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29. “Exactly. You’ll land. You’ve got the knack. The slick, smooth, oily
trick of making the thing seem what it ain’t. So pretty soon I’ll have
to take that back about your having the soul of a louse. You’ll be
worse than that. I’ll tell you what you’ll be.” And he told, naming a
very ancient and much blown-upon profession.
“That’ll be enough an’ some-to-carry from you,” said the Boot &
Shoe Surgeon indignantly. “Get out of my place an’ don’t come back
until you’ve cleaned your dirty tongue.”
Resentment of his brusque dismissal was far remote from Mr.
Nicholas Milliken’s philosophic mind, if one were to judge by the
cheerful smile with which he rose. “All right, old moozle-head!” he
returned affectionately. “He fires me about once a week,” he
explained to Jeremy. “That’s when he can’t stand any more good,
plain facts. They boil over on him and out I go, with the steam.
Don’t you mind me, either, young feller. You’ll see I’m right, one day.
We’re all bound upon the Wheel of Things, as the old Lammy said to
Kim. Supprised, are you, that I know Roodyerd Kipling?” He preened
himself with a childish vanity. “I read everything! The old Lammy
was a bit of a Socialist himself. All bound upon the Wheel of Things.
And if I see a little clearer than you, it’s only because I happen to be
bound a turn or two higher up.”
The ineffable patronage of this amused Jeremy into good humor.
“I’ll call on you for that apology, though, one of these days,” he said
to the parting guest, Eli Wade looked after Milliken with a frown.
“Them shoes of his have got a gallows gait,” he declared. “Lawless
paths! Lawless paths! Why do I stand his bitter tongue? I guess it’s
because he makes me think. I wish I had his education,” sighed the
old man.
“Where did he get it?”
“Picked it up. Libraries, night schools, and the like. He was a New
England mill-hand, always in hot water. Stirrin’ up labor troubles an’
all that. Picked up typography an’ drifted out here. A quirky mind an’
30. a restless one, an’ a bad course it sets for his feet to follow,” said the
gentle, one-ideaed old philosopher of foot-gear. “But not a bad
heart, Nick has n’t. Come in again, young gentleman,” he added.
“Not in the way of trade. Come in an’ talk with the old man. One of
you newspaper gentlemen drops in for a chat, often. Mr. Galpin of
The Guardian. You’ll know him, I guess?”
“Very well.”
“Them are his spare shoes, yonder. Rough, ordinary, plain articles.
Plodders. But good wearing stuff in ’em an’ right solid on the
ground, every inch. Slow-moving,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Yes;
they’ll move slow, but they won’t never wobble. An’ don’t think to
trip up the man that walks in ’em. It ain’t to be done.”
“I believe you’re right, there.”
“Right? Cert’nly I’m right. Leather never lies. Not good leather. An’
poor leather’s a dead give-away. My museum of soles.” He waved a
showman’s hand toward the rows of shoes suspended neatly in
brackets of his own devising against the walls. “Look at them
Congress gaiters. Would n’t you know they was a banker’s
belongings? Robert Wanser, President of the Trust Company. Full and
easy and comfortable and mebbe a little sly in the gait. But there’s
weight in ’em. Don’t get in their way. There’s Rappelje’s next ’em;
Professor Rappelje, of the University. Queer neighbors. Straight and
thin and fine finished, his gear. Mebbe a little pinchy. But a man to
swear by. And Bausch: them high-button calfs. He’s a buster. Busts
his buttons off. One of them big, puffin’-up Germans. Always
marching. Tramp-tramp-tramp: the goose-step. Nothin’ o’ that in
that lot on the end. Judge Dana. See the ball of the soles? Worn
down. Creeps, he does. Guess he can jump too, after he’s crept near
enough. An’ that pair below, on the right. That’s a shuffler. Mr.
Wymett. Owns The Guardian and runs it. Now here’s a mincer.
