" series may reveal to him at once the error into which he has fallen and which has hitherto defied detection. all the illustrations in this volume have been prepared from photographs of myself in the act of playing the different strokes on the totteridge links last autumn. each stroke was carefully studied at the time for absolute exactness, and the pictures now reproduced were finally selected by me from about two hundred which were taken. in order to obtain complete satisfaction, i found it necessary to have a few of the negatives repeated after the winter had set in, and there was a slight fall of snow the night before the morning appointed for the purpose. i owe so much--everything--to the great game of golf, which i love very dearly, and which i believe is without a superior for deep human and sporting interest, that i shall feel very delighted if my "complete golfer" is found of any benefit to others who play or are about to play. i give my good wishes to every golfer, and express the hope to each that he may one day regard himself as complete. i fear that, in the playing sense, this is an impossible ideal. however, he may in time be nearly "dead" in his "approach" to it. i have specially to thank mr. henry leach for the invaluable services he has rendered to me in the preparation of the work h.v. totteridge, _may 1905_. contents page chapter i golf at home 1 the happy golfer--a beginning at jersey--the vardon family--an anxious tutor--golfers come to grouville--a fine natural course--initiation as a caddie--primitive golf--how we made our clubs--matches in the moonlight--early progress--the study of methods--not a single lesson--i become a gardener--the advice of my employer--"never give up golf"--a nervous player to begin with--my first competition--my brother tom leaves home--he wins a prize at musselburgh--i decide for professionalism--an appointment at ripon. chapter ii some reminiscences 11 not enough golf--"reduced to cricket"--i move to bury--a match with alexander herd--no more nerves--third place in an open competition--i play for the championship--a success at portrush--some conversation and a match with andrew kirkaldy--fifth for the championship at sandwich--second at the deal tournament--eighth in the championship at st. andrews--i go to ganton--an invitation to the south of france--the championship at muirfield--an exciting finish--a stiff problem at the last hole--i tie with taylor--we play off, and i win the championship--a tale of a putter--ben sayers wants a "wun'"--what andrew thought of muirfield--i win the championship again at prestwick--willie park as runner-up--my great match with park--excellent arrangements--a welcome victory--on money matches in general--my third championship at sandwich--my fourth at prestwick--golf under difficulties. chapter iii the way to golf 25 the mistakes of the beginner--too eager to play a round--despair that follows--a settling down to mediocrity--all men may excel--the sorrows of a foozler--my advice--three months' practice to begin with--the makings of a player--good golf is best--how mr. balfour learned the game--a wise example--go to the professional--the importance of beginning well--practise with each club separately--driver, brassy, cleek, iron, mashie, and putter--into the hole at last--master of a bag of clubs--the first match--how long drives are made--why few good players are coming on--golf is learned too casually. chapter iv the choice and care of clubs 37 difficulties of choice--a long search for the best--experiments with more than a hundred irons--buy few clubs to begin with--take the professional's advice--a preliminary set of six--points of the driver--scared wooden clubs are best--disadvantages of the socket--fancy faces--short heads--whip in the shaft--the question of weight--match the brassy with the driver--reserve clubs--kinds of cleeks--irons and mashies--the niblick--the putting problem--it is the man who putts and not the putter--recent inventions--short shafts for all clubs--lengths and weights of those i use--be careful of your clubs--hints for preserving them. chapter v driving--preliminaries 52 advantage of a good drive--and the pleasure of it--more about the driver--tee low--why high tees are bad--the question of stance--eccentricities and bad habits--begin in good style--measurements of the stance--the reason why--the grip of the club--my own method and its advantages--two hands like one--comparative tightness of the hands--variations during the swing--certain disadvantages of the two-v grip--addressing the ball--freaks of style--how they must be compensated for--too much waggling--the point to look at--not the top of the ball, but the side of it. chapter vi driving--the swing of the club 64 "slow back"--the line of the club head in the upward swing--the golfer's head must be kept rigid--the action of the wrists--position at the top of the swing--movements of the arms--pivoting of the body--no swaying--action of the feet and legs--speed of the club during the swing--the moment of impact--more about the wrists--no pure wrist shot in golf--the follow-through--timing of the body action--arms and hands high up at the finish--how bad drives are made--the causes of slicing--when the ball is pulled--misapprehensions as to slicing and pulling--dropping of the right shoulder--its evil consequences--no trick in long driving--hit properly and hard--what is pressing and what is not--summary of the drive. chapter vii brassy and spoon 78 good strokes with the brassy--play as with the driver--the points of the brassy--the stance--where and how to hit the ball--playing from cuppy lies--jab strokes from badly-cupped lies--a difficult club to master--the man with the spoon--the lie for the baffy--what it can and cannot do--character of the club--the stance--tee shots with the baffy--iron clubs are better. chapter viii special strokes with wooden clubs 85 the master stroke in golf--intentional pulling and slicing--the contrariness of golf--when pulls and slices are needful--the stance for the slice--the upward swing--how the slice is made--the short sliced stroke--great profits that result--warnings against irregularities--how to pull a ball--the way to stand--the work of the right hand--a feature of the address--what makes a pull--effect of wind on the flight of the ball--greatly exaggerated notions--how wind increases the effect of slicing and pulling--playing through a cross wind--the shot for a head wind--a special way of hitting the ball--a long low flight--when the wind comes from behind. chapter ix the cleek and driving mashie 98 a test of the golfer--the versatility of the cleek--different kinds of cleeks--points of the driving mashie--difficulty of continued success with it--the cleek is more reliable--ribbed faces for iron clubs--to prevent skidding--the stance for an ordinary cleek shot--the swing--keeping control over the right shoulder--advantages of the three-quarter cleek shot--the push shot--my favourite stroke--the stance and the swing--the way to hit the ball--peculiar advantages of flight from the push stroke--when it should not be attempted--the advantage of short swings as against full swings with iron clubs--playing for a low ball against the wind--a particular stance--comparisons of the different cleek shots--general observations and recommendations--mistakes made with the cleek. chapter x play with the iron 112 the average player's favourite club--fine work for the iron--its points--the right and the wrong time for play with it--stance measurements--a warning concerning the address--the cause of much bad play with the iron--the swing--half shots with the iron--the regulation of power--features of erratic play--forced and checked swings--common causes of duffed strokes--swings that are worthless. chapter xi approaching with the mashie 118 the great advantage of good approach play--a fascinating club--characteristics of a good mashie--different kinds of strokes with it--no purely wrist shot--stance and grip--position of the body--no pivoting on the left toe--the limit of distance--avoid a full swing--the half iron as against the full mashie--the swing--how not to loft--on scooping the ball--taking a divot--the running-up approach--a very valuable stroke--the club to use--a tight grip with the right hand--peculiarities of the swing--the calculation of pitch and run--the application of cut and spin--a stroke that is sometimes necessary--standing for a cut--method of swinging and hitting the ball--the chip on to the green--points of the jigger. chapter xii on being bunkered 131 the philosopher in a bunker--on making certain of getting out--the folly of trying for length--when to play back--the qualities of the niblick--stance and swing--how much sand to take--the time to press--no follow-through in a bunker--desperate cases--the brassy in a bunker--difficulties through prohibited grounding--play straight when length is imperative--cutting with the niblick. chapter xiii simple putting 141 a game within another game--putting is not to be taught--the advantage of experience--vexation of missing short putts--some anecdotes--individuality in putting--the golfer's natural system--how to find it--and when found make a note of it--the quality of instinct--all sorts of putters--how i once putted for a championship--the part that the right hand plays--the manner of hitting the ball--on always being up and "giving the hole a chance"--easier to putt back after overrunning than when short--the trouble of tom morris. chapter xiv complicated putts 150 problems on undulating greens--the value of practice--difficulties of calculation--the cut stroke with the putter--how to make it--when it is useful--putting against a sideways slope--a straighter line for the hole--putting down a hill--applying drag to the ball--the use of the mashie on the putting-green--stymies--when they are negotiable and when not--the wisdom of playing for a half--lofting over the stymie--the run-through method--running through the stymie--how to play the stroke, and its advantages--fast greens for fancy strokes--on gauging the speed of a green. chapter xv some general hints 160 too much golf--analysis of good strokes--one's attitude towards one's opponent--inaccurate counting of strokes--tactics in match play--slow couples on the course--asking for halves--on not holing out when the half is given--golfing attire--braces better than belts--shoes better than boots--how the soles should be nailed--on counting your strokes--insisting on the rules--play in frosty weather--chalked faces for wet days--against gloves--concerning clubs--when confidence in a club is lost--make up your mind about your shot--the golfer's lunch--keeping the eye on the ball--the life of a rubber-core--a clean ball--the caddie's advice--forebodings of failure--experiments at the wrong time--one kind of golf at a time--bogey beaten, but how?--tips for tee shots--as to pressing--the short approach and the wayward eye--swinging too much--for those with defective sight--your opponent's caddie--making holes in the bunkers--the golfer's first duty--swinging on the putting-greens--practise difficult shots and not easy ones, etc. chapter xvi competition play 177 its difficulties--nerves are fatal--the philosophic spirit--experience and steadiness--the torn card--too much hurry to give up--a story and a moral--indifference to your opponent's brilliance--never slacken when up--the best test of golf--if golf were always easy--cautious play in medal rounds--risks to be taken--the bold game in match play--studying the course--risks that are foolishly taken--new clubs in competitions--on giving them a trial--no training necessary--as to the pipe and glass--how to be at one's best and keenest--on playing in the morning--in case of a late draw--watch your opponents. chapter xvii on foursomes 188 the four-ball foursome--its inferiority to the old-fashioned game--the case of the long-handicap man--confusion on the greens--the man who drives last--the old-fashioned two-ball foursome--against too many foursomes--partners and each other--fitting in their different games--the man to oblige--the policy of the long-handicap man--how he drove and missed in the good old days--on laying your partner a stymie--a preliminary consideration of the round--handicapping in foursomes--a too delicate reckoning of strokes given and received--a good foursome and the excitement thereof--a caddie killed and a hole lost--a compliment to a golfer. chapter xviii golf for ladies 198 as to its being a ladies' game--a sport of freedom--the lady on the links--the american lady golfer--english ladies are improving--where they fail, and why--good pupils--the same game as the man's--no short swings for ladies--clubs of too light weight--their disadvantages--a common fault with the sex--bad backward swings--the lady who will find out for herself--foundations of a bad style--the way to success. chapter xix the construction of courses 205 necessity for thought and ingenuity--the long-handicap man's course--the scratch player's--how good courses are made--the necessary land--a long nine-hole course better than a short eighteen--the preliminary survey--a patient study of possibilities--stakes at the holes--removal of natural disadvantages--"penny wise and pound foolish"--the selection of teeing grounds--a few trial drives--the arrangement of long and short holes--the best two-shot and three-shot holes--bunkers and where to place them--the class of player to cater for--the scratch man's game--the shots to be punished--bunkers down the sides--the best putting greens--two tees to each hole--seaside courses. chapter xx links i have played on 219 many first-class links--the best of all--sandwich--merits of the royal st. george's course--punishments for faults and rewards for virtue--not a short course--the best hole--the maiden--other good holes--prestwick an excellent course--the third and the ninth holes--the finest hole anywhere--hoylake--two or three tame holes--a means of improvement--good hazards and a premium on straight play--st. andrews--badly-placed bunkers--a good second hole--the finest one-shot hole to be found anywhere--an unfair hole--the best holes at muirfield--troon--north berwick--cruden bay--dornoch--machrihanish--a splendid course at islay--the most difficult hole i know--gullane--kilspindie--luffness--links in ireland--portrush--portmarnock--dollymount--lahinch--newcastle--welsh courses--ashburnham--harlech--on the south and south-west coasts--the rushes at westward ho!