The Purple Bird Mystery (4 page)

“Why not?”

“The more golf carts they use, the fewer caddies they need. And that’s us.”

“Gee, I never thought of that.”

There were already half a dozen boys sitting in the breezeway, waiting for assignments.

They entered the caddy-house. Mr. Jones, the caddy-master, stood behind a counter that fronted the ranks where members’ golf bags were kept. Row on row of bags full of clubs lined both walls behind him. Djuna hadn’t realized there were so many golf clubs in the world. “Wow!” he muttered to Jimmy. “How do they keep them all straight?”

“Every bag has a tag with the owner’s name, the pro’s name, and the Fieldcrest Golf Club name on it,” Jimmy explained. “And the rack positions are shown on it, too. Next Thursday, when my father starts as pro, every golf bag back there in those racks will have Pop’s name on it. Isn’t that something?”

Mr. Jonas smiled over his counter. “Is this the new caddy you’ve found for us, Jimmy?”

“Yes, sir, this is Djuna. He wants to caddy, and so do I. We’re both pretty strong; we could carry one bag easy.”

“Depends on the bag,” Mr. Jonas said briskly. “But you oughtn’t to have much trouble with most of ’em here. Glad to know you, Djuna. I’ll put you and Jimmy on the list, and mark you for singles, okay?”

“Thanks very much, Mr. Jonas,” Djuna said quickly, relieved that Mr. Jonas hadn’t decided he was too young to caddy.

“You might as well go out there with the other caddies to wait your turn. I’ll call you when it comes up.”

The boys went out and sat down on a bench beside a soda machine. “Oh, boy!” Djuna exulted. “Am I glad you stopped me yesterday when I was going job-hunting! This’ll be more fun than working in any old store.”

“Healthier for you, too,” chimed in a voice at Djuna’s side. The boys looked up at the source of this comment. It was the caddy who had been carrying Mr. Martin’s clubs the day before, when he offered his help in the broken-drawer crisis. The caddy sat down comfortably on the bench beside Djuna.

“Hi,” said Djuna, remembering his misgivings about this man and Mr. Martin. “Your name’s Joe, isn’t it? We met yesterday when my dog broke that drawer.”

“Yeah, I’m Joe Morelli. Kind of new myself, only been here a couple of weeks. But I can show you the ropes. Ever caddy before?”

“I don’t know a thing about it,” Djuna confessed. “But Jimmy does, don’t you, Jimmy?”

“Pretty near,” Jimmy replied. “Course, I’ve never been a
paid
caddy before.”

“There’s nothing to it,” Morelli told Djuna. “You carry the bag for the golfer; you hand him the clubs he wants or let him pick his own. They’re numbered on the bottom. You mark where the balls go when they’re hit, and you look for the lost ones; you tend the flag stick on the greens; you rake the sand traps smooth after your golfer messes them up. And that’s about it.”

“I can hardly wait to get started,” Djuna exclaimed. “How does it work, Joe? Do we get our jobs in order, or what?”

“First come, first served. The guys that get here earliest get the first jobs, and so on. I’m next now.” To the other caddies waiting in the breezeway, Morelli said, “Hey, here’s a couple of new boys, Jimmy and Djuna. Singles.”

The caddies were all many years younger than Morelli, though considerably old than Djuna and Jimmy. They seemed friendly, especially when they learned that Jimmy’s father was the new pro.

“Where’s your lunch?” one of the caddies asked. “Don’t you guys figure to eat?”

“Gosh, I never thought of that!” said Djuna, dismayed. “I guess we’re supposed to bring our lunch.”

“It helps if you don’t want to starve.”

Joe Morelli said to Jimmy, “If you had to bust something yesterday, I guess it was lucky it was just a drawer. That beat-up old chest didn’t look like much to me. Kind of on its last legs.”

“It
is
pretty old, Joe, but I can still keep clothes and stuff in it in my bedroom,” Jimmy protested. “It’s a kind of a family hand-me-down. It belonged to my great-grandfather.

“Your great-grandfather? No kidding.”

“Or my great-
great
-grandfather, I’m not sure which.”

Just then Morelli’s name was called by the caddy-master. He seemed reluctant to leave them. When he reappeared, he had a golf bag over his shoulder and was joined by two of the other caddies, similarly burdened. “See you later, kids,” he called to Djuna and Jimmy as he headed up the path to the first tee.

During the next hour, the names of several more caddies were called to carry for golfers who believed the rain would hold off for a while. There were only a couple of boys remaining before Djuna and Jimmy would get their turn, when Jimmy suddenly waved toward the clubhouse and called, “Hi, Pop!”