Dainty an’ soft he goes an’ dainty an’ soft he lives: the Rev. Mr.
Merserole, rector of our rich folks’ church. For all that, there’s stuff
an’ weight in his shoes.” His hand hovered and touched a pair of
31. elegantly made, low, laced Oxfords, of almost feminine delicacy.
“Style there, eh? Know what they want, those shoes. Got to be jest
so. Spick an’ span. They say Montrose Clark never has to pay to
have ’em cleaned.”
“Why is that?” asked Jeremy, responsive to the look of invitation in
the old man’s eye.
“Got so many boot-lickers around him,” chuckled the philosopher.
“Kick you as soon as look at you, those would, for all they look so
finicky.”
“I’ll come in to see you when I need pointers about people,” said
Jeremy, smiling.
The Boot & Shoe Surgeon handed him the repaired golf-boots.
“I’m an ignorant old man,” he said, “but I know folks’s feet and
sometimes I can guess what path they’ll take. I’ve been talking
pretty free to you, Mr. Robson, for a stranger. But I reckon you’re
trustable, ’spite of what Nick Milliken says.”
“I reckon I am, Doctor Wade,” returned Jeremy, and believed
himself as he said it.
“Yes: the old man likes to talk,” confessed Eli Wade; “an’ about
people. Gossip, some call it. That’s a silly word. What’s history but
gossip about folks that are dead? But, of course, a man like me has
to be careful who he talks to, being in public life.”
“Certainly,” acquiesced the amused Jeremy. “But I did n’t know
you were in public life. What office do you hold?”
“I’m on the Fenchester Public School Board,” said Eli Wade with
simple but profound pride.
33. B
CHAPTER V
OBOLINK on a grass-tuft piped ecstatic welcome to a long-lost
friend, the sun. Five gray and weary days had passed since
that amiable orb had bestowed so much as one uncloaked
beam upon birds and men, and on each of those rain-soaked days,
Jeremy Robson had racked his overstrained vocabulary for new
objurgations against the malign fates which had spread a watery
barrier between himself and Marcia Ames. Now the sun was an hour
above the eastern horizon with a flawless sky outspread like a
luxurious carpet for its day’s journey. Secure at that hour in the
undisputed possession of the earth, bobolink swayed and sang,
when to its wrath and amaze a shining missile descended from the
sky and bounded with sprightly twists toward its chosen choir-loft.
“Sliced into the rough again,” said a voice of despair from the
hollow below, and two figures appeared, headed toward the singer,
who moved on with an indignant and expostulatory chirp, but found
another perch still within ear-shot.
“Because you will not keep your head down,” reprehended the
deeper tones of the young man.
Bobolink stretched his liquid throat in a love-song. He sang the
warm sweetness of the earth, and the conquering glory of the sun;
the breeze’s kiss and the welcome of the flower for the bees, and
youth which is made up of all these and comes but once. Out of a
full heart he sent forth his missioning call to young hearts; then, as
the girl turned an exquisite face toward him, he waited for her
response.
“That is four,” said she, “and I am not out yet.” And she hewed
away a whole clump of innocent daisies, with one ferocious chop.
34. “You should have used a niblick the first time,” observed the
young man.
Perceiving that romance had forever departed from the human
race when, on such a May morning, such a maid and such a youth
could satisfy their soul with such conversation as this, bobolink flew
away to a tussock in an adjacent field where his own private
romance was safe hidden.
To versatile human kind, it is given to make love in many and
diverse manners uncomprehended of the bird species. Not the least
ingenious of his species, Mr. Jeremy Robson had marked out as his
first step the establishment of a systematic association with Miss
Marcia Ames, through golf; and until that association could be
trusted to walk alone, as it were, he purposed to confine his
attention strictly to the matter in hand. Her desire to make the
college team was a very genuine one, and he guessed her to be a
young lady of no small determination. Therefore, he was well
satisfied to observe that, on this their first experiment as teacher
and pupil, she was playing rather poorly. This meant longer and
more arduous practice. At the end of the first round, during which
he had devoted close attention but scant suggestion to her
performance, he was four up and her card showed a painful total.