--newquay--good holes at deal--littlestone--rye--the advantage of cromer--brancaster--hunstanton--sheringham--redcar--seaton carew--st. anne's--formby--wallasey--inland courses--sunningdale--a splendid course--another at walton heath--huntercombe--london links--courses in the country--sheffield--manchester--huddersfield--"inland" courses at the seaside--a warning. chapter xxi golf in america 232 good golf in the united states--my tour through the country--mr. travis's victory in our amateur championship--not a surprise--the man who played the best golf--british amateurs must wake up--other good americans will come--our casual methods of learning golf--the american system--my matches in the states--a good average--driving well--some substantial victories--some difficult matches--course records--enthusiasm of the american crowds--the golf fever--the king of baseball takes to golf--the american open championship--a hard fight with j.h. taylor--a welcome win--curious experiences in florida--greens without grass--the plague of locusts--some injury to my game--"mr. jones"--fooling the caddies--camping out on the links--golf reporting in america--ingenious and good--mistakes made by non-golfing writers--lipping the hole for a hundred dollars. chapter xxii concerning caddies 245 varieties of caddies--advice to a left-handed player--cock-shots at ganton--unearned increments--an offer to carry for the fun of the thing--the caddie who knows too much--my ideal caddie--his points--the girl caddie--a splendid type--caddies' caustic humour--some specimens of it--mr. balfour's taste in caddies--when the caddie is too anxious--good human kindness--"big crawford"--"lookin' aifter maister balfour"--an ingenious claim--a salute for the chief secretary--a story of a distressed clergyman--sandy smith--the clothes he wore--an excess of zeal--the caddies' common-sense--when his lot is not a happy one. chapter xxiii reflections and recollections 259 good golf to come--giants of the past--the amateurs of to-day--the greatness of "freddy" tait--modern professionals--good sportsmen and good friends--a misconception--the constant strain--how we always play our best--difficult tasks--no "close season" in golf--spectators at big matches--certain anecdotes--putting for applause--shovelling from a bunker--the greatest match i have ever played in--a curious incident--a record in halves--a coincidence--the exasperation of andrew--the coming of spring--the joyful golfer. appendix (rules of the game) 267 index 279 list of illustrations portrait _frontispiece_ plate page i. my set of clubs 48 ii. the grip with the left hand 58 iii. the overlapping grip 58 iv. the overlapping grip 58 v. the overlapping grip 58 vi. driver and brassy. the stance 66 vii. driver and brassy. top of the swing 66 viii. driver and brassy. top of the swing from behind 66 ix. driver and brassy. finish of the swing 66 x. how not to drive 72 xi. how not to drive 72 xii. how not to drive 72 xiii. how not to drive 72 xiv. driver and brassy. stance when playing for a slice 86 xv. driver and brassy. top of the swing when playing for a slice 86 xvi. driver and brassy. finish when playing for a slice 86 xvii. driver and brassy. playing for a pull. stance 90 xviii. driver and brassy. top of the swing when playing for a pull 90 xix. driver and brassy. finish when playing for a pull 90 xx. driver and brassy. stance for a low ball against the wind 96 xxi. driver and brassy. stance for a high ball with the wind 96 xxii. full shot with the cleek. stance 102 xxiii. full shot with the cleek. top of the swing 102 xxiv. full shot with the cleek. finish 102 xxv. full shot with the cleek. finish 102 xxvi. the push shot with the cleek. stance 106 xxvii. the push shot with the cleek. top of the swing 106 xxviii. the push shot with the cleek. finish 106 xxix. a low ball (against wind) with the cleek. stance 106 xxx. a low ball (against wind) with the cleek. top of the swing 106 xxxi. a low ball (against wind) with the cleek. finish 106 xxxii. faulty play with the cleek 110 xxxiii. faulty play with the cleek 110 xxxiv. faulty play with the cleek 110 xxxv. faulty play with the cleek 110 xxxvi. faulty play with the cleek 110 xxxvii. full iron shot. stance 114 xxxviii. full iron shot. top of the swing 114 xxxix. full iron shot. finish 114 xl. play with the iron for a low ball (against wind). stance 114 xli. play with the iron for a low ball (against wind). top of the swing 114 xlii. play with the iron for a low ball (against wind). finish 114 xliii. mashie approach (pitch and run). stance 122 xliv. mashie approach (pitch and run). top of the swing 122 xlv. mashie approach (pitch and run). finish 122 xlvi. mistakes with the mashie 122 xlvii. mistakes with the mashie 122 xlviii. mistakes with the mashie 122 xlix. running-up approach with mashie or iron. finish, with stance also indicated 122 l. a cut approach with the mashie. stance 122 li. a cut approach with the mashie. top of the swing 122 lii. a cut approach with the mashie. finish 122 liii. the niblick in a bunker. top of an ordinary stroke when it is intended to take much sand 136 liv. "well out!" finish of an ordinary stroke in a bunker when much sand is taken 136 lv. another bunker stroke. top of the swing when intending to take the ball cleanly and with a little cut 136 lvi. finish, after taking the ball cleanly from a bunker 136 lvii. putting 146 lviii. putting 146 diagrams. trajectory of ball when a distant slice is required 89 trajectory of ball in the case of a quick slice 90 method and effect of pulling into a cross wind from the right 94 the push shot with the cleek 106 putting with cut on a sloping green 154 nails in golfing boots and shoes 167 points to look at when addressing the ball 170 the complete golfer chapter i golf at home the happy golfer--a beginning at jersey--the vardon family--an anxious tutor--golfers come to grouville--a fine natural course--initiation as a caddie--primitive golf--how we made our clubs--matches in the moonlight--early progress--the study of methods--not a single lesson--i become a gardener--the advice of my employer--"never give up golf"--a nervous player to begin with--my first competition--my brother tom leaves home--he wins a prize at musselburgh--i decide for professionalism--an appointment at ripon. i have sometimes heard good golfers sigh regretfully, after holing out on the eighteenth green, that in the best of circumstances as to health and duration of life they cannot hope for more than another twenty, or thirty, or forty years of golf, and they are then very likely inclined to be a little bitter about the good years of their youth that they may have "wasted" at some other less fascinating sport. when the golfer's mind turns to reflections such as these, you may depend upon it that it has been one of those days when everything has gone right and nothing wrong, and the supreme joy of life has been experienced on the links. the little white ball has seemed possessed of a soul--a soul full of kindness and the desire for doing good. the clubs have seemed endowed with some subtle qualities that had rarely been discovered in them before. their lie, their balance, their whip, have appeared to reach the ideal, and such command has been felt over them as over a dissecting instrument in the hands of a skilful surgeon. the sun has been shining and the atmosphere has sparkled when, flicked cleanly from the tee, the rubber-cored ball has been sent singing through the air. the drives have all been long and straight, the brassy shots well up, the approaches mostly dead, and the putts have taken the true line to the tin. hole after hole has been done in bogey, and here and there the common enemy has been beaten by a stroke. perhaps the result is a record round, and, so great is the enthusiasm for the game at this moment, that it is regarded as a great misfortune that the sun has set and there is no more light left for play. these are the times when the golfer's pulse beats strong, and he feels the remorse of the man with the misspent youth because he was grown up and his limbs were setting before ever he teed a ball. well, at least i can say that i have not missed much of the game that i love with a great fondness, for i played a kind of prehistoric golf when i was a bad boy of seven, and off and on i have played it ever since. it was fortunate for me that the common land at jersey was years ago the ideal thing for a golfing links, and that golfers from abroad found out its secret, as they always do. if they had failed to do so in this case, i might still have been spending my life in horticultural pursuits. for i was born (on may 9, 1870) and bred in jersey, at that little place called grouville, which is no more than a collection of scattered cottages and farmhouses a few miles from st. heliers. both my parents were natives of jersey, and my father, who was seventy-four on the 5th of last november, has been a gardener there all his life, holding the proud record of having changed his place of employment only once during the whole period. there was a big family of us--six boys and two girls--and all, except one of my sisters, are still alive. my brothers were george, phil, edward, tom, and fred, and i came fourth down the list, after edward. as most golfers know, my brother tom, to whom i owe very much, is now the professional at the royal st. george's club at sandwich, while fred is a professional in the isle of man. in due course we all went to the little village school; but i fear, from all that i can remember, and from what i have been told, that knowledge had little attraction for me in those days, and i know that i very often played truant, sometimes for three weeks at a stretch. consequently my old schoolmaster, mr. boomer, had no particular reason to be proud of me at that time, as he seems to have become since. he never enjoys a holiday so much in these days as when he comes over from jersey to see me play for the open championship, as he does whenever the meeting is held at sandwich. but when i did win a championship on that course, he was so nervous and excited about my play and my prospects that he felt himself unequal to watching me, and during most of the time that i was doing my four rounds he was sitting in a fretful state upon the seashore. i was a thin and rather delicate boy with not much physical strength, but i was as enthusiastic as the others in the games that were played at that time, and my first ambition was to excel at cricket. a while afterwards i became attached to football, and i retained some fondness for this game long after i took up golf. even after my golfing tour in america a few years ago, when quite at my best, i captained the ganton football team and played regularly in its matches. one day, when i was about seven years of age, a very shocking thing happened at grouville. all the people there lived a quiet, undisturbed life, and had a very wholesome respect for the sanctity of the sabbath day. but of all days of the week it was a sunday when a small party of strange gentlemen made their appearance on the common land, and began to survey and to mark out places for greens and tees. then the story went about that they were making preparations to play a game called golf. that was enough to excite the wrathful indignation of all the tenant-farmers round about, and without delay they began to think out means for expelling these trespassers from the common land. a tale of indignation spread through grouville, and these golfers, of whom i remember that mr. brewster was one, were not at first regarded in the light of