Chapter I: Play with Miss Harding (4)

Chilvers told me a year ago he had heard Carter was engaged to be married to a very pretty and immensely wealthy girl. I did not think much of it at the time, having only passing interest in whether Carter married or remained single. The other day I asked Chilvers if he had heard anything more about Carter's engagement, and he looked at me rather oddly and said he had not. He said his wife might know something about it, and advised me to ask her or Carter.

Suppose they were engaged, John Henry Smith? That would settle it, you say. You quit too easily. If you desert me in this extremity I shall go ahead on my own account. I love her; I must have her! Let Carter fall in love with someone else!

For some malignant reason this man Carter has persistently stood between me and the realisation of my cherished ambitions. He has won cup after cup and medal after medal which would have fallen to me were it not for his devilish combination of skill and luck. But he shall not thwart my love! He shall not; I swear it; he shall not! Smile, John Henry Smith, you do not love her as I do.

"Why should she fall in love with me, or wish to marry me? What have I done in the world, or what do I expect to do which will compel that admiration and respect which is the basis of true love?"

Those are harsh questions, John Henry Smith. I tell you I love her; is not that sufficient? She is not the woman to weigh a man in the same scales with his money, his miles of railroad track, and such material assets. I would love her if her father were still a section boss.

And I _am_ going to do something in this world. I propose to show you, John Henry Smith, that I can do something beside play golf. Am I not doing something now? Am I not risking practically every dollar I have in the world on my business judgment? Call it gambling if you will; if so, it is big gambling. The man who wins must take chances. Mr. Harding did not become a railway magnate by remaining a section boss. He is a commanding figure in Wall Street. I shall be that and more.

Laugh if you will, John Henry Smith; I mean every word of it!

What does Carter do? He has not done a stroke of work in five years. He says a man with an income of $100,000 a year has no right to work and strive to increase it. I claim a man should do something to make a name for himself, and leave a record of which his children and grand-children will be proud. You watch me, John Henry Smith! I'll show you and Miss Harding that I can do something beside play golf.

We have wandered from our subject. The question is this: what shall we do in order to ascertain if Miss Harding entertains toward us any sentiment stronger than friendship? Ask her, you say. Suppose _you_ ask her. No, my dear John Henry, that is not the proper step at this time.

I do not set myself up as an authority in matters of love, but I do hold that no wise man ever proposed to a good and true woman without knowing in advance that she would accept him. Love has its secret code, and Nature gives the key to its discerning votaries. I have that key, John Henry Smith.

One need not speak or write in order to send the first timid messages of love; and by the same token the recipient need not even frown in order to tenderly reject the proffered passion. There are as many words in this unwritten and unspoken vocabulary of love as may be found in lexicons. Did you know that, John Henry?

The man who fails to avail himself of this silent but eloquent language, and who stupidly assaults a woman with an avowal of an alleged love, deserves to be coldly rejected. It is as much of an insult or an indiscretion as to walk unheralded and unbidden into a private room. Never do it, John Henry!

If a man becomes convinced he loves a woman he should tell her by some message in the code which both understand. He will know if she receives it. It is not necessary that she answer, "yes." If she answer not at all he has achieved a notable victory, but if she promptly signals a decided "no" he has met with irreparable defeat. That settles it, my dear Smith.

A woman may refuse a man with words, and he be justified in declining to accept the implied rejection, but there is no appeal from the silent decision which leaps from the heart.

So long as no message comes back unopened keep on sending them. You are justified in assuming that they have been read and are being entertained. The time will come, John Henry, when you will get your answer. If it is against you, accept it with the best grace you can command. Do not be the fool to think her lips will veto her heart.

If, on the contrary, there comes the glad day when over the throbbing unseen wire there comes a telepagram sounding the letters "Y-E-S," proceed with the sweet formality of a verbal avowal of your love, and you will not be disappointed.

Smile if you will, John Henry Smith, you know I have told the truth.

We have sent a few of these messages to Miss Harding, and thus far none have been returned unopened. As you say, John Henry, they have been very timid ones, and possibly are so vague she does not think them worth even a decided negative. We will send more emphatic ones; not too emphatic, mind you, but couched in symbols which cannot be misunderstood.

That is our best plan, John Henry Smith, don't you think so? I am glad we agree at last. As yet nothing has happened of a character positively discouraging.

Carter? I wish you would not mention his name. From this on we will ignore Carter.

I intended to write of our automobile trip, but the hour is late and I must postpone it until some other time. Good night, John Henry Smith!

ENTRY NO. XV

THE AUTO AND THE BULL

I started to tear out what I wrote last night, but on second thought will let it remain. Its perusal in future years may amuse me. I will now resume the trail of Woodvale happenings.

The touring car won from her father by Miss Harding is a massive and beautiful machine. Luckily I am familiar with the mechanism of this particular make, and, as a consequence, am called in for advice when any trifling question arises. Harding scorns a professional chauffeur.

"Next to running one of these road engines," he declares, "the most fun is in pulling them apart to see how they are made. I would as soon hire a man to eat for me as to shawf one of these choo-choo cars."