“Fifty-twos will never land you anywhere,” was the conclusion
which he derived from the addition.
“What is to be done?” she asked in her precise English. “I grow
worse.”
“Do you read Ibsen?” he inquired.
“I have read him a great deal. But not upon golf,” said Miss Ames
with raised eyebrows.
“Does your playing suggest any particular character of his?”
“You are being absurd. Or is it one of your riddles, at which I am
not clever?”
35. “I’m giving you a test in self-analysis. ‘The Ibsen character whom
you suggest, particularly when you play your iron shots, is Little
Eyolf. The l silent, as in ’Hades.’”
“I do not think that a very funny joke,” she said scornfully.
“It’s been turned down by three comic papers, though,” he
defended.
“Then why must I bear it?”
“To make the point stick in your memory. Once, quite early in the
morning, I came around the corner of a barn on a Philadelphia golf
course, and there was a nice-looking elderly lady whom I had seen
the day before taking her two small grandchildren out walking,
addressing a ball with a brassie and saying, ‘Eye on the ball; slow
back; carry through. Eye on the ball; slow back; carry through,’ over
and over again. Brassie shots were her weakness. The next day that
persevering old grandma went out and made low score in the
National Women’s Championship. Now, if you’ll just think of yourself
as Little Eyolf until you’re good and mad, it’ll help do the trick.”
“What were you doing in Philadelphia?” inquired the girl
irrelevantly.
“Not golfing,” he returned. “So, if you don’t mind, we’ll postpone
that. This is a golf lesson, and right here the serious business of the
day begins. The first consideration is to cure you of star-gazing. You
appreciate that that’s your main trouble?”
“Raising my head, you mean?”
“That’s it. Star-gazing, we call it.”
“It occurs because I forget myself.”
“And mostly on your irons. You get your wooden shots off clean.
Now, let’s drive.”
36. Two straight shots flew down the course, his the longer by fifteen
yards. A ninety-yard approach lay before her.
“Beginneth here the first lesson,” said Jeremy. “It’s a sure cure, on
the homoeopathic principle. Invented it myself for a fellow on our
college team who was a stargazer, and he showed his gratitude by
eliminating me from the individual championship, that fall.” He took
a cardboard box from his pocket, and extracted from it one of a
number of small, gilt stars such as stationers carry in stock. This he
pressed down upon the grass so close behind his pupil’s ball as
almost to touch its lower arc. “Behold the star of your hopes.”
“What am I to do with it?”
“Keep your eye on it—if you can.”
“Until after I have struck the ball?”
“Longer than that. After you’ve played, step forward and plant the
sole of your foot on the star. But you won’t be able to do it. Not the
first time.”
“I shall,” said the girl with quiet conviction.
Taking her stance, she measured the distance with a careful eye,
and sent the ball off with a clean click. Her head remained bent with
an almost devotional intentness. She stepped forward and covered
the star with that boot which Eli Wade had so warmly praised.
“Good!” approved the instructor. “You’ve got will power.”
“I have needed to have,” replied the girl. Her tone was curiously
musing and confidential. “May I look up now?”
“Surely. ‘You’ll like the view.”
The ball, rising high, had landed upon the edge of the green and
rolled to within ten feet of the cup.
“Oh!” she cried. “Do you suppose I could do it again?”
37. “Any number of times, if you’ll keep your eye on the star.”
“But one could not carry about a box of stars in a match, could
one?”
“One could. But it won’t be necessary. Two weeks’ practice at that
will get you clean out of the Little Eyolf habit.”
“Will it, indeed? But why do you look so intently at the spot?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy hastily. “It was your boot—I
mean, I was thinking what that queer old codger Eli Wade said when
I went after your boots.”