friendship. but they soon made their position secure by obtaining all necessary authority and permission for what they were about to do from the constable of the parish, and from that day we had to resign ourselves to the fact that a new feature had entered into the quiet life of jersey. the little party went ahead with the marking out of their course, though indeed the natural state of the place was so perfect from the golfer's point of view that very little work was necessary, and no first-class golf links was ever made more easily. there were sand and other natural hazards everywhere, the grass was short and springy just as it is on all good sea-coast links, and all that it was necessary to do was to put a flag down where each hole was going to be, and run the mower and the roller over the space selected for the putting green. rooms were rented at a little inn hard by, which was forthwith rechristened the golf inn, and the headquarters of the jersey golfers are still at the same place, though a large club-room has been added. that was the beginning of the royal jersey golf club. the links as they were when they were first completed were really excellent--much better than they are to-day, for since then, in order to prevent the sand being blown all over the course by the strong winds which sweep across the island, the bunkers have in most cases been filled with clay, which has to a great extent spoiled them. when everything was ready, more of these golfers came across from england to play this new game which we had never seen before, and all the youngsters of the locality were enticed into their service to carry their clubs. i was among the number, and that was my first introduction to the game. we did not think much of it upon our first experience; but after we had carried for a few rounds we came to see that it contained more than we had imagined. then we were seized with a desire to play it ourselves, and discover what we could do. but we had no links to play upon, no clubs, no balls, and no money. however, we surmounted all these difficulties. to begin with, we laid out a special course of our very own. it consisted of only four holes, and each one of them was only about fifty yards long, but for boys of seven that was quite enough. we made our teeing grounds, smoothed out the greens, and, so far as this part of the business was concerned, we were soon ready for play. there was no difficulty about balls, for we decided at once that the most suitable article for us, in the absence of real gutties, was the big white marble which we called a taw, and which was about half the size of an ordinary golf ball, or perhaps a little less than that. but there was some anxiety in our juvenile minds when the question of clubs came to be considered, and i think we deserved credit for the manner in which we disposed of it. it was apparent that nothing would be satisfactory except a club fashioned on the lines of a real golf club, and that to procure anything of the sort we should have to make it ourselves. therefore, after several experiments, we decided that we would use for the purpose the hard wood of the tree which we called the lady oak. to make a club we cut a thick branch from the tree, sawed off a few inches from it, and then trimmed this piece so that it had a faint resemblance to the heads of the drivers we had seen used on the links. any elaborate splicing operations were out of the question, so we agreed that we must bore a hole in the centre of the head. the shaft sticks that we chose and trimmed were made of good thorn, white or black, and when we had prepared them to our satisfaction we put the poker in the fire and made it red hot, then bored a hole with it through the head, and tightened the shaft with wedges until the club was complete. with this primitive driver we could get what was for our diminutive limbs a really long ball, or a long taw as one should say. in these later days a patent has been taken out for drivers with the shaft let into the head, which are to all intents and purposes the same in principle as those which we used to make at grouville. by and by some of us became quite expert at the making of these clubs, and we set ourselves to discover ways and means of improving them. the greater elaboration of such brassies as we had seen impressed us, and we also found some trouble with our oak heads in that, being green, they were rather inclined to chip and crack. ultimately we decided to sheathe the heads entirely with tin. it was not an easy thing to make a good job of this, and we were further troubled by the circumstance that our respective fathers had no sympathy with us, and declined upon any account to lend us their tools. consequently we had no option but to wait until the coast was clear and then surreptitiously borrow the tools for an hour or two. we called these tin-plated drivers our brassies, and they were certainly an improvement on our original clubs. occasionally a club was made in this manner which exhibited properties superior to those possessed by any other, as clubs will do even to-day. forthwith the reputation of the maker of this club went up by leaps and bounds, and he was petitioned by others to make clubs for them, a heavy price in taws and marbles being offered for the service. the club that had created all this stir would change hands two or three times at an increasing price until it required the payment of four or five dozen marbles to become possessed of it. but the boy who owned the treasure was looked upon as the lord of the manor, and odds were demanded of him in the matches that we played. we practised our very elementary kind of golf whenever we could, and were soon enthusiastic. i remember particularly that many of our best matches were played in the moonlight. the moon seemed to shine more clearly at jersey than in england, and we could see splendidly. four of us would go out together on a moonlight night to play, and our little competition was arranged on the medal system by scores. usually a few marbles were at stake. to prevent the loss of taws one of us was sent ahead to watch for their coming and listen for the faint thud of their fall, while the other three drove from the tee. then the three came forward while the watcher went back to drive, and i am sorry to say that our keenness in those days led us to disregard certain principles of the sportsman's code of honour which we appreciated better as we grew up. what i mean is that the watcher was often handicapped in a way that he little suspected, for when he went back to the tee, and we went forward and found that our balls were not always so well up as we had hoped, we gave them a gentle kick forwards; for in the dim light we were able to do this unknown to each other. but in legitimate play we often got a 3 at these fifty-yard holes, and with our home-made clubs, our little white taws, our lack of knowledge, and our physical feebleness all taken into consideration, i say we have often done less creditable things since then. after such beginnings, we progressed very well. we began to carry more and more for the golfers who came to grouville; we found or were given real balls that took the place of the taws, and then a damaged club occasionally came our way, and was repaired and brought into our own service. usually it was necessary to put in new shafts, and so we burnt holes in the heads and put in the sticks, as we did with clubs of our own make; but these converted clubs were disappointing in the matter of durability. it happened once or twice that golfers for whom we had been carrying gave us an undamaged club as a reward for our enthusiasm, and we were greatly excited and encouraged when such a thing happened. i used to carry clubs about twice a week. i remember that mr. molesworth and dr. purves, both well known in the golfing world, were two players for whom i very often carried, and only the other day when i saw the former at the professional tournament at richmond, watching the play, i was able to remind him of those times and of a particular shot he once played. we young caddies were very eager to learn the game thoroughly, and we were in the habit of watching these golfers very closely, comparing their styles, and then copying anything from them that seemed to take our fancy. i may say at once, in reply to a question that i am often asked, and which perhaps my present readers may themselves be inclined to put, that i have never in my life taken a single golfing lesson from anyone, and that whatever style i may possess is purely the result of watching others play and copying them when i thought they made a stroke in a particularly easy and satisfactory manner. it was my habit for very many years after these early days, until in fact i had won the open championship, to study the methods of good golfers in this way, and there are few from whom one is not able to learn something. i cannot say that the play of any one man particularly impressed me; i cannot point to any player, past or present, and declare that i modelled my style on his. it seemed to me that i took a little from one and a little from another until my swing was a composition of the swings of several players, and my approach shots likewise were of a very mixed parentage. of course when i took a hint from the play of anyone i had been watching it required much subsequent practice properly to weld it into my own system; but i think that this close watching of good players, and the borrowing from their styles of all information that you think is good, and then constantly practising the new idea yourself, is an excellent method of improving your golf, though i do not recommend it as the sole method of learning, despite the success which i personally have achieved. however, this is a matter for later consideration. as we were such a large family and my father's means were very limited, there was the necessity which is common in such cases for all of the boys to turn out early in life and do something towards helping the others, and accordingly i went to work when i was thirteen. some time afterwards i became gardener to the late major spofforth of beauview, who was himself a very keen golfer, and who occasionally gave me some of his old clubs. now and then, when he was in want of a partner, he used to take me out to play with him, and i shall never forget the words he spoke to me one day after we had played one of these matches. "henry, my boy," he said, "take my advice, and never give up golf. it may be very useful to you some day." certainly his words came true. i can only remember about these games that i was in the habit of getting very nervous over them, much more so than i did later on when i played matches of far more consequence. i joined a working men's golf club that had been formed, and it was through this agency that i won my first prize. a vase was offered for competition among the members, the conditions being that six medal rounds were to be played at the rate of one a month. when we had played five, i was leading by so very many strokes that it was next to impossible for any of the others to catch me up, and as just then my time came for leaving home and going out into the greater world of golf, the committee kindly gave me permission to play my last round two or three weeks before the proper time. it removed all doubt as to the destination of the prize, which has still one of the most honoured places on my mantelpiece. at that time my handicap for this club was plus 3, but that did not mean that i would have been plus 3 anywhere else. as a matter of fact, i should think i must have been about 8 or 10. by this time my younger brother tom had already gone away to learn club-making from lowe at st. anne's-on-sea. he played very much the same game of golf as i did at that time, and it was his venture and the success that waited upon it that made me determine to strike out. while tom was at st. anne's he went on a journey north to take part in a tournament at musselburgh, where he captured the second prize. thereupon i came to the conclusion that, if tom could do that, then i too with a little patience might do the same. indeed, i was a very keen golfer just then. at last lowe was summoned to lord ripon's place at ripon, near harrogate, to lay out a new nine-holes course, and tom wrote to me saying that they would be wanting a professional there, and if i desired such an appointment i had better apply for it without delay. i did so, and was engaged. i was twenty years of age when i left home to assume these duties. chapter ii some reminiscences not enough golf--"reduced to cricket"--i move to bury--a match with alexander herd--no more nerves--third place in an open competition--i play for the championship--a success at portrush--some conversation and a match with andrew kirkaldy--fifth for the championship at sandwich--second at the deal tournament--eighth in the championship at st. andrews--i go to ganton--an invitation to the south of france--the championship at muirfield--an exciting finish--a stiff problem at