Shortly after the big machine arrived Mr. Harding received a letter from a gentleman named Wilson, who is spending the summer at the Oak Cliff Golf and Country Club. Wilson challenged him to come to Oak Cliff and play golf, and to bring his family and a party of friends with him. Harding read the letter and laughed.

"Here's my chance to win a game," he declared. "I can't beat the Kid, but I'll put it all over Wilson, you see if I don't."

"Don't be too sure, papa," cautioned Miss Harding.

"Wilson only started golf this year, and the only game he can beat me at is hanging up pictures," insisted Harding. "He stands six-foot-four, and weighs about one hundred and fifty. He looks like a pair of compasses, but he's all right, and we must go up and see him. Do you know the road, Smith?"

"Every foot of it."

"How far is it?"

"About forty miles."

"Good!" declared the magnate. "I'll wire Wilson we'll be there to-morrow. We'll fill up the buzz wagon, take an early start, and put in a whole day at it. Smith shall be chief shawfer, and the Kid and I will take turns when he gets tired."

And we did. We started at seven o'clock with a party consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Harding, Miss Harding, Chilvers and his wife, Miss Dangerfield, Carter, and myself.

There are many hills intervening and some stretches of indifferent road, but we figured we should make the run in two hours or less--but we didn't.

The few early risers gave us a cheer as we rolled away from the club house and careened along the winding path which leads to the main road. The dew yet lay on the grass, and little lakes of fog hung over the fair green. It was a perfect spring morning, and the ozone-charged air had an exhilarating effect as we cleaved through it.

Miss Harding was in the seat with me. I don't imagine this exactly pleased Carter, but it suited me to a dot. My lovely companion was in splendid spirits.

"Now, Jacques Henri," she said to me in French, pretending that I was a professional chauffeur, "you are on trial. Unless you show marked proficiency we shall dispense with your services."

"And if I do?" I inquired.

"Then you may consider yourself retained," she laughed.

"For life?" I boldly asked.

I was so rattled at this rather broad insinuation that I swung out of the road and struck a rut, which gave the car a thorough shaking.

"If that's the way you drive you will be lucky if you're not discharged before we reach Oak Cliff," Miss Harding declared, and I did not dare look in her eyes to see if she were offended or not.

For the following minutes I attended strictly to business. The steering gear and other operating parts were a bit stiff on account of newness, but I soon acquired the "feel" of them, and we ate up the first ten miles in seventeen minutes.

We were following a sinuous brook toward its source, now skirting its quiet depths along the edge of reedy meadows, and then chasing it into the hills where it boiled and complained as it dashed and spumed amid rocks and boulders.

"Hold on there, Smith!" shouted Harding from the rear seat in the tonneau.

"Stop, Jacques Henri!" ordered my fair employer, and then I dared look into her smiling eyes.

"I want to cut some of those willow switches," explained Harding, as the car stopped.

"What do you want of willow switches, John?" asked Mrs. Harding.

"Going to make whistles out of them," he said, cutting several which sprouted out from the edge of a spring. "Besides they're good things to keep the flies from biting the tonneau. Smith runs so slow that they are stealing a ride."

"Defend me," I said to my employer.

"Jacques Henri is doing as he is told," declared Miss Harding.

The spring was so inviting that we sampled its clear, cold water. Harding in the meantime whittling industriously on his willow switch. When he found that his whistle would "blow" he was as pleased as if he had designed a new type of locomotive.

A mile farther on we passed sedately through a country village and aroused the fleeting interest of the loungers in front of the combined post-office and news store. Then we entered a fine farming country, and from it plunged into a forest so dense that the overhanging boughs almost spanned our pathway.

Moss-covered stone walls lined both sides of the road. Everywhere was a profusion of wild flowers, their petals brushing against our tires, and their flaunting reds, yellows, and blues brightening the gloom of the encompassing wood. A gray squirrel scampered across our path and impudent chipmunks chattered to right and left. And then we came to a small clearing filled with the wagons, tents and litter of a gipsy camp.

"Let's stop and have our fortunes told!" cried Miss Dangerfield, but my employer vetoed that proposition. It was a vivid flash of colour. The brightly painted wagons with their canvas tops, the red-shirted men, black of hair and eyes, olive of skin, and graceful in their laziness; the older women bare-headed, bent of shoulder, and brilliantly shrouded in shawls; the younger women straight as arrows, bold and keen of glance, and decked in ribbons and jewelry, and on every hand swarms of gipsy children, more or less clothed. The blue smoke of their camp-fires twisted through the dark green of the fir trees in the background.

Again the forest closed upon us. The grade became steeper, and in places our road had been blasted through solid rock. And then we reached the summit of this ridge, and like a flash the superb panorama of the Hudson burst upon us. At our feet lay the broad bosom of the Tappan Zee, its waters glistening in the sunlight, the spires of a village in the foreground, and the distance blue-girt with cliffs, hills, and mountains.