Mr. Douglas came out of the pro shop and walked through the breezeway to where they sat. “Hello, boys,” he said. “Are you all fixed up with Mr. Jones? Official caddies now?”

“Yes, sir,” Djuna answered. “And thanks for helping me to get this job, Mr. Douglas.”

Mr. Douglas looked at the sky. “Not such a nice day for your first round,” he said. “In fact, I’ve come to tell you that there’s nobody else in the locker rooms. Prospects for your getting an assignment before lunch are pretty dim … even if it doesn’t rain.”

“Gosh, I was hoping we could get a round today to help Djuna learn how to caddy,” Jimmy said.

“Well,” Mr. Douglas proposed, “how would you like to caddy for me, then, the two of you? I want to play a few holes to get to know the course.”

“Gee, that would be great!” Djuna couldn’t restrain his enthusiasm.

“Come on, then,” Mr. Douglas said, laughing. “Maybe we can make our house, Jimmy, by lunch time.” He went into the caddy-house and arranged to borrow Jimmy and Djuna from Mr. Jonas.

Then began one of the most exciting hours Djuna had ever spent. Briefed by Jimmy, he soon learned the rudiments of the caddying business and found his duties both pleasant and interesting. But the true thrill of the morning came in watching Jimmy’s father play golf. Mr. Douglas made every swing of a club a beautiful thing to see. His drives were straight and long; he used his irons crisply and skillfully; his approaches were marvels of precision and judgment; and his putting was so accurate that in the six holes they played before the rain came, he one-putted two greens and two-putted the others.

“That’s how I’m going to play when I get bigger,” Jimmy said to Djuna, his eyes shining. “Just like Pop! Isn’t he swell? He’s one under par for the first four holes already!”

“Is that good?” asked Djuna.

Jimmy stared at him, astounded. “Don’t you even know about par?”

Mr. Douglas came to Djuna’s rescue. “How would he know about it? He’s never even walked around a course before.”

“He saw golf on television,” Jimmy said.

“Only once,” Djuna said, “quite a long time ago. We don’t have a TV at Miss Annie’s, you see.”

Jimmy immediately became contrite. “Heck, Djuna, I forgot. Tell him something about it, why don’t you, Pop?”

Mr. Douglas smiled. “Well, let’s see. Golf is a very old game, you know. Most people agree that it started in Scotland. There are records that show Mary Queen of Scots played golf, for instance. But there is some evidence to prove that a similar game was played centuries before that—in the early days of the Roman Empire.”

“We’re Scotch,” Jimmy interrupted to explain. “All the Douglases are Scotch.”

“Golf’s a funny word,” Djuna said. “Is it Scotch?”

Mr. Douglas shook his head. “More likely Dutch, Djuna.
Kolf
. That means
club
in Dutch. It sounds almost exactly like our word
golf.”

“You were going to tell him about par,” Jimmy reminded his father.

“Well, par is theoretically perfect play, figured on the number of strokes required to get your ball from the tee to the green, plus two putts. On a par-five hole, perfect play would get you from the tee onto the green in three strokes, and then allow you two putts, making five strokes altogether. If you use one
less
stroke than the par number, you make what is called a ‘birdie’; two strokes less than par is an ‘eagle’; one stroke
over
par is a ‘bogey.’” Mr. Douglas hit an arrow-straight six-iron shot that landed with a cushioned bounce on the fifth green and rolled to within ten feet of the pin.

Djuna muttered to himself, “Birdie. Eagle. Bogey.” He intended to remember those terms.

Mr. Douglas went on, “Most golf courses nowadays are a combination of par-three, par-four and par-five holes. The distance usually determines the par for a hole, Djuna. Up to 250 yards, it’s usually a par-three hole; from 250 to around 450 yards, it’s usually a par-four hole; over 450 and all the way to 600 yards and more, it’s a par-five. You see?”

Djuna nodded and handed Mr. Douglas his putter as they came to the fifth green, then walked over to the flagstick to take it out of the hole. The pro bent over his ball, lined up his putt, and stroked cleanly toward the hole. Jimmy yelled as the ball dropped into the cup.

“How big is this hole?” Djuna asked, awestruck, retrieving the ball and replacing the flagstick.

“Only four and a quarter inches wide,” Mr. Douglas said. “Kind of hard to hit with a little ball. But we’re lucky, compared with the old-timers in Scotland. They didn’t even have a round ball to putt with.”

“Was it different from this one?” Djuna looked at the ball in his hand.

“Quite different, yes. Those early golf balls were small pouches of leather, stuffed with feathers.”