the last hole--i tie with taylor--we play off, and i win the championship--a tale of a putter--ben sayers wants a "wun'"--what andrew thought of muirfield--i win the championship again at prestwick--willie park as runner-up--my great match with park--excellent arrangements--a welcome victory--on money matches in general--my third championship at sandwich--my fourth at prestwick--golf under difficulties. no true golfer is satisfied with a little of the game, if there is no substantial reason why he should not have much of it. i was greenkeeper as well as professional to the studley royal golf club, ripon; but golf did not seem to have taken a very deep root there up to that time. there was so little of it played that i soon found time hang heavily upon my hands, and in the summer i was reduced to playing cricket, and in fact played more with the bat than i did with the driver. there were one or two good players on the links occasionally, and now and then i had some good games with visitors to the place. one day after such a match my opponent remarked very seriously to me, "harry, if you take my advice you will get away from here as quickly as you can, as you don't get half enough golf to bring you out." i took the advice very much to heart. i was not unduly conceited about my golf in those days, and the possibility of being champion at some future time had taken no definite shape in my mind; but i was naturally ambitious and disinclined to waste any opportunities that might present themselves. so, when i saw that the bury golf club were advertising for a professional, i applied for the post and got it. it was by no means a bad nine-holes course that i found at bury, and i was enabled to play much more golf than at ripon, while there were some very good amateurs there, mr. s.f. butcher being one of the best. i was now beginning to play fairly well, and the first professional match of my life was arranged for me, alexander herd of huddersfield being my opponent in this maiden effort, upon the result of which a stake of a few pounds a side depended. herd was by that time a famous player and accomplishing some very fine golf, so that on paper at all events the unknown bury professional had no chance whatever. so indeed it proved. it was fixed that we were to play thirty-six holes, home and home, herd having the privilege of playing on his own course first. i forget how many he was up at huddersfield, but it was so many that i had practically no chance of wiping out the difference when i brought my opponent to bury, and in the end he won quite easily. "sandy" herd, as we all call him, and i have had many great matches since then, and many of them of far greater consequence than this, but i shall never forget this beginning. neither in those days, nor in the others that soon followed, when it became clear that i had a chance of becoming champion, was i ever in the least troubled with nervousness. i was completely cured of my early complaint. moreover, i have not known what it is to be nervous even in a championship round when my fate depended upon almost every stroke, and particularly on those at the last few holes. the feeling that was always uppermost in my mind was that i had everything to gain and nothing to lose. it is only when a man has everything to lose and nothing to gain that he should become uneasy about his game. when you have won a few prizes and there are critical eyes upon you, there may be some excuse for nerves, but not before. all young players should grasp the simple truth of this simple statement; but it is surprising how many fail to do so. no stroke or game ever seemed to cause me any anxiety in those young days, and my rapid success may have been in a large measure due to this indifference. in 1893 i decided that i would enter for the open championship, which in that year was played for at prestwick, and i went north in company with my brother tom, stopping on our way to take part in the tournament at kilmalcolm, which was attended by most of the other professionals. i did fairly well in this, the first open competition for which i entered, being bracketed with poor hugh kirkaldy for third place. but i failed in the championship competition, as, of course, i fully expected to do. that was willie auchterlonie's year, and i was some way down the list. i started in great style, and, though i broke down badly later on, there was just the consolation left for me that after all i did better than my partner, willie campbell. there were some curious circumstances attending the first big success of any kind that i achieved. this was at portrush in ireland, shortly after the championship meeting, and the competition was a professional tournament. i was drawn against andrew kirkaldy in the first round, and his brother hugh was one of the next pair, so it seemed that the two kirkaldys would meet in the second round. andrew assumed that that would happen, as he had every right to do, and he was heard to remark that it was rather hard luck that the brothers should be set against each other in this manner so early in the competition. the night before the match-play part of the business commenced, i was walking down one of the streets of portrush when i encountered andrew himself, and in his own blunt but good-humoured way he remarked, "young laddie, d'ye think y're gaun to tak the money awa' with ye? ye've no chance, ye ken." i said nothing in reply, because i felt that he spoke the truth. next day a heavy gale was blowing, and i started very cautiously. the first hole was on the side of a hill, and when my ball lay a yard from the flag and i had the next stroke for the hole, it was trembling in the wind and threatening every moment to start rolling. so i waited for it to steady itself, and my waiting exasperated andrew to such an extent that at length he exclaimed, "man, d'ye ken i'm cauld? are ye gaun to keep me waiting here a' nicht?" then i took the putt and missed it, so the hole was halved. however, i set about my opponent after that, and had begun to enjoy the game immensely by the time we reached the turn. at this point two of the holes ran parallel to each other, and as we were playing one of them we passed hugh and his partner going up to the other. "man, andrew, hoo's the game?" called out brother hugh. "man alive, i'm five doon!" andrew replied in tones of distress. "ma conscience!" muttered hugh as he passed along. andrew was more than five down at the finish of that game, and in the second round i had the satisfaction of removing the remaining member of the kirkaldy family from the competition, while in the semi-final i beat an old open champion, d. brown. but in the final, herd defeated me on the last green, and so i had to be content with the prize given for runner-up. shortly afterwards i won another prize in a tournament at ilkley, this time accounting for herd as well as my brother tom and many other well-known players. tom was professional at ilkley, and the course there was a very difficult nine holes. i did better in the competition for the open championship in the following year when the meeting was held at sandwich, playing a particularly good game on the second day, when my 80 and 81 were one of the two lowest combined returns. at the finish i was fifth, and felt very pleased to occupy the position, for the excellence of the golf that i witnessed was a surprise to me. from sandwich the professionals went on to deal, where a tournament was held, in which i managed to secure second place. it was herd who beat me once again. at st. andrews in the 1895 competition, i returned the lowest score in the first round, but could only tie for the ninth place at the finish. my old friend, j.h. taylor, who made his first essay to capture the blue ribbon of golf at prestwick at the same time that i did, was the winner at both this and the previous championship meeting. a few months later i left bury for ganton; tom, who had been over there with some ilkley players at the yorkshire meeting, having heard that they were in need of a new professional, and written to me at once with advice to apply. between leaving bury and going to ganton i had three weeks of good golf at pau, in the south of france, the great and unexpected honour being paid me of an invitation to form one of a small party of professionals for whom a series of matches and competitions had been arranged there. taylor, herd, archie simpson, willie auchterlonie, and lloyd, the local professional, were the others. professional golfers when they are out together usually manage to have a pretty good time, and this occasion was no exception. knowing a little french, i was once appointed cashier and paymaster for the party, but i did not know enough of the language to feel quite at home when large figures were the subject of discussion, and i remember that the result was an awkward incident at bordeaux on the return journey. we were called upon to pay excess fare for the luxury of travelling in the express, and, failing to understand the ticket collector, i was filling his hand with francs, one by one, waiting for him to tell me when he was in possession of the required amount. but he needed more and more, and the situation was becoming embarrassing, when the guard whistled and the train moved off. if it had not been for that intervention we might still have been paying him excess fare. i went to ganton immediately on my return, and in the spring of that year, 1896, a match between taylor and myself was arranged on my new course, when i had the satisfaction of winning. i was looking forward very keenly to the open championship that year. it was at muirfield, and it took place only four or five weeks after this encouraging victory over taylor. in the meantime i had been a little off my game, and when i teed my first ball at muirfield it seemed to me that i was as likely to make a bad drive as a good one, and i was equally uncertain with all the other clubs in my bag. but as it happened i was fortunate enough to be playing well during the competition, and was close up at the end of the first day, with taylor in the next place above me. the next day i was again playing well, and the result was exciting. taylor was doing his rounds only a few holes in front of me, and late in the contest it became apparent that the issue would be left between us. i did not know exactly what i had to do to win until about four holes from the finish, when someone, who had seen taylor putt out at the last green, came up to me and told me what number of strokes was still left to me to play if i were to tie with him. when i came to the last hole i had set me what i think was the most anxious problem that has ever come my way since i first took up golf. i had five strokes left to play in order to tie with taylor and give me the right to play off with him for the championship, and four left with which to win it outright. it is a fairly long hole--a drive and a good brassy, with a very nasty bunker guarding the green. thus, while it was an easy 5, it was a difficult 4, and the bold golfer who made his bid for the low figure might possibly be punished with a 6. my drive was good, and then i had to make my choice between the bold game and the sure one. a championship hung upon the decision. the prospect of being the winner in less than five minutes was tempting. the brassy would give me the championship or nothing. the iron would admit me to the privilege of playing off with taylor another day. i hesitated. i think i would have taken the iron in any case; but just when i was longing for an inspiration, my eye wandered among the spectators some sixty or seventy yards in front of me, and i caught sight of my friend james kay of seaton carew making frantic efforts to attract my attention, and pointing with his hand to the ground on the near side of the bunker as a hint to play short. that settled it. i played short, got my 5, and tied with taylor with a total score of 316. the play-off was full of interest and excitement. taylor and i were granted permission to take part in a tournament at north berwick before we settled the question between us. when at length we teed up again at muirfield, i felt as though i were fit to play for anything, and started in a way that justified my confidence, for i picked up a useful lead of five strokes in the first half-dozen holes. after that taylor settled down to most brilliant golf, and brought my lead down to a single stroke; but at the end of the first round i was two to the good. to my exasperation, this lead disappeared with the very first stroke that i made after lunch. there is a wood running along the left-hand side of the line of the first hole on this course. with my cleek shot from the tee i pulled the ball into this dismal place, and by the rule in force at the time i lost two strokes and played again from the tee, taylor holing out in 3 to my 5. however, at this crisis i came out again and won a stroke at each of the next three holes, and only lost one of them from that point to the seventeenth. two strokes to the good