The Last Drive (18 page)

The match ended on the 29th green. Travers played the first 18 holes in 69. Jellie in 67. Their scores for the 29 holes were 109 and 114.

It was the golf of supermen, unbelievable, miraculous, staggering. And the strain told. Travers was hardly able to stand as he grasped his conqueror's hand for the congratulations of a gentleman; the lines on his face made it look old and a smile would not come though he tried for it. Then Jellie was caught up in triumph on the shoulders of Tom Innes and Monty Fraser and, followed by the cheering, happy, worn-out throng of spectators, they started for the club house. Huntington, running along to relieve Fraser or Innes should they tire, shouted in Jellie's ear:

“Evans beat Gardner, but he'll be pie for you tomorrow! We knew you could do it, Jellie, old man! Wow! Old Jellie! Wow-ee!”

They jollified for an hour at the club house, then tore their hero from the arms of the admiring throng and bustled him into an automobile. It was nearing dusk when they reached Grassview.

“Now,” said Huntington, “we'll have a good dinner and then take Jellie up and put him to bed. He still has Evans to beat, though if he plays as he did today that'll be easy enough. Only one more, Jellie, old man, and for God's sake get some sleep. You look pretty bad. Tomorrow at this time you'll be amateur golf champion of the United States.”

So after dinner they escorted him to his room and left him there, with a last reminder that they would leave at half past seven in the morning for Baltusrol and the final victory.

The first thing Mr. Jellie did when they had gone was to lock the door. Then he walked to the window and raised it and stood looking out on the night. Unseeingly for a long time he gazed at the stars—perhaps Sirius was among them. Then he turned from the window and went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. In the glare of the electric light the appearance of his face was enough to warrant the solicitous advice of his friends. It was sunken and haggard, and pale as death.

His hands fumbled nervously with the white counterpane. The grim light of mingled fear and despair was in his eyes.

“Eighty-eight,” he said aloud involuntarily, as a thought forced itself into speech.

He got up and went to his desk and began scribbling mechanically on a sheet of paper, like a man in a trance. He covered the sheet on both sides, doing over and over again the sum:

14

30

31

13

88

He reached over and tore a sheet off his desk calendar, disclosing to view the date of the morrow: “Saturday, August 13.” In the blank space left above the date for memoranda there was a large cross scratched in red ink. He sat and gazed at it for a long time, while the minutes stretched into hours, with the hopeless eye of a man doomed. The night grew cold, and all sounds about the club house ceased, and still he sat gazing at that date on his calendar.

Long after the clock in the hall below had struck one, he pulled himself out of his chair and walked over to the mantel, where reposed a bronze urn bearing an engraved inscription. Mechanically he read its words, over and over again. A gleam of hope appeared in his eye, but swiftly died out, to give way to an expression of increased despair.

“Nibbie,” he groaned, stretching out his hands to the urn, “O, Nibbie, why didn't I kill you just one day later?”

He tottered across the room and threw himself face down on the bed.

At dawn he arose and dashed cold water over his face. There was a new air of determination about him now, the air of a man resolved to know the worst; his movements were abrupt and decisive, as though he were pressed for time, he took his bag of clubs and quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind him. All was still in the club house. He tiptoed stealthily down the stairs, through the halls and over the piazza to the lawn.

The East's first delicate blush appeared on the horizon as he reached the tee; the magic air of the early morning, moistened by the dew, filled his lungs. He took the driver from the bag and teed up a ball. Trembling fearfully he gripped the shaft and took his stance. He tried to analyze his feelings, to discover if that wonderful sensation of confidence and mastery which had suddenly come upon him three months before had as suddenly left, but all within him was chaos.

He swung at the ball.

It dribbled off the tee and rolled thirty yards away. He picked up his bag and started after it. This time he used his brassie and missed it altogether. He tried a driving mashie, and pulled into a hazard. Doggedly, grimly, he took up his bag and followed it. He made the first hole in eleven.

The details are painful; let us avoid them. At a quarter to six Mr. Jellie holed out on the ninth green, and; adding up his score with trembling hand, found that he was 76 at the turn. There was an insane light in his eyes and he was muttering aloud to himself, but his actions seemed to be under perfect control. He filled his bag full of stones, strapped the clubs in tightly, walked to the lake on the eleventh hole and threw it in. He saw with satisfaction that it sank at once. He hastened back to the club house, and saw with relief that none of the members were down yet. A porter who was sweeping out the library greeted him respectfully as he passed, but Mr. Jellie made no response. He went up to his room, packed a travelling bag, and was down again in five minutes. The walk to the railroad station is a mile and a half, and it took him only a little over a quarter of an hour. The whistle of an approaching train was heard as he entered the station. He crossed over to the ticket office and demanded:

“Give me a ticket for Mexico or South America.”