“Feathers!” said Djuna.

“So the ball wasn’t very round,” Mr. Douglas smiled. “Then, about 1848; a moulded golf ball made of gutta percha was introduced. They called those balls ‘gutties.’ They were smooth and pretty round. But when they were hit hard with a club, they’d usually duck and twist and fly in any old direction, or break into pieces! Then somebody noticed that when a guttie was all nicked and scarred on the surface from hard use, it traveled
straight
when it was hit. So they began to hammer dents and dimples into the balls. And that’s why we have dimples in the covers of modern golf balls. They help the ball to travel straight.”

“Gee,” murmured Jimmy, “
I
didn’t even know that!”

“In 1898,” Mr. Douglas went on, “an American invented a rubber-cored ball that replaced the gutties. We’re using almost the same ball today. Some difference from a feather ball, eh?”

“You bet!” Djuna said.

Mr. Douglas teed up his ball on the sixth tee. “We use these little pegs to set the ball up for our drives nowadays, Djuna. Used to be we teed them up on mounds of sand or dirt. Or on a flat-sided hazelnut, or anything else we could find.”

“Why don’t you use tees for every shot?” Djuna asked.

“Not allowed. After you tee up your ball for the drive, the rules say you’re not allowed to touch it again with your hands until it’s in the cup on the green.”

Djuna inquired curiously, “Who makes the rules, Mr. Douglas?”

“The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews, Scotland, is the supreme authority on golf and golf rules everywhere in the world except the United States,” Mr. Douglas replied. “We have our own ruling body, the United States Golf Association.”

“Did you ever play golf at that place, Mr. Douglas? That Royal and Ancient St. Andrews, or whatever you said?”

Jimmy’s father shook his head regretfully. “No, but I hope to before I die. That’s every Scottish golfer’s dream. My grandfather knew St. Andrews well, though. He never played it himself, but he caddied there during the years he was in school in Scotland to earn money. He even caddied for King Edward VII there once in 1895, when Edward was the Prince of Wales.”

“Gosh!” Djuna said. “Caddying for a king would be like Jimmy and me caddying for the President.”

“I don’t want just to teach other people to play,” Jimmy said earnestly. “I want to be in tournaments and win a lot of money playing golf and be
famous
!
”

“Ah, yes, but there’s the small matter of attending college first,” Mr. Douglas said. “Not to mention the years it’ll take you to
become
the best golf pro in the world.”

“I’m going to do it. You wait and see.”

Mr. Douglas grinned at Djuna. “He’s pretty cocky, isn’t he, Djuna? And he doesn’t even know at this point where the money’s going to come from to send his to college.”

“He can earn his own way through,” Djuna defended Jimmy loyally. “That’s what I’m going to do, because Miss Annie can’t afford tuition money, either.”

As they approached the seventh tee, the long-delayed rain began to fall. Mr. Douglas teed up his ball, took a look at the sky, then slid his driver back into Djuna’s bag and walked off the tee. “That’s enough, boys,” he said. “No use getting soaked. Let’s see what Grandma has for three starving men.”

Djuna followed Mr. Douglas and Jimmy through the gap in the trees and up onto their terrace. He found himself hoping fervently that Grandma would have enough lunch for him, too. Caddying had given him a ravenous appetitite. He put Mr. Douglas’s clubs under the overhang of Jimmy’s front door, out of the wet. And he wiped his feet carefully on the rubber doormat before entering the house.

Grandma came out of the kitchen at the sound of their footsteps and said heartily, “I
wondered
if you’d show up for lunch, you golfers! Oh, Djuna, you’re here, too, are you? Jimmy told me you might be caddying with him this summer. I’m glad.”

“Thank you, Grandma, so am I,” said Djuna. “But I never thought about bringing my lunch today. I was so excited, this being my first day—”

“After that wonderful dinner Jimmy had at Miss Annie’s last night, I owe you at least
three
lunches. So go wash up with Jimmy. We’ll be ready to eat in a few minutes. Just soup and sandwiches, though—this house is still such a mess I can’t get regular meals yet. If it keeps raining, maybe you boys can help me move some furniture around this afternoon?”

“We’ll be glad to,” Djuna said promptly.

They ate hungrily and rapidly, almost in silence. “No chocolate cake yet,” Grandma apologized. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Immediately after he had finished eating, Mr. Douglas returned to the clubhouse—he had an appointment with a representative of one of the big sporting goods houses to discuss the golfing equipment the new pro would be selling in the pro shop. Djuna and Jimmy sat back in their chairs, sipping blissfully on their third glass of milk.