and two holes to go--that at least seemed good for the championship. on the seventeenth green, my brother tom, who was carrying my clubs for me, took a lot of trouble to point out the line of a putt the whole length of the green, but something prompted me to take an entirely different course, and i holed the putt, gaining another stroke. there we were, taylor and i, at that last hole again, but this time we were together, and i had a big advantage over my good friend on this occasion. there was more mental golf to be played, and though taylor's ordeal was the more trying, neither of us had any difficulty in coming to a decision. my course was clear. with a lead of three strokes i had to play for a 5, as on the previous occasion, because it was certain to give me the championship. taylor's only chance was to blaze away with both his driver and his brassy, and trust to getting his second shot so well placed on the green as to secure a 3, which, in the event of my dropping a stroke through an accident in the bunker or elsewhere and taking 6, would enable him to tie. i obtained my 5 without difficulty, but taylor's gallant bid for 3 met with an unhappy fate, for his second shot was trapped in the bunker, and it took him 6 to hole out. and so with a score of 157 to taylor's 161, i was open champion at last, and for the first time in my life i felt some emotion as a golfer. i was too dazed to speak, and it seemed as if my feet had taken root on the eighteenth green, for i don't think i moved for several minutes. there is a little tale i want to tell about that championship, illustrating the old saying that golf is a very funny game, and giving some point to a recommendation that i shall have to make later on. never in my life have i putted better than i did in those two rounds. if, when i had a putt the whole length of the green, i did not actually rattle it into the tin, i laid it stone dead on the lip of the hole; on no green did i take more than two putts. yet in the various rounds i had played on several days before my putting had been very indifferent. how came this remarkable change? it seems to me that it was entirely due to a chance visit that i paid to ben sayers's shop when i was at north berwick in the interval between tieing with taylor and playing the deciding rounds. i told the clubmaker who was in charge that i was off my putting, and wanted a new putter. hitherto i had been playing with one of the bent-necked variety. while i was looking about the shop my eye was attracted by an old cleek that lay in a corner--a light and neglected club, for which nobody seemed to have any use. the strange idea occurred to me that this would make a grand putter, and so i told the man to take out the old shaft and put a new and shorter one in, and when this process had been completed i determined to experiment with it in the play-off with taylor. i fancied this new discovery of mine and had confidence in it, and that was why i got all those long putts down and achieved the golfer's greatest ambition. but though i keep it still and treasure it, i have never played with that putter since. it has done its duty. i must tell just one other story concerning this muirfield championship. among the favourites at the beginning of operations were ben sayers and andrew kirkaldy, and a victory on the part of either of them would have been most popular in the north, as it would have settled the cup on the other side of the tweed. ben was rather inclined to think his own prospects were good. someone asked him the day before the meeting who was the most likely champion. "jist gie me a wun' an' i'll show ye wha'll be the champion," he replied, and he had some reason for the implied confidence in himself, for he knew muirfield very well, and no one had better knowledge of how to play the strokes properly there when there was a gale blowing over the course, and pulling and slicing were constantly required. but neither ben nor andrew was as successful as was wished, and not unnaturally they thought somewhat less of muirfield than they had done before. therefore it was not fair to ask kirkaldy, after the competition had been completed, what he really considered to be the merits of the course. i was standing near him when a player came up and bluntly asked, "what d'ye think o' muirfield now, andrew?" andrew's lip curled as he replied, "no for gowff ava'. just an auld watter meedie. i'm gled i'm gaun hame." but the inquirer must needs ejaculate, "hooch ay, she would be ferry coot whateffer if you had peen in harry fardon's shoes." there was an exciting finish also to the 1898 championship, which was held at prestwick. the final struggle was left to willie park and myself, and at the end of the third round, when willie was three strokes to the good, it seemed a very likely victory for him. in the last round i was playing a hole in front of him, and we were watching each other as cats watch mice the whole way round the links. i made a reckoning when we reached the turn that i had wiped out the three strokes deficit, and could now discuss the remainder of the game with park without any sense of inferiority. i finished very steadily, and when park stood on the last tee just as i had holed out, he was left to get a 3 at this eighteenth hole to tie. his drive was a beauty, and plop came the ball down to the corner of the green, making the 3 seem a certainty. an immense crowd pressed round the green to see these fateful putts, and in the excitement of the moment, i, the next most concerned man to park himself, was elbowed out. i just saw his long putt roll up to within about a yard of the hole, which was much too dead for my liking. then, while park proceeded to carry out his ideas of accomplishing a certainty, i stood at the edge of the crowd, seeing nothing and feeling the most nervous and miserable man alive. never while playing have i felt so uncomfortable as during those two or three minutes. after what seemed an eternity there rose from all round the ring one long disappointed "o-o-o-h!" i didn't stop to look at the ball, which was still outside the hole. i knew that i had won the championship again, and so i hastened light-heartedly away. i must admit that park was playing an exceedingly fine game at that time, and it was only the fact that i was probably playing as well as ever i did in my life that enabled me to get the better of him. the day after winning the championship i gained the first prize in a tournament at the adjoining course of st. nicholas, and thereafter i frequently took part in competitions, winning much more often than not. but the most important event, and the biggest match i ever had with anyone, was my engagement with willie park, who, not altogether satisfied at having missed the championship by a putt, challenged me to play him home and home matches, thirty-six holes each time, for â£100 a side. there was some difficulty in arranging final details, but eventually we agreed to play at north berwick and ganton, north berwick first. i have never seen such a golfing crowd as there was at north berwick the day we played there. all golfing scotland seemed to be in attendance, and goodness knows how many people would have been watching the play if it had not happened that the lukewarm golfers went instead to edinburgh to see the prince of wales, who was visiting the capital that day. as it was, there were fully seven thousand people on the links, and yet this huge crowd--surely one of the very biggest that have ever watched a golf match--was perfectly managed, and never in the least interfered with a single stroke made by either park or myself. the arrangements, indeed, were admirable. in order to keep the crowd informed of the state of the game at each hole, two flags were made, one being white with a red "p" on it, and the other red with a "v" worked on in white. when park won a hole the flag with his initial was hoisted, and the "v" was sent up when i won a hole, both flags being waved when it was a half. at each teeing ground a rope three hundred yards long was stretched, and fourteen constables and a like number of honorary officials took control of it. in order to prevent any inconvenience at the dyke on the course, a boarding, forty feet wide and fifty yards out of the line from the tee to the hole, was erected, so that the crowd could walk right over. mr. c.c. broadwood, the ganton captain, acted as my referee, and lieutenant "freddy" tait served in the same capacity on behalf of park. one of the most laborious tasks was that undertaken by the two messrs. hunter, who acted as forecaddies, and did their work splendidly. in two practice rounds that i played before the great encounter opened i did 76 each time, and i felt very fit when we teed up on the eventful morning. and i played very steadily, too, though my putting was sometimes a little erratic, and park is one of the greatest putters who have ever lived. the early part of the game was very extraordinary in that the first ten holes were halved in 4, 5, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 5, 4, 4. then park drew first blood, but in the end i finished two up on the day's play. when park came to ganton three weeks later, i beat him on the two matches by 11 up with 10 to play. naturally he was disappointed, but he was very sportsmanlike. he was acknowledged to be the greatest match-player of his time. i do not care for myself to lay any more stress on the importance of this match, or of the value of my own achievement; but those who have taken up golf quite lately can have no conception of the stir that it caused. it was the event of my lifetime. the remembrance of this encounter brings forward the question of big money matches generally, which several people have declared they would like to see renewed. fifty years ago they were common enough, and there are great stories told of foursomes between allan robertson and tom morris on the one side and the brothers dunn on the other for a stake of â£400, and so on. the sightseers of golf ask why there are no such matches now. i think it is because golf professionals have to work too hard for the money they earn, and they do not care for the idea of throwing it away again on a single match. they do not receive large "benefits" or gate money, as do professionals in other branches of sport. so they deem it best to be careful of their savings. besides, such matches tend to create bad feeling among the players, and we professionals are such a happy family that we distrust any scheme with such a tendency. moreover, golf at the present time is a delightfully pure game, so far as gambling is concerned--purer than most others--and such matches would very likely encourage the gambling idea. that would be a misfortune. i contend that after all, for the best and fairest and most interesting trial of strength there is nothing like a good tournament where each player has to test himself against all comers. every man plays to win, the golf is generally good, and what more is wanted? when i won the championship again in the following year at sandwich, my success was chiefly due to my brassy play, which was better than it ever was before or has been since. from my brassy strokes the ball was often enough laid dead near the hole; certainly my second shots were always the winning shots. the game seemed very easy to me then, and i gained the championship for the third time with less difficulty than on either of the two previous occasions. in 1900 i made a long tour in america, and won the american championship. concerning these events i desire to write at some length in a later chapter. the greatest success which i have ever achieved in face of difficulties was when i again became open champion at prestwick in 1903. for some time beforehand i had been feeling exceedingly unwell, and, as it appeared shortly afterwards, there was serious trouble brewing. during the play for the championship i was not at all myself, and while i was making the last round i was repeatedly so faint that i thought it would be impossible for me to finish. however, when i holed my last putt i knew that i had won. my brother tom was runner-up, six strokes behind, and, glad as i was of the distinction of having equalled the record of the two morrises in having won the championship four times, i could have wished, and did wish, that tom had been the victor. in all the circumstances i was very much surprised that i did so well. the last day's work was an enormous strain, yet on the following day i played in a tournament at irvine, won the first prize, and broke the record of the course. it is wonderful what golf can be played when one's mind is given to the task, whatever the adverse factors in the case may be. however, these are the events of recent golfing history, and i have no desire to inflict upon my readers a narrative of any more of them. as nearly as i can reckon, i have up to date won the first prize in forty-eight first-class tournaments, and by being four times british open champion and once american have still that record to my