“And was that golf?” inquired Miss Ames with a demure and
candid air. “No? Then, if you do not mind, we will postpone it, shall
we not?”
“Stung!” confessed Jeremy. “We shall.”
The bestarred second round cut no less than five strokes from the
score of the gratified pupil and her even more highly pleased
instructor. This in spite of the fact that she had once lifted her head
and perpetrated a lamen table foozle, whereupon Jeremy gravely
pasted one of the stars on the toe of her left boot: “To keep you
reminded,” he explained.
“But,” he added, “you’ve got to clip at least three more strokes off
to be safe. That’ll take you all your time.”
It took a disproportionate amount of Jeremy Robson’s, too, which,
to do him justice, he did not begrudge. As a corollary to the morning
lessons he took to dropping in at the Pritchard mansion of an
evening to discuss some of the more abstruse points of the game,
where he found himself in active competition with the picked youth
of the University and the town, for Miss Marcia gathered a court as
irresistibly as a flower gathers bees. Quite unjustifiably Jeremy was
inclined to sulk a bit over this, unmindful of the favor of the gods in
affording him her undivided companionship in those early morning
38. hours. Whereupon the gods, as is their custom, withdrew their
unappreciated bestowals. Buddy Higman discovered the golf practice
and straightway volunteered as caddy. Jealousy as well as desire to
be of service to the liege lady prompted his offer, which was
straightway accepted. So the morning practice continued while
bobolink from his daisied choir-loft (no longer invaded by balls
wandering from the straight and narrow path which leads to the
House of Bogie) alternately cheered and jeered at this chaperoned
companionship.
One stroke, two strokes, and finally five strokes were subtracted
from the aspirant’s nine-hole score. Her master gave her his blessing
and told her to go in and win. In the Varsity competition, she
qualified with a highly respectable round, and in the play-off for the
team, won her place. The team captain posted the choice for the
yearly match against Kirk College on the athletic bulletin, one line of
which read:
No. 4—M. Ames.
In special celebration of the event, the pupil accepted an invitation
to dine at the Country Club that evening with the instructor.
“Will you make an agreement?” she asked, as they faced each
other across the little table, pleasantly remote in a far corner of the
veranda.
“Unsight-unseen?” he smiled. “All right. I’ll swap.”
“That is quite too American for me. But you agree. Then let us not
speak the word ‘golf’ all this evening. I am tired of it.”
“Stale,” commented the expert. “You must lay off for a week. Well,
let’s forget it. What shall we talk about?”
“What are you doing here in Fenchester?”
He smiled at the directness of the question. “Plain and fancy
reporting.”
39. “You do not seem to belong here.”
“What makes you think that?”
She considered him meditatively. “I suppose it was your clothes,
first. You dress differently from the others. More like the men I have
known over there.”
“Remnants of past glory,” he assured her lightly. “I have n’t always
lived here, you know.”
“Where then? Do you mind my asking?”
“Not a bit. I’ve drifted about doing worthless things for several
years. Philadelphia mainly, New York a little. Getting myself mis-
educated. You see, I’m something of a failure.”
“You should not say that even in fun. I do not like to hear it.”
“It is n’t in fun. Ask my aged and highly respectable great-aunt,
Miss Greer, in Philadelphia, and you’ll learn something to my
disadvantage.”
“I shall,” said the girl gravely, “if I ever go back there. Did you live
with her?”
“For a time. After my college course she sent me on a year’s tour
and then made me take one of those ornamental post-graduate
courses that lead into the lily-fingered occupations that are neither
professions nor business. She had a fond hope that I’d take to
diplomacy.”
“No!” said the girl with unflattering surprise. “I know many
diplomats. I do not think you would be successful there.”