I have seen it a thousand times, but it is ever new.

"Stop; Jacques Henri!" commanded Miss Harding, and I stopped.

"What's the matter?" asked Harding. "Something busted?"

"We're going to sit right here a minute or more and admire this," declared Miss Harding.

"Great; isn't it?" admitted Harding. "Who owns it, Smith? Does it cost anything to look at it?"

"Not a penny," I said.

"First time I've got something for nothing since I struck New York," was the comment of that gentleman.

Four or five miles across the Tappan Zee the blue of the mountain was splattered with the white of straggling houses. To the left was a checker-board of farms, an area hundreds of square miles in extent basking in the rays of a cloudless sun. Yet beyond, the Orange mountains lifted their rounded slopes. To the south was the grim line of the Palisades, blue-black save where trees clung to their steep sides. On the north Hook Mountain dipped its feet into the Hudson, and to our ears came the dull boom of explosions where vandals are blasting away its sides and ruining its beauty.

"Right over there," said Carter, pointing toward Piermont, "is where Andre landed when he crossed the river on the mission to Benedict Arnold which ended in his capture and death. Beyond the mountain is the monument which marks the spot where he met with what our school books term 'an untimely fate.'"

"A short distance to the south," I added, "is the old house where Washington made his headquarters during the most discouraging years of the Revolution, and in which he and Rochambeau planned the campaign which ended with the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown. And not far away is 'Sleepy Hollow,' where Washington Irving lived, wrote, and died."

"Yes, yes," contributed Chilvers, "and on this sacred soil there now is bunched a cluster of millionaires, any one of whom could pay the entire expense of the War of the Revolution as easily as I can settle for a gas bill."

We had not noticed Harding, who suddenly appeared in front of the machine with his driver and a handful of golf balls.

"The future historian will record," he declared, "that from this spot Robert L. Harding drove a golf ball into that pond below!"

"Suppose you can, Robert," observed his wife, "what earthly good will it do you, and what will it prove?"

"It will prove that I can drive one of these blamed things into that pond," he grinned. "I've got to break into history some way."

On the fifth trial he had the satisfaction of driving a ball into that pond. It was not much of a drive, but it pleased him immensely.

"I got my money's worth out of those five balls," he declared as he climbed back into the car.

"See how the sun strikes the sail of that schooner!" exclaimed Miss Harding. "And how it glances from the brass work of those yachts at anchor! There goes an auto boat darting through a swarm of sail boats like a bird through fluttering butterflies. It is a glorious view from here!"

"It makes the Rhine look like counterfeit money," asserted Chilvers, whose similes usually are grotesque. "Any time you hear an American raving over the wonderful scenery of Europe you can place a bet that he has never seen that of his own country."

"That's right, Chilvers," said Harding. "We have all kinds of scenery out West that has never been used. It's a drug in the market, laying around out-of-doors for the first one that comes along."

We made the next ten miles at a rapid gait through one of the finest country-residence sections in this fair land of ours. Then we entered a sparsely settled agricultural district. We were opposite a meadow which recently had been mowed. It was a gentle slope with picturesque rocks flanking its sides, and near the road was a pond.

"Whoa there, Smith!" shouted Harding. I jammed on brakes and turned to see what was the matter.

"What is it, papa?" asked Miss Harding.

"This is just the place I've been looking for," he said, standing and surveying the meadow with the eye of an expert.

"What for?"

"To paste a ball in," he asserted, reaching for his clubs.

"Drive ahead, Jacques Henri!" ordered my charming employer. "Papa Harding, we're not going to stop every time you see a place where you wish to drive a ball!"

"Just this once, Kid," pleaded her father. "Let me soak a few balls out there, and I won't say another word until we get to Oak Cliff. Be good, Grace, we've got lots of time."

"Very well," she consented, looking at her watch. "We'll wait ten minutes for you."

"Here's where I get some real practice," he said, arming himself with a driver and a box of balls. "Come on, Chilvers, you and Carter help me chase 'em."

"Robert Harding, you are hopeless!" declared his good wife. "You have become a perfect golf crank."

"Let me alone," he grinned, as he climbed the fence. "I'm on my vacation. Keep your eyes on this one, boys!"

Before we started from Woodvale he declared that it was all nonsense to take along a change of clothes, and he was dressed in that wonderful costume, plaids, red coat and all.

We lay back in our seats and smilingly watched his efforts. He has shown signs of improvement recently, and is imbued with the enthusiasm of the novice who realises that his practice has counted for something.

He drove the first half-dozen balls indifferently, but the next one was really a good one.

"There was a beaut!" he exclaimed, turning to us as the ball disappeared with a bound over the crest of the slope. "What's the matter with you folks? Why don't you applaud when a man makes a good shot?"

"That's balls enough, papa, dear," said Miss Harding. "By the time you have found them your time will be up."

"Right you are, Kid," he admitted. "I'm proud of that last one, and I'm going to pace it. Help me pick 'cm up, boys, I'll drive 'em back, and then we'll go on."