credit. and i hope to play many of my best games in the future, for it takes longer to kill the golf in a man than it does to breed it. chapter iii the way to golf the mistakes of the beginner--too eager to play a round--despair that follows--a settling down to mediocrity--all men may excel--the sorrows of a foozler--my advice--three months' practice to begin with--the makings of a player--good golf is best--how mr. balfour learned the game--a wise example--go to the professional--the importance of beginning well--practise with each club separately--driver, brassy, cleek, iron, mashie, and putter--into the hole at last--master of a bag of clubs--the first match--how long drives are made--why few good players are coming on--golf is learned too casually. there are different ways of learning to play the great game of golf, each of which enjoys its share of patronage. here as elsewhere, there are, of course, the two broad divisions into which the methods of doing all things are in the first instance classed--the right way and the wrong way--and, generally speaking, the wrong way has proved the more popular and is accountable for much of the very bad golf that one sees almost every day upon the links. there are two mistakes to which the beginner is much addicted, and to them is due the unhappy circumstance that in so many cases he never gets his club handicap down to single figures. before he has ever played golf in his life, but at that interesting period when he has made up his mind to do so, and has bought his first set of clubs, he is still inclined to make the same error that is made by so many people who know nothing of the game, and loftily remark that they do not want to know anything--that it is too absurdly simple to demand serious thought or attention, and can surely need no special pains in learning to play. is not the ball quite still on the tee before you, and all that is necessary being to hit it, surely the rest is but a question of strength and accuracy of aim? well, we need not waste time in discussing the opinions of the scoffers outside, or in submitting that there never was a game less easy to learn than golf. but the man who has been converted to golf most frequently has a vestige of this superstition of his heathen days lingering with him, and thus at the outset he is not inclined to waste any time, as he would say, in tuition, particularly as it happens that these new converts when quite fresh are invariably most delightfully enthusiastic. they have promised themselves a new sensation, and they are eager to get on to the links and see how much further than the two hundred yards that they have heard about they can drive at the first attempt or two. then comes the inevitable disappointment, the despair, the inclination to give it up, and finally the utter abject despondency which represents the most miserable state on earth of the golfer, in which he must be closely watched lest he should commit murder upon the beautiful set of clubs of which at the beginning he was so proud, and which he spent his evenings in brightening to the degree that they resembled the family plate. then after this passage through purgatory come the first gleams of hope, when two holes in succession have been done in only one over bogey, and a 24 handicap man has actually been beaten by 3 up and 2 to play--a conquest which, if it is the first one, is rarely forgotten in the golfer's lifetime. after that there is a steady settling down to mediocrity. there is afterwards only an occasional fit of despair, the game is for the most part thoroughly enjoyed, there are times when, after a round in which driving and putting have been rather better than usual, the golfer encourages himself over his cup of tea with the fancy that after all he may some day win a medal and become a senior; but in the main the conviction forces itself upon him that it is impossible that he can ever become a really fine player. he argues that this is not at all his own fault. he points out to himself that circumstances are too strong for him. he considers that he is not very young--at least not so young as many of the experts of his club who have been golfing ever since they were boys. his limbs have not that suppleness which makes the scratch player. his eye is not so keen as theirs. besides, he is a business man who has to give up so much of his time to the earning of his daily bread that it is impossible he should ever devote himself to the game with that single-mindedness which alone can ensure proficiency. he must take himself as he finds himself, and be satisfied with his 18 handicap. these are the somewhat pathetic excuses that he makes in this mood of resignation. of course he is wrong--wrong from the beginning to the end--but there is little satisfaction in that for the earnest lover of the game who would see all men excel, and who knows only too well that this failure is but a specimen of hundreds of his kind--good golfing lives thrown away, so to speak. if a man is not a cripple, if he suffers from no physical defect, there is no reason why he should not learn to play a good game of golf if he goes about it in the right way. there is indeed a one-armed golfer who plays a very fair game, and one may admit all these things without in any way suggesting that golf is not a game for the muscles and the nerves and all the best physical qualities of a well-grown man. no great amount of brute force is necessary, and fleetness of foot, which men lose as they grow old, is never wanted; but still golf is a game for manly men, and when they take it up they should strive to play it as it deserves to be played. now i know what severe temptation there will be to all beginners to disregard the advice that i am about to offer them; but before proceeding any further i will invite them to take the opinion of any old golfer who, chiefly through a careless beginning (he knows that this is the cause), has missed his way in the golfer's life, and is still plodding away as near the limit handicap as he was at the beginning. the beginner may perhaps be disposed to rely more upon the statement of this man of experience and disappointment than on that of the professional, who is too often suspected of having his own ends in view whenever he gives advice. let the simple question be put to him whether, if he could be given the chance of doing it all over again from the beginning, he would not sacrifice the first three or six months of play to diligent study of the principles of the game, and the obtaining of some sort of mastery over each individual shot under the careful guidance of a skilled tutor, not attempting during this time a single complete round with all his clubs in action, and refusing all temptations to play a single match--whether he would not undergo this slow and perhaps somewhat tedious period of learning if he could be almost certain of being able at the end of it to play a really good game of golf, and now at this later period of his career to have a handicap much nearer the scratch mark than his existing one is to the border-line between the senior and the junior? i am confident that in the great majority of cases, looking back on his misspent golfing youth, he would answer that he would cheerfully do all this learning if he could begin again at the beginning. now, of course, it is too late, for what is once learned can only with extreme difficulty be unlearned, and it is almost impossible to reform the bad style and the bad habits which have taken root and been cultivated in the course of many years; and if it were possible it would be far more difficult than it would have been to learn the game properly at the beginning. my earnest advice to the beginner is to undergo this slow process of tuition for nothing less than three months, and preferably more. it is a very long time, i know, and it may seem painfully tedious work, simply knocking a ball backwards and forwards for all those months; but if he does not accept my suggestion he will have harder things to try his patience during many years afterwards, while, if he takes my advice, he may be down very near to scratch at the end of his first year, and he will be very thankful that he spent the period of probation as he did. he will constantly be giving a half to players who have been playing for more years than he has months, and he will be holding his own in the very best golfing company. he will be getting the finest delight out of the game that it is possible to get. it is said that the long handicap man gets as much pleasure out of the game as the short handicap man. as the former has never been a short handicap man he is evidently not qualified to judge. the scratch man, who has been through it all, would never change his scratch play for that of his old long-handicap days--at least i have never yet met the scratch man who would. no doubt the noble army of foozlers derive an immense amount of enjoyment from the practice of their game, and it is my earnest prayer that they may long continue to do so. it is one of the glorious advantages of golf that all, the skilled and the unskilled, can revel in its fascinations and mysteries; but there is no golfing delight so splendid as that which is obtained from playing the perfect game, or one which nearly approaches it. the next best thing to it is playing what one knows to be an improving game, however bad, and the golfer whose play has been incorrectly established has not often even the knowledge that his game is improving. he declares more often than not that it gets worse, and one is frequently inclined to believe him. now the middle-aged man may say that he is too old to go in for this sort of thing, that all he wants is a little fresh air and exercise, and as much enjoyment as he can get out of playing the game in just the same sort of way that the "other old crocks" do. he would rather play well, of course, if it were not too late to begin; but it is too late, and there is an end of it. that is the way in which he puts it. so large a proportion of our new converts to golf belong to this middle-aged class, that it is worth while giving a few special words of advice to them. mr. forty and mr. forty-five, you are not a day too old, and i might even make scratch men of you, if i were to take you in hand and you did all the things i told you to do and for as long as i told you. given fair circumstances, there is no reason why any man should despair of becoming either a scratch player or one who is somewhere very near it, and it is as easy to learn to play well as it is to learn to play badly. so i advise every golfer to get hold of the game stroke by stroke, and never be too ambitious at the commencement. i have heard it stated on very good authority that when mr. balfour first began to play he submitted himself to very much the same process of tuition as that which i am about to advise, and that under the guidance of tom dunn he actually spent a miserable fortnight in bunkers only, learning how to get out of them from every possible position. the right honourable gentleman must have saved hundreds of strokes since then as the result of that splendid experience, trying as it must have been. he is in these days a very good and steady player, and he might be still better if parliamentary cares did not weigh so heavily upon him. i may humbly suggest that the way in which he began to play golf was characteristic of his wisdom. therefore, when the golfer has become possessed of his first set of clubs, let him proceed to the shop of a good professional player--presumably it will be the shop where he bought his clubs--and let him place himself unreservedly in the hands of this expert in the game. most professionals are good players and good teachers, and the golfer cannot go far wrong in this matter if he allows himself to be guided by his own instincts. i say that he should place himself unreservedly in this man's hands; but in case it should be necessary i would make one exception to this stipulation. if he thinks well of my advice and desires to do the thing with the utmost thoroughness from the beginning, he may request that for the first lesson or two no ball may be put upon the ground at which to practise swings. the professional is sure to agree that this is the best way, though he encounters so few beginners who are prepared to make all the sacrifices that i have suggested, that he might have hesitated in recommending this course of procedure himself. a golfer's swing is often made for good or ill in the first week of his experience. his first two days of practice may be of the greatest importance in fashioning his style. if, when he takes his first lesson or two and makes his first few swings, he has a ball on the ground before him which he is trying to hit, all his thoughts will be concentrated on what appears to him to be the necessity of hitting it--hitting it at any cost. no matter what he has been told about the way to swing, he will forget it all in this moment of anxiety, and swing anyhow. in such circumstances a really natural and