“I’m about as diplomatic as a punch in the eye,” admitted her
companion. “The old lady considered it plumb disgusting of me not
to take to refined international mendacity. But then I did n’t take to
much of anything else that she laid out for me. I had vulgar tastes. I
wanted to go into the newspaper business, and when I’d learnt it,
40. have Great-Aunt kindly buy me a paper to play with. Great-Aunt did
n’t see it that way. She cut me off with a small amount of hard cash
and a large amount of hard talk, and I took a School of Journalism
course and eventually drifted out here because I liked what I
remembered of the town and wanted to bore in where I was n’t
hampered by friends and acquaintances. Does that strike you as a
record of glowing success? Considering that I’m nearly twenty-seven
years old, and have n’t made a scratch on the face of the world
yet?”
“But you began late,” condoned his companion. “And you are still
learning. But I cannot see why your aunt should object to your
wishing to own a newspaper. One would say, a harmless ambition.”
“One that I’m quite unlikely to realize, now. As for its being
harmless, why, my dear child—excuse the freedom of an aged golf-
professor—there’s a charge of dynamite in every font of type.”
“Then you have a penchant for high explosives?”
“Have I? I don’t think I’d put it that way,” mused Jeremy. “I’ve a
taste for adventure. And running a newspaper of your own has
always seemed to me about the liveliest and most adventurous job
going. But I don’t want to blow things up.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Oh, just to have a hand in things, in a real, live American
community like this, where the soil is good and new ideas sprout. I’d
like to get into the political fight, too. A really good one, I mean,
with something worth aiming at.”
“That I can understand. But I still fail to make you fit into this
environment.”
“What about yourself?” he countered “Have n’t you rather the air
of coming out of the great world and condescending to this raw and
rural town?”
41. “Have I? Have I been condescending to you?”
“If you had, it would be more than I deserve,” he said contritely.
“I’d no business to say that. And I did n’t mean it, anyway. But this
is a queer place for you to be, is n’t it?”
“Not for my purposes?”
“Are you specializing at Old Central?”
“One might call it that. I made inquiries for the most typically
American college, and a list was made up for me. I chose the
University of Centralia to be with my mother’s cousin, Miss
Pritchard.”
“Just like that? All yourself?”
“All myself,” she assented gravely.
“You came here to get Americanized?”
“Yes. My mother married again. A German. A man of great
scientific attainments and high position. He is very gentle and vague
and absent-minded, and good to me. And when I told them that I
would like to take my own money and come here to my own country
for a year before”—she hesitated almost imperceptibly—“before
anything was settled for me, he consented. Think what a wrench it
must have been for his old-world prejudices against emancipated
women and all that!”
“Yet I don’t think you need Americanizing. You’re a real American
type if there ever was one.”
She flushed a little. “I like to hear that. My father would have liked
it. What makes you say it?”
“It’s—it’s your honesty, I think. There’s a quality of frankness
about you that could be—well, almost brutal, I think. Do you know
what I mean?”
42. “I suppose I am a crank. That is American enough, is it not?” she
laughed. “A crank about the truth. I hate anything that even
suggests a lie, or a dodging, or an evasion. So perhaps I should not
like your newspaper profession.”
“But that’s just it!” he cried eagerly. “If one had a paper of one’s
own, he could make his own rules for the game.”
“If he were big enough—and brave enough.”
“Brave enough,” he repeated. “Eli Wade said that about you, too.
Reading your character from your shoes, you know. That you had
courage and honesty. I think he thought it a rare thing in a woman.”
“It is not,” she flashed. “But if I have, it is no credit to me. I have
wholly loved and trusted only one person on earth. That was my
father, and he was the soul of truth. So, some of my friends laugh at
me a little and think me a crank, because I have—what do you
Americans—we Americans say?—no use for any one whom I cannot
wholly trust.”
“And you would be hard, too,” he said.
“Perhaps. If I were, it would be because I could not help it. I think
that I do things because something inside makes me before I have
even time to consider, sometimes.”
“Like your standing up alone at the Federated German meeting.
By the way, I brought my story of it for you to read.”
She held out her hand for the proofs. “I am glad,” she said.