He started to pace the distance of the longer ball, counting as he strode along. When he reached the crest of the slope we could hear him droning, "one hundred twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three," etc. Carter was hunting for the balls to the right and Chilvers for those to the left.

The red coat and plaid cap disappeared over the hill. Miss Dangerfield was chattering about something, I know not what. I was looking at Miss Harding, and did not hear her.

I did hear some sound which resembled distant thunder. A moment later I saw the top of that plaid cap bob above the hill. Then I saw the shoulders of that red coat, and the huge figure of the railroad magnate fairly shot into view.

He was running as fast as his stout legs would carry him, waving his club and occasionally looking quickly to his rear.

I knew in an instant what was the matter.

"What is papa running for?" exclaimed Miss Harding. That question was speedily answered.

"Run! Run, boys!" he yelled as he plowed down that slope. "Run like hell; he's after us!"

Carter and Chilvers took one glance and the three of them came tearing down that hill.

There came into view the lowered head and humped shoulders of a Holstein bull close on the trail of the lumbering millionaire. The women screamed.

"He will be killed; he will be killed!" moaned Mrs. Harding. "Oh, do something to save him, Mr. Smith; please do something!"

I am rather proud of my generalship at that critical moment. I have a certain amount of wit in an emergency, and luckily it did not fail me. It is not an easy matter to head off an enraged bull in an open field, but I saw a chance and took it.

I grasped Miss Harding and fairly threw her to the ground.

"Jump! Jump!" I yelled to the others.

Mrs. Chilvers and Miss Dangerfield instantly obeyed, but Mrs. Harding was too terrified to comprehend my orders. Her eyes were fixed on her husband, and she neither saw nor heard me. There was not a second to lose.

I swung that heavy touring-car in a backward curve, so as to face the fence over which Mr. Harding had climbed. Turning on full speed I headed for it.

The powerful machine quivered for the fraction of a second and then leaped from the roadway. There was a crash of splintered fence posts and boards, a glimpse of flying lumber, and we were in the meadow.

It takes some time to tell this, but it was not long in happening. When we went through that fence Harding was probably seventy yards away and to our left. The bull was not twenty feet back of him and gaining rapidly at every jump. I saw nothing of Carter or Chilvers.

Harding had dropped his club and was running desperately. I feared every moment that he would fall. He was headed for the pond, but never would have reached it.

"Drop down! Drop down!" I shouted to Mrs. Harding.

We went over a hummock where a drain-pipe had been laid and I thought we were done for. The shock hurled Mrs. Harding to the floor. Beyond that point the ground was hard and fairly smooth and our speed became terrific.

The distance between the bull and his intended victim had decreased to so small a space that I despaired of cutting him off. I cannot tell exactly what happened. I only know that I kept my eye on that bull as religiously as one attempts to obey the golf mandate, "keep your eye on the ball."

Then I struck the bull.

I caught him with the left of the front of the car. The collision was at an angle of about thirty degrees, I should say. I missed Harding by not more than six feet. I presume we were travelling at a rate of a mile a minute, and that bull certainly was going one-third that fast.

As the front of the machine was upon the animal I ducked, but did not release my firm grip on the steering-wheel. There was photographed on my brain an impression of a shaggy head, short and sharp horns, rage-crazed eyes, a wet nose and lolling tongue, of turf cast up by flying hooves, of a bearded face with staring eyes, of a red coat and a bewildering plaid--and then the machine was upon them.

The shock of the collision was so slight that I feared I had missed my target. I shut off the power and swung sharply to the right. One glance proved that Mrs. Harding was uninjured.

Two objects were on the ground over which I had passed, and Carter and Chilvers were running toward them. Had I struck Harding? I suffered agonies in those moments, and I was the first to reach his side.

As I sprang from the car he raised to a sitting posture and attempted to speak, but it was impossible to do so. Before Mrs. Harding could reach him he was on his feet, making gestures to indicate that he was not hurt.

"He's all right!" shouted Chilvers, rushing up to us. "Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Harding, he only stumbled and fell. He's winded but will catch his breath in a minute!"

Mr. Harding panted, and between gasps bowed and made pantomimic signs to indicate that Chilvers had correctly diagnosed his ailment.

His wife has too much sense to give way to her emotions at such a time. She brushed his clothes and wiped the perspiration from his face. Miss Harding and the others were on the scene before his voice came back to him.

"I'm--all--right!" he declared with much effort, walking and swinging his arms to prove it to himself and us. Then he shook hands with me, and I noted that his violent exercise had not impaired the strength of his grip. We walked over and looked at the dead bull.

"That was a good shot, Smith," he said. "That was great work. Do you know how close you came to hitting me?"

"It was very close, but I had one eye on you," I replied.

"I honestly believe it was the rush of air from the machine that keeled me over, but I was about done for. I doubt if I would have made that pond."

"Governor," said Chilvers, "he would have nailed you in two more jumps. That was as pretty a piece of interference as I ever saw."

There was not a mark on the dead animal, whose neck must have been broken.