“We don't keep 'em,” the agent said. “You can get one in Philadelphia.”

“Alright,” said Mr. Jellie, “give me a ticket to Philadelphia.”

“That's your train coming in now,” said the clerk as he shoved the pasteboard under the wicket.

Mr. Jellie hurried to the platform. The train was nearly empty. He found a seat in the corner at a distance from the other passengers, sat down and pulled his hat over his eyes. A moment later the train started.

Five thousand people waited at Baltusrol for three hours on the morning of August 13. But he whom they expected never came, nor was he found, though the search was frantic. And thus for the first and only time in history the amateur golf championship of the United States was won by default.

In a little town down South, on the banks of the Mississippi—he didn't get as far as Mexico—Aloysius Jellie is leading a lonely and monotonous existence. He is in communication with his friends in the East and may return to New York some day, though he refuses to answer certain queries which they make in every letter. Sometimes he plays checkers with the storekeeper, and he is quite an expert.

He can't bear the sight of a dog.

This Is My Wife

This romance story marks Stout's only appearance in
Snappy Stories
¸ a twice-monthly “Magazine of Entertaining Fiction” that catered to the women's market.

T
he first thing you would notice about the room was the light—dazzling, glaring, bold; a perfect riot of light, whitish yellow, that came from four immense chandeliers in the ceiling and innumerable electric lamps on the marble pillars, attached to the walls, on the tables, everywhere. Then your ears would be assaulted, and you would hear the clinking of glasses, the muffled footsteps of waiters, the confusing hum of conversation from half a thousand tongues, and mingled with all this the sound of music, now suppressed, now insistent, that came from the orchestra on the rear of the raised platform at one side. And finally you would glance at the platform and observe the two figures, a man and a woman, who appeared there, in the spotlight.

The man, fair-haired, sallow-faced, bright-eyed, of medium height, was dressed in correct evening white and black, save for a bit of red that peeped out from one edge of his waistcoat; the other, more girl than woman, was a pretty, saucy little thing with black hair and eyes that sparkled. Her costume apparently consisted of about twenty yards of diaphanous material, pink in color, draped around her form and caught somewhere with a pin.

While the orchestra played, these two danced, slowly and rather gracefully at first, then with increasing abandon and violence, ending with a series of dizzy gyrations that caused the twenty yards of pink to float wildly in the air. Suddenly they halted; the girl placed her locked hands on the back of the man's neck, and he began to whirl. Her feet left the floor; still he went around, faster and faster, while the orchestra played at a frenzied speed, with cymbals crashing and drum rattling. The thing ended with a sudden tremendous burst of violence, an orgy of sound and movement; and the audience of diners interrupted their meal long enough to applaud enthusiastically.

The dancers, who had left the platform, paused at the rear.

“Shall we take it?” asked the girl.

“No, what's the use?” replied the other, mopping the perspiration from his face and hands. “Come and have a drink.”

They moved off to one of the tables against the wall, one of the few unoccupied in the immense room, and beckoned a waiter.

“You were up too close again,” said the man abruptly, after he had given the order.

The girl looked at him. Seen thus closely, she appeared to be more of a woman than a girl. The eyes that had sparkled for the audience looked tired and old, and there were two little puffs of flesh beneath the corners of her mouth. Nevertheless, she was pretty.

“I was no closer than last night,” she replied.

“I can't help that. You were too close. You nearly pushed me over.”

“Well, it's not my fault if I'm not tall enough. Wait till something happens and then talk.”

“That's easy enough to say,” retorted the man, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration that was beginning to appear again on his sallow face. “But it's hard enough without somebody trying to pull you over. One flop, and, bingo! goes our sixty per. You ought to be more careful.”

“Aw, cut it,” said the girl indifferently. “Gee, I'm thirsty! Where's the waiter? Oh, hello, Dibby!”

This last was addressed to a fat, jolly-looking young man who was sauntering toward their table.

“Hello!” The newcomer nodded, seating himself. “How's things, Bronson? I say, Claire, I just met the new soprano. She's on next. Not bad-looking. What are you drinking?”