She read it, slowly and studiously, and as she read an expression,
new to Jeremy in the changeful charm of her face, puzzled his
watchful eyes.
“It is very vivid,” she said, “and enthusiastic.”
She rose. On their way back to the Pritchard house she plied him
with questions bearing on the technique of journalism. As he stood,
43. bareheaded under the porch light looking up at her, she asked:
“May I keep the proof of the article?”
“Yes. You like it, then?”
“I love it. But I am glad that it was not published.”
“Why?”
“There is too much Me in it.” She paused. “Did I seem to you like
that—then?”
“Yes. And more.”
She shook her head. “I am glad that it was not published,” she
repeated. “It would have said to too many people—” She hesitated.
“What?” he asked.
For the first time her eyes faltered before his. They were hesitant,
and deep-shadowed and troubled.
“What?” he repeated.
“What should have been said to only one.”
“Marcia!” he cried.
But the door had closed on her and he barely heard her soft-toned
“Good-night” from beyond its jealous interception.
45. A
CHAPTER VI
BSTENTION from the art and practice of golf for one week
had been Professor Robson’s ukase. Had he foreseen the
course of more personal events he would never have issued it.
For he now had no opportunity of seeing his pupil alone. Nothing so
direct as avoidance could be charged against her. But since that
parting on the Pritchard porch, he had never been able to achieve so
much as two minutes of her undivided time. Her eyes, when they
met his only to be swiftly withdrawn, were sweetly troubled. The
Eternal Feminine within her was, for the time at least, in flight. And
along those paths of delicate elusiveness, the clumsy and pursuing
feet of man stumble and trip. Jeremy’s soul was sorely tried and not
less sorely puzzled.
If he found difficulties in Marcia’s attitude, his own future course
with regard to her was dubious. What could he, in his position and
with his resources, ask of her? To wait? Certainly nothing more than
that. And was even that much fair to her? His own feeling was
simplicity itself. Life had, in these few short weeks of association,
summed and compressed itself into his love for Marcia Ames. Until
that abrupt change in the tone of their relations brought about by
her half-acceptance of his devotion, she had never evinced anything
more than a frank and confident comradeship. Now he felt that he
might speak—if he could find opportunity. That he could not, almost
caused him to accuse Marcia of unfairness. Yet could he honorably
ask her to marry him and tie herself to a meager and as yet
unpromising career? Within himself Jeremy had begun to assume
that confidence of future success which comes with the assured
sense of workmanship. He would cheerfully gamble his own future
on it. But how could he ask her to risk hers? Even supposing that
she cared for him! There was the thought that ached; the
46. uncertainty of it. In any case he had to know how it stood with him
in her heart.
Upon her inviolable truthfulness he could depend for a full and fair
answer, if he were able to state his case. He knew that all her frank
and unevasive courage would answer to his demand; that she would
look that fate, or any other, steadily in the eyes. But not before her
own good time. And that the time was not yet, became sufficiently
apparent, one week before the match when the lessons were
resumed, for with the resumption Buddy Higman was quietly
established at once as caddy, chaperon, and dragon with the added
qualities of the modestly adhesive burdock. The skill and technique
of “No. 4.—M. Ames” prospered and improved mightily, which is
more than can be said of the disposition of her instructor.
Some men’s work would have suffered. Not Jeremy’s. He was of
that fortunate temperament which, keeping its troubles to itself,
boils them out into steam and transforms the steam into energy.
Besides, he had now “the grip of his pen.” He derived a glowing
satisfaction from the expert performance of his craft. The editorial
page was hospitable to him, especially for contributions in lighter
vein. Many special assignments for work out of the ordinary, calling
for a knack of description or characterization, came to him. His
writings were beginning to earn the knighthood conferred by the
clipping shears and the paste-pot. Newspapers in larger cities than
Fenches-ter copied and privately asked questions about them. But
what made it all so worth while, what gave a touch of exaltation to
the dogged purpose for success, was the conviction that all this
forwarded him upon the road which led to Marcia.