"When you struck him," said Chilvers, "the air was full of surprised beef. That bull went at least twelve feet in the air, and he never moved after he came down. It was a glancing shot, and you could not have done better, Smith, if you made a hundred trials."

"Once is enough for me," I said.

I turned my attention to the automobile, and as I started toward it Miss Harding intercepted me.

"That was very brave of you, Jacques Henri," she said, offering both of her hands. "You are an excellent chauffeur, and we all thank you."

"Don't praise me too much or I shall be tempted to demand an exorbitant salary," I declared. "I'm glad I had the sense to think of it in time. Let's see if much damage was done to the machine."

It was a happy moment for John Henry Smith, and I would tackle a bull every day under the same circumstances if I knew that there was waiting for me the reward of such a glance from those eyes and the clasp of those little hands.

The forward lamps were smashed beyond repair and several rods were slightly bent, but aside from these trifles I could not see that any damage had been done. Mr. Harding and the others joined us.

"I suppose somebody owns that bull," he said. "Do you happen to know who runs this farm, Smith?"

I had no idea. There was no farmhouse in sight, and Harding was in a quandary. He thought a moment and then produced one of his cards.

"Write this for me, Smith. My hand is too shaky. Let's see," and then he dictated the following: "_While playing golf I was attacked by this bull. Send bill for bull to Woodvale Club_."

"I should say that was all right," he said, reading it carefully. "It is short and does not go into unnecessary details."

We tied the card to the animal's horns, and I have an idea the owner of that unfortunate beast will be mystified to account for the fate which befel him. Having repaired the fence as best we could we resumed our journey to Oak Cliff, and Mr. Harding was content to remain in his seat until we reached there.

Later in the day Chilvers drew a diagram of this exploit on the back of a menu card, and I paste it in here as a droll memento of this incident.

Chilvers attempted to explain to Harding and the rest of us that the collision between the auto and the bull resulted in "pulled or hooked shot," the bull taking the place of a golf ball and the machine serving as the face of the driver. It is quite accurate as showing the relative positions of the various factors, but I should not term it an art product.

"I am familiar with the road from here to Oak Cliff," said Miss Harding when we had gone a mile or so. "You may rest, Jacques Henri, and I'll take your place."

She did so, and handled the big car with the skill of an expert. I did not talk to her for fear of distracting her attention from the task she had assumed. I was contented to watch her, to be near her and to know that I had had the rare good fortune to do an unexpected turn for one who was near and dear to her.

I will tell of our day in Oak Cliff in my next entry.

ENTRY NO. XVI

MISS HARDING OWNS UP

"I Demand part of my payment this afternoon," I said to Miss Harding as we neared the Oak Cliff club house.

"You are impatient, Jacques Henri," she laughed. "Is it possible my credit is not good?"

"Not in this instance," I returned. "I am demanding that you refuse all invitations to play in foursomes, and that after luncheon you and I make the round of Oak Cliff."

"That is so modest a request that I grant it," she said, and ten minutes later I had the satisfaction of hearing her decline Carter's invitation to join in a foursome in which I was to take no part. This proves not only that all is fair in love, but that victory favours the one who strikes the first blow.

It was about ten o'clock when we reached Oak Cliff, and found Mr. Wilson waiting for us. Harding was impatient to test his skill against Wilson, and the two were ready to play when the rest of us were still chatting with Mrs. Wilson and others of their party.

"We are entitled to a gallery," declared Harding. "Come on, everybody, and watch me show Wilson how this game should be played."

Most of us accepted this invitation. Mr. Wilson fits the description Harding had given of him. He is wonderfully tall and slim, and I doubted if he had much skill as a golfer. His smooth-shaven features and dreamy eyes were those of the poet, but he is one of the best bankers and business men in the country.

Harding drove a fairly straight ball but Wilson promptly sliced into the tall grass. Miss Harding and I helped him search for his ball, and Chilvers joined in the hunt.

"Ah, this is very lucky!" exclaimed Mr. Wilson, bending his long frame over some object.

"Found your ball?" asked Chilvers.

"The ball? No, no," he said, coming to his feet with something in his hand which looked to me like a weed. "But I've found a rare specimen of the _Articum Lappa_. It is a beauty!"

"Looks sort of familiar," said the puzzled Chilvers. "What did you say it was?"

"The _Articum Lappa_, more commonly called the burdock," explained Mr. Wilson.

"If you can't find your ball drop another one and play!" shouted Harding from the other side of course. Just then I discovered the ball, and after two strokes Wilson got it out of trouble, and then by a lucky approach and putt won the hole. Harding looked at him suspiciously.

On the next hole their drives landed the balls not far apart and neither was in trouble.

"I'm afraid this man Wilson can beat me," Harding said to us in an undertone as we neared the balls.

"Don't lose your nerve, papa," cautioned his daughter.

Wilson was away, but when he was within a few yards of his ball he looked intently at the turf and then dropped to his knees and crawled slowly around.

"What are you looking for?" exclaimed Harding "There's your ball right in front of you."