proper swing is rarely accomplished, and, before the golfer is aware of the frightful injustice he has done himself, his future prospects will probably have been damaged. but if he has no ball before him he will surely learn to swing his club in exactly the way in which it ought to be swung. his whole mind will be concentrated upon getting every detail of the action properly regulated and fixed according to the advice of his tutor, and by the time he has had two lessons in this way he will have got so thoroughly into the natural swing, that when he comes to have a ball teed up in front of him he will unconsciously swing at it in the same manner as he did when it was absent, or nearly so. the natural swing, or some of its best features, will probably be there, although very likely they will be considerably distorted. at the same time the young golfer must not imagine because he has mastered the proper swing when there is no ball before him, that he has overcome any considerable portion of the difficulties of golf, for even some of the very best players find that they can swing very much better without a ball than with one. however, he may now taste the sweet pleasure of driving a ball from the tee, or of doing his best with that object in view. his initial attempts may not be brilliant; it is more than likely that they will be sadly disappointing. he may take comfort from the fact that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred they are so. but by and by a certain confidence will come, he will cease, under the wise advice of his tutor, to be so desperately anxious to hit the ball anyhow so long as he hits it, and then in due course the correctness of swing which he was taught in his first two days will assert itself, and the good clean-hit drives will come. there will be duffings and toppings and slicings, but one day there will be a long straight drive right away down the course, and the tyro will be told that the professional himself could not have done it better. this is one of the most pleasurable moments in life. his system of practice thereafter should be upon the following lines. he should continue to practise diligently with his driver until he gets these good, long balls nearly every time, sternly resisting the temptation even to so much as look at any of the other nice new clubs that he has got in his bag, and whose mysteries he is exceedingly curious to investigate. it may take him a week or a fortnight or a month to master the driver; but he should do it before he gives a thought to any other club. when he can use the driver with confidence, he may take out his new brassy and go through the same process with that, until he feels that on a majority of occasions, from a fairly decent lie, he could depend upon making a respectable brassy shot. he will find unsuspected difficulties in the brassy, and in doing his best to overcome them he will probably lose to some extent the facility for driving which he had acquired. therefore, when he has become a player with his brassy, he should devote a short space of time to getting back on to his drive. it will not take him long, and then he should take out both the clubs he has been practising with and hammer away at the two of them together, until after a large amount of extra practice he finds that he is fairly reliable in driving a ball from the tee to begin with, and putting in a creditable second shot with his brassy from the lie upon which he found his ball. during this second stage of learning he must deny himself the pleasure of trying his iron clubs just as rigorously as he restrained himself from the brassy when he was practising drives only; but when the driver and the brassy are doing well, he may go forward with the cleek. he will not find this learning such dull work after all. there will be something new in store for him every week, and each new club as it is taken out of the bag will afford an entirely new set of experiences. after the driver and the brassy it will be like a new game when he comes to try cleek shots, and in the same way he will persevere with the cleek until it is evident that he really knows how to use it. the driver, the brassy, and the cleek may then be practised with on the same occasion, and if he has made the best use of his time and is an apt pupil, he will find himself now and then, with these three shots taken in turn, getting beyond the green at some of the longest holes. next it will be the turn of the iron, and so in due season he will be able to practise with the driver, the brassy, the cleek, and the iron. the mashie will follow, and then the five of them together, and at last he may have an afternoon on the green trying his skill with a putter, and listening for the first time to the music of the ball--no such music as this to the golfer's ear, though it consists of but a single note--as it drops into the tin and is holed out at last. he is at work now with all the clubs that are usually necessary to play a hole; but at the risk of seeming over careful i would warn him once more against going along too fast, and thinking that even at this stage he is able to embark on match play with all the days of studentship left behind. when he takes out his full set of clubs, he will find, in using them as occasion demands, that he is strangely erratic all of a sudden with one or two of them. let him have half an hour's practice once more alone with these troublesome fellows until the old order of things has been restored. let him treat all other offenders in the same manner. he must be determined that there shall not be a club in his bag that shall be allowed to play these tricks with him. let one day's hard labour be the invariable penalty, until at last they are all obedient in his hands, and the joyful day comes when he feels that he can pick any tool out of his golfing bag and use it skilfully and well, and that after examining a ball in any lie, at any distance from the hole, or with any hazard before him, he knows exactly how it should be played, and feels that he has a very reasonable chance of playing it in that way and achieving the success that such a shot deserves. such a stroke will not be brought off correctly every time; the golfer has not yet been born who always does the right thing in the right way. but the more one practises the more frequently will he succeed. following mr. balfour's good example, the beginner may do worse than spend a few days trying the most difficult strokes he can discover on his links, for in actual play he will find himself in these difficult places often enough to begin with, and a little special study of such shots at the outset will prove a very valuable investment of time. the ball should be thrown down carelessly at different places, and should be played from the spot at which it settles, however uninviting that spot may be. when he has secured a fair command over all his clubs, from the driver to the niblick, the golf student may play a round of the links; but he should do so only under the watchful eye of the professional, for he will find that in thus marching on from hole to hole, and perhaps getting a little excited now and then when he plays a hole more than usually well, it is only too easy to forget all the good methods in which he has been so carefully trained, and all the wise maxims he knows so well by heart that he could almost utter them in his sleep. let him play a few rounds in this way, and in between them devote himself as assiduously as ever to practise with individual clubs, before he thinks of playing his first match. he must settle his game on a secure foundation before he measures his strength against an opponent, for unless it is thus safeguarded it is all too likely that it will crumble to ruins when the enemy is going strongly, and the novice feels, with a sense of dismay, that he is not by any means doing himself justice. of course i am not suggesting that he should wait until he has advanced far towards perfection before he engages in his first match. when he has thoroughly grasped the principles and practice of the game, there is nothing like match play for proving his quality, but he should not be in haste thus to indulge himself. any time from three to six months from the day when he first took a club in hand will be quite soon enough, and if he has been a careful student, and is in his first match not overcome with nerves, he should render a good account of himself and bring astonishment to the mind of his adversary when the latter is told that this is the first match of a lifetime. during the preparatory period the golfer will be wise to limit his practices to three or four days a week. more than this will only tire him and will not be good for his game. i have only now to warn him against a constant attempt, natural but very harmful, to drive a much longer ball every time than was driven at the previous stroke. he must bring himself to understand that length comes only with experience, and that it is due to the swing becoming gradually more natural and more certain. he may see players on the links driving thirty or forty yards further than he has ever driven, and, wondering why, he is seized with a determination to hit harder, and then the old, old story of the foozled drive is told again. he forgets that these players are more experienced than he is, that their swing is more natural to them, and that they are more certain of it. in these circumstances the extra power which they put into their stroke is natural also. to give him an exact idea of what it is that he ought to be well satisfied with, i may say that the learner who finds that he is putting just two or three yards on to his drive every second week, may cease to worry about the future, for as surely as anything he will be a long driver in good time. in the course of this volume there are several chapters describing the way in which the various strokes should be played, but i am no believer in learning golf from books alone. i do not think it likely that the professional teacher who is giving the pupil lessons will disagree with any of the chief points of the methods that i explain, and, read in conjunction with his frequent lessons at the beginning of his golfing career, and later on studied perhaps a little more closely and critically, i have hope that they will prove beneficial. at all events, as i have already suggested, in the following pages i teach the system which has won championships for me, and i teach that system only. it is perhaps too much to hope, after all, that any very large proportion of my readers will make up their minds to the self-sacrificing thoroughness which i have advocated, and undertake a careful preparation of from three to six months' duration before really attempting to play golf. if they all did so we should have some fine new players. it is because they do not learn to play in this way that so few good players are coming to the fore in these days. one is sometimes inclined to think that no new golfer of the first class has come forward during the last few years. in my opinion it is all due to the fact that nowadays they learn their game too casually. chapter iv the choice and care of clubs difficulties of choice--a long search for the best--experiments with more than a hundred irons--buy few clubs to begin with--take the professional's advice--a preliminary set of six--points of the driver--scared wooden clubs are best--disadvantages of the socket--fancy faces--short heads--whip in the shaft--the question of weight--match the brassy with the driver--reserve clubs--kinds of cleeks--irons and mashies--the niblick--the putting problem--it is the man who putts and not the putter--recent inventions--short shafts for all clubs--lengths and weights of those i use--be careful of your clubs--hints for preserving them. the good golfer loves his clubs and takes a great and justifiable pride in them. he has many reasons for doing so. golf clubs are not like most other implements that are used in sport. a man may go to a shop and pick out a cricket bat or a billiard cue with which he may be tolerably certain he will be able to play something approaching to his best game when he is in the mood for playing it. the acquaintance which is begun in the shop is complete a few days later. but a man may see a golf club which he strongly fancies and buy it, and yet find himself utterly incapable of using it to good advantage. he may purchase club after club, and still feel that there is something wanting in all of them, something which he cannot define but which he knows ought to exist if his own peculiar style of play is to be perfectly suited. until he finds this club he is groping in the dark. one driver may be very much like another, and even to the practised eye two irons may be exactly similar; but with one the golfer may do himself justice, and with the other court constant failure. therefore, the acquisition of a set of clubs, each one of which enjoys the complete confidence of its owner, is not the task of a week or even a year. there are some