The tournament with Kirk College, on the Fenchester Country Club
grounds, was now two days away. Jeremy had asked for and
obtained the assignment to cover it. He had long before applied for
and received the job of caddying for No. 4 of the team opposing his
own college, which was regarded by the visiting Kirks as an ignoble
instance of loyalty corrupted by the baser passions. However, Jeremy
was perfectly willing that Kirk should win; rather hoped it would, in
47. fact, provided only the No. 4 of Old Central beat her man. He
believed her capable of doing it, unless her nerve faltered, which he
deemed improbable. On her most recent performances she was from
two to four strokes lower than any one but himself and Buddy
Higman appreciated.
Important though the event was to Jeremy Robson, the authorities
on The Record considered it rather a waste of their brilliant
youngster’s time. However, they were appeased by the cropping out
meantime of a story so much in the Robson line that it might have
been made to order for him. Wackley, the managing editor, outlined
it to him, when he arrived in the morning.
“Robson, do you know a queer old bat up on Banks Street who
runs a shoe surgery?”
“Eli Wade? Yes; quite well.”
“He’s a nut of the old Know-Nothing kind, is n’t he? Hates all
foreigners and all that?”
“He’s a pretty hard-shelled Yankee.”
“Well; he’s done it this time. Made a fine young riot for himself last
night. It seems he’s been pasting cartoons and mottoes in his show
window; and some of the younger fellows from the Deutscher Club,
who pass there on their way home, naturally got sore. Last night
with a few beers aboard, they stopped and gave him a raree
serenade. Out comes the old boy in his nighty and makes ’em a red-
hot speech. They give him the whoop, and he begins to damn ’em
all back to Germany.”
“Yes; he’s got fighting stuff in him,” agreed Jeremy.
“Too much for his own good. Somebody ups with a rock, and
down comes the big boot over the door. Well, the old boy goes dippy
over that. Dives inside and grabs up a hammer and right into them.
First thing you know, they have him on a rail—a scantling from that
new building on the corner—and are yelling for tar. It might have
48. been serious for the old boy, but just then along comes Andy Galpin
of The Guardian. You know him; he’s some young husky. Guard on
the O. C. team for three years. Well, he bucks the center and lays
out a couple of the merry villagers and there’s a pretty mix-up, and I
understand Galpin got one in the eye that did n’t improve his make-
up. But the boys were sick of the fun anyway, and they let Galpin
get away with it and take old Wade home. Instead of doing the
sensible thing and sleeping it off, Wade gets all het up, and swears
out warrants and they’re going to thrash it out in police court this
noon, in time for the edition. Probably Wade ’ll make a speech.
Anyhow, there’ll be a circus when he goes on the stand. We want a
rattling good story on it; and put in your best touches on the old
boy. He’ll do for a local character to hang all sorts of stories on,
later.”
“But look here, Mr. Wackley: I know Eli Wade pretty well. He’s—
he’s a sort of friend of mine.”
“What if he is? You can have fun with him, can’t you? He won’t
know the difference. And if he does, he won’t care. Those fanatical
guys are crazy for publicity. He’ll eat it up.”
It was Jeremy’s settled intention, so he told himself, as he set out
for court, to write an account which, while lively, should fairly set
forth his friend’s side. When he saw Eli Wade at court his heart
misgave him, the Boot & Shoe Surgeon looked so whitely wrathful.
The proceedings dwindled into nothing. The “life” was out of the
story, quite to one reporter’s relief, when his evil genius inspired Eli
Wade to address the court. At the outset he was simple and
dignified. But counsel for the serenaders interpolated some well-
timed taunts which roused him to indignation. He had not slept that
night, for shame of the treatment to which he had been subjected;
and his self-control was in abeyance. Indignation, as he answered
the taunts, waxed to fury. He burst into a savage and absurd
invective, aimed at “German interlopers,” “foreign clubs that run our
city,” and the like; his voice shrilling louder and louder until he was
drowned out by the uncontrollable laughter of the court-room. It
49. was all quite absurd and pitiable. Instinctively Jeremy’s pencil took it
down. Here was his story, ready to hand.