"I know it," calmly said Wilson, running his hand over the turf, "but I'm curious to know what kind of _Trifolium_ this is."

"Wilson," said the magnate, as the former rose to his full height and took a club from his bag, "Wilson, I might as well quit and give up this game."

"Why?" asked the surprised banker.

"Let me tell you something," declared Harding. "I only took up this golf business a few weeks ago, and by hard work have found out about mashies, hooks, foozles, cops, one off two and all those difficult things, but I'm blamed if I ever heard of trifoliums, or whatever you call 'em, and you can't ring 'em in on me. I won't stand for it! We don't play trifoliums in Woodvale, do we, Smith?"

"But my dear Harding," interposed Wilson, his mobile face wrinkled in a smile, "_Trifolium_ is not a golf term and has nothing whatever to do with the game."

"What in thunder is it?"

"_Trifolium_ is the genus name for the clover plant, and these are beautiful specimens," explained this amateur botanist.

"It is, is it?" laughed Harding. "Well, let's see how far you 'can knock that ball out of that bed of _Trifoliums_."

We left them soon after and returned to the club house. The ladies did not care to play before luncheon, preferring to take a rest after the exciting experiences of the trip from Woodvale. I ran across an old friend of mine, Sam Robinson, and he and I played against Carter and Chilvers. Robinson is one of the best amateurs in the country and we defeated our opponents handily.

It was a merry party which gathered about the table which had been spread under the trees near the club house. Oak Cliff is the only club which Woodvale recognises as a rival, and the Wilson's entertained us charmingly. Mr. Harding was in great spirits.

"I won!" he announced as he returned with our elongated and smiling host. "Licked Wilson, trifoliums and all, right here on his own ground! But he found a _Rumex_ and a lot of other weeds, so he don't care."

Miss Harding and I had discovered an oil painting in the club library which interested us, and when coffee and cigars had been served I asked Mr. Wilson about its history.

"Robinson gave it to the club," he said, "he can tell its story better than I can."

"It's an odd sort of a yarn," began Robinson. "Last fall an artist friend of mine of the name of Powers wrote a letter inviting me to come and spend a few weeks with him in a camp he had established on the upper waters of the Outrades River in northeastern Quebec. He was there sketching and loafing, and I took my golf clubs and went. While he painted I batted balls around a cleared space in the forest, fished, hunted and had so much fun that we stayed there until cold weather set in. Then we loaded up a boat and started down the river with a guide."

"One evening we came to an island with rapids below it. We had to portage around these rapids, so we decided to camp for the night. It was cold, and rapidly growing colder, but Powers insisted in making a trip to that island, the beauty of its rocks fascinating his artistic soul. We emptied the boat and he pulled across the swift current. Ten minutes later we heard him yell. His boat had drifted from where he thought he had moored it, and had been dashed to pieces in the rapids below. The guide declared that there was no way to reach him without a boat, and that he would have to go back twenty miles to a lumber camp for one. We explained this to Powers, and told him to light a fire and make the best of it until morning. The current was so swift that no swimmer could breast it. It was already down to zero."

"Powers searched his pockets," continued Robinson, "and made the startling announcement that he did not have a match. Without a fire he surely would freeze before the guide could return. He was dancing up and down on a rock and swinging his arms to keep warm."

"He certainly was in a bad fix," interrupted Harding. "Was there no way to get at him?"

"Absolutely none," continued Robinson. "The sun was sinking--when I had an idea. In the bottom of my golf bag were four badly hacked and split balls. I called to Powers to keep his nerve. The balls were rubber-cored, and I widened the crack in one of them and gouged out a space in the rubber. In this I put the heads of three matches, teed the ball on the beach, called to Powers what I had done and told him to keep his eye on the ball. I hit it clean and fair, but a trail of smoke told that the concussion had ignited the matches. The ball fell in the underbrush a few yards from Powers, and he almost cried when he took out the charred match heads."

"How far was it?" asked Harding.

"I paced it later and found it to be about one hundred and forty yards," said Robinson.

"You paced it?" exclaimed Harding. "You're a bit mixed on this story, Robinson, aren't you?"

"Not at all," laughed that gentleman. "You wait and I'll explain. Then I fixed another ball and wrapped the match heads in surgeon's cotton. I popped that ball in the air. The next one was pulled, struck a rock and bounded into the water. One remained, and it was a critical moment. I was numbed with the cold, it was almost dark, and I had to make a shot for a man's life, but I made it. It went far and true and struck in the branches of a fir tree over Power's head. He did not see it, but he heard it. Then began a search for a lost ball. It was pitch dark half an hour later when Powers shouted that he had found it, and soon after we yelled like madmen when a tiny yellow flame curled up from the island. Powers asked me to drive a ham sandwich across, but I did not attempt it. The guide started back after another boat, and Powers and I spent the long hours over our respective bonfires in an effort to keep from freezing."