Then, as the waiter appeared with the order, the fat man burst into laughter and winked at the girl. “Lemon juice and fizz. Bad for the stomach,” he said gravely. “But you ought to cut the green stuff, Claire. On the level, I mean it. Waiter, bring me some Dubonnet and sherry. Are you really off, Bronson?”

The other merely nodded, sipping his lemon and seltzer.

“What about the new soprano? What's the matter with Mawsey?” asked Claire.

“Canned,” replied the fat man gaily. “Last night. Thank the Lord! Say, she was good, just like a counterfeit V. No? Rotten!”

“What's the new one like?”

“Don't know. Haven't heard her perform. She's on next. Tall and queenly. Where's the waiter? I'm thirsty as the devil. No wonder—been drinking too much today. By the way, you should have been with us this afternoon, Bronson. Where were you?”

“I don't know. Uptown,” replied the sallow-faced man.

“He went for a walk in the park,” put in Claire, and her eyes sparkled at the fat man.

“So I did,” Bronson asserted carefully.

“As for me, I slept till two o'clock,” Claire continued. “Wow, but I was tired! We had a little supper last night, and I went to bed at half-past three. We kept Harry awake, and he threw his shoes at us, and one hit me on the side and made a blue spot as big as your hand. Really, you should have been there, Dibby. We had a swell time. Old Rumford brought six bottles of champagne, and May dropped one on the fire-escape—”

“'Sh,” interrupted the fat man. “Break off, Claire, and give me the fate of the fizz later. Here comes the new one. Let's see if she's got anything.”

They turned to look at the stage as the orchestra began the introduction to a popular song. The young woman who appeared on the platform was visibly ill at ease. Her cheeks were flushed, and her fingers were pressed nervously against the skirt of her black, clinging gown; her shoulders and arms were bare and startlingly white, and her golden hair assumed a striking luminosity in the glare of the spotlight. It was an effective picture, and a slight ripple of applause ran over the immense room.

She began to sing. It was easy enough to see that she was new to the cabaret. She made no flowing gestures, she did not roll her eyes, she did not even clasp her hands over her heart when she sang of love; she merely stood still and sang, in a tender and sweet voice, two verses and two choruses of a silly song. Once, toward the end of the second verse, she faltered and nearly stopped, with an appearance of sudden agitations; but she avoided catastrophe. It was probably her physical attractiveness that earned the burst of applause that followed—whereupon she repeated the chorus and retired with a little smile and a bow.

“Not so rotten,” said the fat man graciously, turning to his companions at the table. “A little bit of the pose à la country lyceum, but all she needs is some action. Did you see her stumble when some guy winked at her or something? She'll get over that. Lord, when I think of Mawsey! Take it from me, old Snyder knew what she was here for. That kind don't get away with it for nothing. Was you here, Bronson, the night she—what's the matter, man? You're white as a ghost! What's the matter?”

Bronson's sallow countenance had lost every vestige of color, and he was gazing at the empty platform with a vacant, dull state that was almost terrifying.

“What's the matter?” Claire and the fat man repeated together in surprise.

Bronson drew himself together with an apparent effort, shifting his gaze uncertainly, while a sudden flow of color came to his cheeks.

“I don't know,” he stammered finally. “Something funny—I guess it's my stomach—I don't feel well. Very sudden. I—I'll be back soon.”

And he rose abruptly, with a nod, and began to make his way through the maze of tables and chairs to a café for men at the other end. When he had reached it he found a chair in a secluded corner and sank down, burying his face in his hands. Soon he lifted his head, and for a long time he sat looking at nothing with strained, suffering eyes. Now and then he would sigh deeply, and his chin would sink slowly on his chest; then he would pull himself up with a start and resume his vacant stare. He seemed half dazed.

“I wonder,” he murmured aloud, suddenly, “if Dibby has taken her out. I suppose he has.”

He stood up to look through the glass partition over the heads of the diners in the main room. His eyes sought the table he had left half an hour before: it was empty. Evidently Claire and the fat man had gone off together. Bronson reentered the room and made his way down the aisles. As he passed he heard whispers on either side: “That's him. That's the dancer.” He did not stop till he had reached the left of the platform, at the rear, where several small tables were gathered together in a group.

At one of these tables, over against the wall, a young woman with golden hair and bare arms and shoulders was sitting alone, with her chin resting on her hands and her eyes downcast. It was the new soprano.

For a long minute Bronson stood looking at her in silence, while the color came and went in his sallow face. Then suddenly he shook himself, took a quick step forward, and touched her on the arm.