golfers who do not accomplish it in many years, and happy are they when at last they have done so. then they have a very sincere attachment to each one of these instruments, that have been selected with so much difficulty. it is not always possible to give reasons for their excellence, for the subtle qualities of the clubs are not visible to the naked eye. their owners only know that at last they have found the clubs that are the best for them, and that they will not part with them for any money--that is, if they are golfers of the true breed. in these days i always play with the same set of irons. they are of different makes, and to the average golfer they appear quite ordinary irons and very much like others of their class. but they are the results of trials and tests of more than one hundred clubs. therefore no golfer in his early days should run away with the idea that he is going to suit himself entirely with a set of clubs without much delay, and though his purse may be a small one, i feel obliged to suggest that money spent in the purchase of new clubs which he strongly fancies, during his first few years of play, is seldom wasted. many of the new acquisitions may be condemned after a very short trial; but occasionally it will happen that a veritable treasure is discovered in this haphazard manner. with all these possibilities in view, the beginner, knowing nothing of golf, and being as yet without a style to suit or any peculiar tastes that have to be gratified, should restrain himself from the desire to be fully equipped with a "complete outfit" at the very beginning of his career. let him buy as few clubs as possible, knowing that it is quite likely that not one of those which he purchases at this stage will hold a place in his bag a year or two later. as he can have no ideas at all upon the subject, he should leave the entire selection of his first bag to some competent adviser, and he will not generally find such an adviser behind the counter at a general athletic outfitting establishment in the town or city, which too often is the direction in which he takes his steps when he has decided to play the game. in these stores the old and practised golfer may often pick up a good club at a trifling cost; but the beginner would be more likely to furnish himself with a set which would be poor in themselves and quite unsuited for his purpose. the proper place for him to go to is the professional's shop which is attached to the club of which he has become a member. nearly all clubs have their own professionals, who are makers and sellers of clubs, and i know no professional who is not thoroughly conscientious in this part of his business. it pays him to give the completest satisfaction to his clients, and particularly to the members of his own club. this professional is also a first-class golfer, who knows all, or nearly all, that there is to be known about the game, and who in his time has had imposed upon him the difficult task of teaching hundreds of beginners their first steps in golf. thus he knows better than any man the erratic tendencies of the golfing initiate and the best means of counteracting them. experience has given him the faculty for sizing up the golfing points of the tyro almost at the first glance, and therefore he can supply him at the beginning with those clubs with which certainly he will have most chance of success. he will suit his height and his build and his reach, and he will take care that the clubs in the set which he makes up are in harmony with each other and will have that lie which will best suit the player who is to use them. and even though, when the beginner gathers knowledge of the game and finds out his own style--which neither he nor the professional can determine in advance--some of them may gradually become unsuitable to him, they are nevertheless likely to be in themselves good clubs. a beginner may at the outset limit himself to the purchase of six new clubs. he must have a driver, a brassy, a cleek, an iron, a mashie, and a putter. at an early opportunity he may add a niblick to this small set, but there is no need to invest in it at the outset, and as this club is one which is least likely to require change, it is best that it should not be bought until the player has some ideas of his own as to what is wanted. by way of indicating what will be needful to make this set complete for the purposes of good golf, when the player has obtained a fairly complete experience, i may mention the instruments that i take out when playing an important match. i have two drivers, one brassy, a baffy or spoon, two cleeks (one shorter than the other), an iron, sometimes one mashie, sometimes two (one for running up and the other for pitch shots), a niblick, and sometimes two putters (one for long running-up putts and the other for holing out). this selection may be varied slightly according to the course on which the match is to be played and the state of the weather, but in general principles the constitution of the bag remains the same, and a player who is equipped with such a set ought to be able to play any hole in any way, and if he cannot do so it is his own skill that is lacking and not an extra club. we may now consider in order a few of the points of these clubs. i shall have occasion, when dealing with the method of play with each of them, to call attention to many points of detail which can only be properly explained when indicating particular objects which it is desired to achieve with them, so for the present i shall confine myself chiefly to general features. take the driver to begin with, and the preliminary word of advice that i have to offer concerning the choice of this club is at variance with the custom of the present moment, though i am confident that before long the golfing world will again come round to my view of the matter--not my view only, but that of many of the leading amateur and professional players. one of the problems which agitate the mind of the golf-club maker deals with the best and most effectual method of attaching the head of the club to the shaft. for a very long period this was done by what we call scaring or splicing, the neck of the club having a long bevel which was spliced with the shaft and bound round for several inches with black twine. latterly, however, a new kind of club has become the fashion with all but the oldest and most experienced players, and it is called the socket driver. the continuation of the neck of this club is shorter than in the case of the spliced driver, and instead of there being any splicing at all, a hole is bored vertically into the end of the neck and the shaft fitted exactly into it, glued up, and finally bound round for less than an inch. this club certainly looks neater than the old-fashioned sort, and the man who is governed only by appearances might very easily imagine that it is really more of one piece than the other, that the union of the shaft with the head has less effect upon the play of the club, and that therefore it is better. but experience proves that this is not the case. what we want at this all-important part of the driver is spring and life. anything in the nature of a deadness at this junction of the head with the shaft, which would, as it were, cut off the one from the other, is fatal to a good driver. i contend that the socket brings about this deadness in a far greater degree than does the splice. the scared or old-fashioned drivers have far more spring in them than the new ones, and it is my experience that i can constantly get a truer and a better ball with them. when the wood of the shaft and the wood of the neck are delicately tapered to suit each other, filed thin and carefully adjusted, wood to wood for several inches, and then glued and tightened up to each other with twine for several inches, there is no sharp join whatever but only such a gradual one as never makes itself felt in practice. moreover, these clubs are more serviceable, and will stand much more wear and tear than those which are made with sockets. sometimes they give trouble when the glue loosens, but the socketed club is much easier to break. on club links generally in these days you will probably see more socketed drivers and brassies (for these remarks apply to all wooden clubs) than those that are spliced; but this is simply the result of a craze or fashion with which neat appearance has something to do; and if you desire to convince yourself that i am right, take note of the styles of the drivers used by the best players at the next first-class amateur or professional tournament that you witness. the men who are playing on these occasions are ripe with experience, and so long as they get the best results they do not care what their clubs look like. the head of the club should be made of persimmon or dogwood--both very hard and full of driving power. usually the bare face of such a club is good enough for contact with any ball on any tee, but the time will come when the golfer, developing innumerable fads and fancies, will reach the conclusion that he must have an artificial face of some kind fitted on at the place of contact with the ball. or such an artificial face may become necessary by reason of the wear and tear on the face of the driver. why forsake the old leather face? there is an idea abroad in these days that it is too soft and dead for the purposes of the new rubber-cored ball; and the impression that the latter likes the very hardest surface it is possible to apply to it has resulted in horn, vulcanite, and even steel faces being fitted to drivers and brassies. i do not think that in actual practice they are any better than leather, though some golfers may persuade themselves that they are. if a man, who is a good and steady driver, makes several drives from the tee with a club which has a leather face, and several more with another possessing a steel or vulcanite face, i am confident that he will on the average get at least as far with the leather as with the other, and i shall be surprised, if the test is fair and reliable, if he does not get further. i have leather faces on my drivers, and i think that latterly i have been driving further than i ever did. a point of objection to the harder surfaces, which at times is very serious, is that the ball is very much more liable to skid off them than off others, and thus the golfer may often blame himself for shots that look like a mixture of foozle and slice when the fault is not his at all, but that of the peculiarity of the club with which he is so much in love. on the other hand, it must be admitted that he scores over his opponent with the leather-faced club when the weather is wet, for the leather is then liable to soften and becomes very dead. never select a club because it has a long head, but let your preference be in favour of the shorter heads. the beginner, or the player of only moderate experience, puts it to himself that it is a very difficult thing always to strike the ball fairly on the face of the club, and that the longer the face is the more room he has for inaccuracy of his stroke. but he is wrong. whatever the length of the face, unless the ball is hit fairly and squarely in the centre, it will not travel properly, and the effect is really worse when the point of contact is a little off the centre in a long-faced club than when it is the same distance removed from the centre of a short face. moreover, despite this fact, which will soon become apparent to the golfer, the knowledge that he has a long-faced driver may very easily get him into a loose way of playing his tee shots. he may cease to regard exactness as indispensable, as it always is. the tendency of late years has been to make the heads of wooden clubs shorter and still shorter, and this tendency is well justified. the question of the whip or suppleness of the shaft must generally be decided by individual style and preference; but i advise the beginner against purchasing a whippy driver to start with, whatever he may do later on. he should rather err on the side of stiffness. when a man is well on his drive, has a good style, and is getting a long ball from the tee every time, it is doubtless true that he obtains better results from a shaft with a little life in it than from a stiff one. but the advantage is not by any means so great as might be imagined, and many fine players drive their best balls with stiff clubs. it must always be remembered that when the stroke is not made perfectly there is a much greater tendency to slice with a supple shaft than with a stiff one, and the disadvantages of the former are especially pronounced on a windy day. it is all a matter of preference and predilection, and when these are absent the best thing to do is to strike the happy medium and select a shaft that is fairly supple but which still leaves you in the most perfect command of the head of the club, and not as if the latter were connected with your hands by nothing more than a slender rush. weight again is largely a matter of fancy, and there is no rule to the effect