Page:Golfers Magazine March 1916.pdf/33

March, 1916 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 paste-board 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 138. 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 store-keeper, and he is quite an expert.

He can’t bear the sight of a dog.

 

The following official figures of the tickets given out for play at the Jackson Park public links, Chicago, show the enormous hold golf has taken on the public. When Manager George Weitzel closed his books his figures showed he had given out 308,174 tickets for play on the two courses. This includes play from March until December 31.

Following are the attendance figures for the past year at Jackson Park.

18 holes 9 holes March 6,860 2,465 April 16,161 9,100 May 18,766 9,895 June 23,367 17,040 July 24,800 17,180 August 26,560 18,780 September 23,550 18,700 October 22,560 17.766 November 16,920 11,760 December 4,400 1,600 