“Rina,” he said, in a strange, suppressed voice.

She started and looked up, and as she caught sight of him an expression of amazed recognition came into her eyes.

“Harry!” she exclaimed in so loud a tone that those at near-by tables glanced over curiously.

“Yes; it is I.” Bronson paused a moment, then, moving slowly and deliberately, seated himself at the other side of the little table and crossed his arms on the cloth. “Quite a surprise, isn't it? It was for me, a little while ago, when I saw you come on the platform.”

“It is—yes,” stammered the young woman, looking from one side to the other to avoid meeting his eyes. She seemed terribly embarrassed. “I didn't know you were in New York,” she observed lamely.

The corners of Bronson's mouth were twisted into something like a smile. “No,” he said slowly; “I suppose you didn't. You wouldn't, you know. But that isn't—that doesn't matter.” He broke off and gazed at her for a moment in silence, then said abruptly:

“What are you doing here?”

“Why”—she gave a little uneasy laugh—“you see—working.”

“When did you leave Granton?”

“A month ago.”

“Have you been here ever since?”

“Yes.”

“Singing?”

“Trying to. This is my first job.”

“Where's Guilford?”

“I don't know. He is—He is—”

The answer wouldn't come. Bronson waited a moment, then continued abruptly:

“Didn't you marry him?”

There was another pause, longer than before. The young woman sat motionless, with her eyes on the table, giving no sign that she had heard. Bronson was fingering a napkin nervously; his face was very white. He called a waiter and ordered some Scotch, telling him to hurry, then turned to the young woman and repeated his question in a voice that trembled.

“Didn't you marry him?”

Another pause; then suddenly she looked up and met his eyes for the first time. Her face, too, was white.

“No,” she said slowly and distinctly; “I didn't. He—he jilted me.”

Bronson straightened up with a movement of surprise, then the twisted smile appeared again on his lips.

“What?” he said. “What? You don't mean—”

“Yes; I mean just that.” She leaned forward. “Harry, I want to tell you—”

“Wait a minute, Rina. Where the deuce—oh, there he is! … Here, waiter! Yes; that's right. No, leave the bottle here.”

He tipped the bottle till his glass was three-fourths full of amber liquid, then lifted it and drained it to the bottom, while a slight shiver passed over him. Almost immediately the color came to his cheeks. He turned to the young woman.

“Now go on, Rina. You say you didn't marry him?”

“No, I didn't. And I'm glad, Harry, I'm glad. No, wait till I tell you. I never liked him—really. I've wanted to tell you so. It was because he was rich, and I'd always been so poor, and you were poor, and I hated Granton—I've wanted to tell you—”

Her tongue was loosened now; the words would not come fast enough. She leaned forward, looking into Bronson's eyes, and spoke rapidly, disconnectedly, as one who feels the pressure of time.

“I was selfish and mean, but you don't know what those things—money, and living in New York, and all that—are to a girl. That night, the night you left—it will be a year tomorrow—I cried myself to sleep. I didn't lie when I said I—cared for you. No, I didn't, Harry. If you had only stayed!

“But you went away—I didn't know where—and then he—he began—I don't know, but after a while he went away, back home, to New York. I didn't care. I wanted you. I didn't know where you were. I stood it in Granton as long as I could, and then I ran away and came here. There! I wanted to tell you, and ask you—to forgive me.”

She halted. Bronson did not speak. Instead, he filled his glass again with whiskey, and emptied it. When he looked up the crooked smile on his face was more pronounced than before; it was almost a distortion. And when he spoke it was to ask a question in a curious tone of detachment:

“When did Guilford leave?”

“Why, in August, I think. Yes. But, Harry, listen—”

“Have you seen him since?”

“Yes.” A look of annoyance and distaste flashed into her eyes. “I saw him tonight.”

“Tonight!”

“Yes. Here. In this room. He was sitting at a table on the other side; I saw him while I was singing. He saw me, too, and sent me this.”

She handed a little white card across the table. He took it and read:

MR. WILLIAM LEE GUILFORD

Below this was written in pencil:

Will you go to supper with me?

W. L. G.

Bronson gazed at the writing in silence for a minute, then looked up at her with his crooked smile.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose you're going.”

The girl did not reply. Instead she took the card and tore it into bits, making a little heap on the plate in front of her. “Harry,” she said in a tone that was almost a whisper. And as he remained silent she repeated: “Harry. Harry, I never want to see him again. Don't you know—what I've told you?”