As he sat in the office, the grip of characterization settled upon
him. Oddments and gleams of past conversations in the “Infirmary”
came back to him, and he embodied them. Stroke by stroke there
grew up under his hand a portrait, crude from haste but vivid,
telling, and a stimulant to mirth, not always of the kindliest. It was
not intentionally unfair; it was never malicious in purpose. But it was
the more deadly in effect. By the magic transformation of print it
made out of an unpolished, simple, generous, fervent, and
thoughtful artisan, a laughable homunculus. Yet there was in it no
element of “fake.” Jeremy could have defended it at all points. Any
newspaper judgment would have credited it with due fidelity to
facts. The sum-total was a subtle and gross misrepresentation. Had
the writer read it over he would perhaps have seen this for himself.
But there was no time. He barely caught the edition. Wackley’s:
“Great stuff, my boy! You’ll hear of this,” happily distracted him from
the stirrings of a conscience which faintly wished to know how Eli
Wade would take it.
“You’re doing golf to-morrow,” continued the managing editor.
“Don’t bother to come to the office first.” Profiting by this, Jeremy,
an hour before match time, called at Miss Pritchard’s for Marcia. He
was informed that she had left on an errand, but would meet him at
the Country Club. When, just before the first pair teed up, she
appeared, her mentor was startled, she looked so wan and languid.
“Good Heavens!” said Jeremy in a whisper. “You have n’t let this
thing get on your nerves?”
She shook her head. Her eyes did not avoid his now; but the
changeful lights seemed to have dwindled to the merest flicker in
inscrutable depths.
“Let me get you a cup of coffee. That’ll brace you up.”
“I shall be all right,” she said with an effort.
50. At the call for the fourth pair she stepped to the tee and hit a ball
straight down the center for 160-odd yards. It was the virtue of her
game that she was straight on the pin, nine shots out of ten,
thereby overcoming the handicap of greater distance sure to be
against her in college competition. Great and grinful was the
satisfaction of her trainer at observing the demeanor of her
opponent. When he was presented to her, that gentleman, a sightly
and powerful youth notable for his long drives, took one extended,
admiring, and astounded survey of “M. Ames”—he had n’t known
what the bewildering fates held in store for him inquired privately
but passionately of high Heaven and his team-mates how a fellow
was going to keep his eye on the ball with a vision like that to look
at, and entered upon a disastrous career by nearly slaying, with his
first drive, a squirrel in a tree a good hundred yards off the course.
He recovered in time to record an unparalleled ten for the first hole.
M. Ames, dead on the pin, scored a correct five. Everson (the Kirk
boy) contributed three putts on the second green, and M. Ames won
it in a sound four. But as his pupil took her stance for a brassie, after
a respectable tee-shot from the third, Jeremy perceived with dismay
that her hands were shaking. Up went her head, as she swung, and
the ball darted from the toe of her club into the rough. She was out
in three, but again she succumbed to star-gazing on her mashie
shot, and her opponent still triangulating the course like a care-free
surveyor, was able to halve it. From then on, Jeremy the mentor was
in agony. Except off the tees, where she clung to her beautiful, free-
limbed, lissome swing, as it were by instinct, No. 4 for Old Central
topped, sliced, pulled, and scarified the helpless turf. The gallant
foeman was so distressed at her obviously unusual ineptitudes, that
his own game went glimmering down the grassy bypaths that lead
to traps and bunkers. Only this involuntary gallantry saved M. Ames
from practical extinction. As it was, she was two down at the end of
the first nine, with a dismal fifty-four. As they left the ninth green
she turned to Jeremy: “Would you mind not caddying for me the rest
of the match?”
“But Marcia!” he cried, aghast. “What’s wrong?”
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