"It dropped to twenty-five below zero before morning, and when daybreak came I went down to the beach. The water still flowed swift and black directly across, but when I looked to the north I found that the ice extended from the shore to the upper end of the island. I put several sandwiches in my pocket and carefully walked across. Powers was trying to cook some freshwater clams when I came upon his bonfire."

"That is as much of the story as you will be interested in," concluded Robinson. "Powers kept the ball which saved his life, and in return gave me that oil painting depicting the scene at nightfall as I was driving that last ball."

"It's a good thing for your friend Powers that it was not up to me to drive that last ball," declared Harding. "That story is all right, Robinson, and the picture proves it."

As we were leaving the table Mrs. Chilvers called me aside.

"Have you made up a game for this afternoon?" she asked, and I thought I discerned a mischievous glance in her eyes.

"Why--why, yes," I hesitated, wondering if I were to be dragged into some wretched foursome. "I have arranged to play with Miss Harding."

"What, again?" she asked.

"This is only my third game with her," I declared.

"Ah, Mr. Smith, do you remember how I warned you several weeks ago?"

I remembered but did not admit it.

"I told you then that some time you would meet a golfing Venus," she said triumphantly, and without waiting for me to make a defense left and joined Miss Dangerfield.

Miss Harding and I waited until we had a clear field ahead of us before we began our game. It was one of the perfect early summer afternoons when it is a delight to live. Oak Cliff is famous for its scenery and for its velvet-like greens.

"I'm going to play my best game this afternoon," announced Miss Harding when I had teed her ball.

"I always play my best game; don't you?" I asked.

"You shall judge of that when we finish this round," she declared.

It was my first game with her since the day she won the touring car from her father, on which occasion she made Woodvale in 116. This was so marked an improvement over her former exhibition that I was at a loss to account for it. Since then Miss Harding had confined her golf to the practising of approach shots and putting, following the instructions given by Wallace. I have been so busy with Wall Street and other affairs that I have paid little attention to golf, and smiled at her enthusiasm.

"How shall we play?" I asked. "You have improved so much and are so confident that I dare not offer you more than a stroke a hole."

"I shall beat you at those odds," she said. "This is a short course, you know."

"You will have to make it in a hundred to beat me," I replied.

"Fore!" she called, and drove a beautiful ball with a true swing which was the perfection of grace. I made one which did not beat it enough to give me any advantage, and we started down the field together.

"Mr. Wallace must be a wonderfully clever teacher," I said, "or else he has a most remarkably apt pupil. I wish I could improve that rapidly."

Miss Harding smiled but declined to commit herself. Her second shot was a three-quarter midiron to the green and she made it like a veteran. She played the stroke--and it is one of the most difficult--in perfect form, and I was so astounded that I cut under a short approach shot and had to play the odd. She came within inches of going down in three, and I then missed a long putt and lost the hole outright, she not needing the stroke handicap.

"One up, Jacques Henri!" she laughed.

She drove another perfect ball on the next hole, but the green was three hundred and fifty yards away and I reached it in two against her three. My work on the green was abominable and we both were down in fives.

"Two up, Jacques Henri!" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Really, now, don't you think I've improved?"

"Improved!" I gasped. "That's not the word for it! You have been translated into a golf magician! I cannot understand it!"

I don't suppose I played my best game, but even if I had I could not have won at the odds stipulated. I never lose interest in a golf game, but I must confess that I paid far more attention to her play than to my own.

It was not the first time that I had witnessed a fine exhibition of golf by a woman, but it was the first time I had been privileged to see a strikingly pretty girl execute shots as they should be made. All former experiences had led me to the belief that feminine beauty and proficiency in golf run in adverse ratio. But here was a superb creature who combined beauty with a skill which was surpassing.

It was difficult to believe the testimony of my own eyes. Here was a girl who had taken fifteen to make the first hole of Woodvale only a few weeks preceding; who had driven eight of my new balls into a pond which demanded only an eighty-yard carry; who had told me that the one ambition of her golfing life was to drive a ball far enough so that she might have difficulty in finding it; who had repeatedly missed strokes entirely, had mutilated the turf, sliced, pulled and committed all the faults and crimes possible to a novice--here was this same young lady playing a game which was well-nigh perfect to the extent of her strength!

When a woman is beautiful and plays a beautiful game of golf, then physical grace reaches its highest exemplification. Even an ugly woman becomes attractive when she swings a driving club with an evenly sustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when a supremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to express in mere language the exquisite grace of it--and I am not going to attempt it.

Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, and with the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play. She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on his game.

The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watch the players on many greens.

"Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her face through the blue haze of a cigar.

"Confess what?" she innocently asked.

"Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding your game," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying to play that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?"

"You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessons since then."

"Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learning this game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confess the truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trap by which you won that touring car."

"Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he will think it a huge joke."

"And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris in ninety-one," I accused her.

"I did," she laughed. "It was in a competition with one club--a putter."

"Was that when you won the gold cup?"

She shook her head.

"What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked.

"The witness declines to answer," she defiantly replied.

"You are guilty of contempt of court. Tell me, Miss Harding, why you played so atrociously that day?"

"Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you seem vastly surprised."

"I was--I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.

"In other words you were deceiving me, Jacques Henri. Confess that you were!"

"I do confess," I laughed. "You were the worst player I ever saw. Now you confess why you did it."

"I shall confess nothing," she declared, her eyes dropping as I gazed into them. "I shall confess nothing, Jacques Henri! Since when has it been decreed that a lady must confess to her chauffeur? Do not forget your place, Jacques Henri. Let's start for the club house; I see papa and others on the lawn."

I have a theory of the truth, but it is too foolish to put in writing. We made a speedy run to Woodvale after a most delightful afternoon.

ENTRY NO. XVII

THE PASSING OF PERCY

During the forenoon of the day following our visit to Oak Cliff Mr. Harding, Carter and I were sitting under the big elm tree near the first tee. We had our clubs with us, but the railroad magnate wished to finish his cigar before starting to play.

A farm wagon drove up the circular roadway which surrounds the club house, and the owner after glancing doubtfully about approached us. He was tall, angular, and whiskered.

"Can any of you folks tell me if a man named Hardin' hangs out 'round this here place?" he said, squinting at a card which I instantly recognised.

"I'm Harding," said that gentleman, walking toward him. "I reckon you're the man who owns the late deceased bull?"

"I shurely am," said the farmer, stroking his whiskers nervously.

"How much do you want for him?" demanded Harding, with characteristic promptness.

"Stranger," began the man with the hoe, "if you'll tell me how in thunder you broke the neck of that critter with one of them there sticks," pointing to our golf clubs, "I won't charge you one doggoned cent for doin' it."

We all roared, and then Harding briefly explained what had happened.

"I reckon you couldn't do nothin' else under what the stump speakers call existin' sar-cumstances," slowly drawled the farmer, "but he was a mighty fine young bull, an' I hated like all sin tew lose him."

"How much was he worth to you?" asked Harding.

"He was a Holstein, Mister, and I wouldn't er sold him for two hundred and fifty the best day you ever saw. He took second prize as a yearlin' at our county fair, and I was plumb sure he'd have the blue ribbon hung on him this year, but instead of a ribbon I found this here on his horns," he concluded sorrowfully, looking at the card with its string still attached.

"I'll give you three hundred and fifty dollars and call it square," said Harding.

"Dew you mean it, Mister?" his watery blue eyes opening wide, his thin lips pursed and his leathery face curiously wrinkled. "Dew ye mean it?"

"Of course I mean it, but I want his head. I'm going to have it mounted."

Mr. Harding opened his wallet, stripped off the bills and handed them to the pleased farmer.

"Mister," the latter said, "that's more than he was worth, and I feel kinder ashamed ter take all of it. Tell you what I'll do! I've got an old bull that's no good, but ugly as all get out, and if you'd like ter tackle him with that ortermobill of yours I'll turn him loose in that same medder, an' you can have it out with him an' it won't cost you a cent."

"Much obliged," laughed Harding, "but nature evidently did not design me for a matador."

If Miss Lawrence does not develop into a great player it will not be because of a lack of assiduity in taking lessons. Since Wallace has become professional at Woodmere she has taken one and sometimes two each day. She was starting to take one of these "lessons" when Harding returned.

"See here, Wallace," he said with mock sternness, "I am becoming curious to know if you are professional to our charming young friend or to the club."

"Why, Mr. Harding!" exclaimed Miss Lawrence, blushing furiously. "I have taken only six lessons, and you have no idea how I have improved."

"Without doubt," observed the remorseless millionaire, "but when do I get a lesson? My game has steadily deteriorated since I hit my first ball. As Smith says, I am way off my game."

"I shall be glad to give you a lesson any time to-morrow afternoon, Mr. Harding," said Wallace.

"All right. You and I will play Smith and Carter, and you put me right as we go along."

That was satisfactory all around and Wallace turned his attention to his fair pupil. I wonder if he is as exacting and she as interested at all times as during the few moments they were under our observation?

"A little nearer the ball," he cautioned her. "Grip firmly but keep the wrists flexible. Let the club-head come back naturally. Be sure and keep the weight of your body on the heels and not on the toes. That's better. Try that back swing again. Do not go so far back. Be sure that at the top of the swing your entire weight is on the right leg, and that the knee is not bent. Do not pause at the top of the stroke. Keep the head perfectly still and your eyes on the ball; not on the top of it, but on the exact spot where you propose to hit it. Now make a practise swing."

Miss Lawrence did so, and it seemed almost perfect to me, but Wallace's keen eyes detected faults.

"That right shoulder dropped a little," he said. "That's a bad fault. Let the right shoulder go straight through. Ah, that was a decided improvement! Now swing and keep that right elbow at least four inches from the body. You let your wrists in too soon, Miss Lawrence. Do not start them to work until you are well down on your stroke. That shoulder dropped again! Don't look up as your club goes through; that is a fatal fault. Fall back on those heels! Keep the back straight, or curved back, if at all. Now we will try it with a ball."