Page:Golfers Magazine March 1916.pdf/17



ORMIE,” said Tom Innes cheerfully, standing on the thirteenth tee. He took his driver from the caddie, addressed the ball with a professional waggle, and with a clean, well-timed swing sent it soaring through the air over the brook a hundred and seventy yards away.

“Nice drive.”

This came from his opponent, Mr. Aloysius Jellie, who had in turn taken his driver in hand. In place of the other’s athletic build and graceful, easy motion, Mr. Jellie was the possessor of an angular, every-which-way figure and his movements were awkward and inelegant. His lips tightened grimly as he waved the wooden club back and forth over the ball. A sudden jerk of his body, a mighty swish, and the ball hopped crazily from the tee and trickled over the turf some sixty yards away.

“Topped it,” observed Mr. Innes sympathetically. “Too bad.”

But the last two words were drowned by another sound, a yelp of mingled pain and dismay that came from the third spectator of Mr. Jellie’s foozle. Caddies, being dumb by tradition as well as from self-interest, are not counted. The yelp issued from the throat of a dog, a white, middle-sized dog of heterogeneous pedigree who had sat on his haunches regarding Mr. Jellie with anxious eyes as he addressed the ball. As the ball hopped from the tee the dog had commenced to whine, and when the profound ineptitude of the shot became apparent, the whine increased to a long-drawn-out, unearthly howl.

Mr. Jellie did not reply to his opponent’s sympathetic remark, nor did the howl appear to either surprise or bother him.

“Come on, Nibbie,” he said without turning his head, and off he went towards the ball, with the dog trotting along at his heels and the caddie bringing up the rear.

“Brassie,” said Mr. Jellie grimly, stopping beside the ball and holding out his hand.

The caddie hesitated. “Bad lie, sir. I think an iron—”

“Brassie,” repeated Mr. Jellie, “I want to reach the green.”

Then as the caddie pulled the brassie from the bag his employer suddenly changed his mind.

“Alright, midiron,” he agreed.

A moment later the iron head whistled through the air, the ball rose high—too high—and dropped in the middle of the brook.

“Too much turf, sir,” observed the caddie.

Again Mr. Jellie did not reply, and again he started off with the dog at his heels. Arrived at the brook, he stood on the bank and pointed at the spot where the ball had seemed to drop.

“Get it, Nibbie,” he commanded.

The dog looked up at his master with an expression of amazed reproach. “Good heavens,” his eyes seemed to say, “didn’t you get over this?” Then he scurried down the bank, nosed about among the bushes at the water’s edge, and presently set up a plaintive whine. Mr. Jellie took his niblick from the caddie and scrambled down. There the ball lay, buried in the weeds. The next few seconds were full of action. Mr. Jellie swung savagely with the niblick once, twice, three times; the caddie held his hand tightly over his mouth; the dog let loose a series of fearful howls. Finally the ball, gouged from its nesting-place,