Part 5 (1/2)

”The blamed club is too light, but I suppose it's the best you've got,”

he said. ”It feels like a willow switch. Well, stand back and give me lots of room. Here goes!”

As he grasped the club I saw the muscles of his right forearm stand out like whipcords. His face was wrinkled in a frown, but there was, blood in his eye.

Carter and I stood well away so as to escape a flying club-head. I cannot describe how Harding made that swing; it was done so quickly that I only noted what followed.

When the club came down there was a crack that sounded like a pistol shot, and at that instant I noted that the pyramid of sand was intact.

Then I saw the ball! It was headed straight out the course, curving with that slight hook which contributes so much to distance.

When I first caught sight of it I should say it was fifty feet in the air and slowly rising. I never saw a ball travel so in my life. We had sent a caddy out ahead, and he marked the spot where it landed. It was more than twenty-five yards beyond the two-hundred-yard mark, and the ball rolled forty-five yards farther, making a total of two hundred and seventy yards.

It was within ten yards of the longest drive ever made by Kirkaldy, our club professional.

The exertion carried Harding fairly off his feet, and he landed squarely on the tee. He half raised himself, and followed the flight of the ball.

His s.h.i.+rt was ripped open at the shoulder and torn at the neck.

”If I hadn't slipped,” he declared, rising to a sitting posture, ”I could have belted it twice as far as that, but I guess that's enough to win.”

I heard the rustle of a woman's garment.

”Why, Papa Harding!” exclaimed a voice, musical as a silver bell. ”You said you never would play golf! You should see how you look!”

I turned and saw Grace Harding. She is the most beautiful creature I ever met in my life.

Before any of us could reach him, Harding scrambled to his feet. He was streaked with sand, but there was a merry twinkle in his eye.

”Did you see me soak it, Kid?” he asked, brus.h.i.+ng the sand from his trousers, and fumbling at a broken suspender.

”You are nothing but a great big boy,” she declared. ”Are you sure you are not hurt, papa?”

”Hurt, nothing!” exclaimed Harding, ”but I'll bet I hurt that ball. I've lost my collar b.u.t.ton,” he said, pawing about the tee with his feet.

”Your eyes are sharper than mine, Kid, see if you can find it. It must be around here somewhere.”

”My friend, Mr. Smith,” said Carter, presenting me to Miss Harding. She did not bow coldly, as do most young ladies in our set, neither was there anything bold in accepting this most informal introduction. She acted like a good fellow should act, and frankly offered her hand, her eyes dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt.

”Smith owns this land,” volunteered Harding, still hunting for the b.u.t.ton, ”but he was too lazy to work it, so he turned it into a golf course. He and Carter are great players, so I have heard, but I have been putting it all over them driving a ball, and I didn't half try at that.”

”Did you hit it, papa?” she asked.

”Did I hit it?” he repeated, ”Did I hit it? Ask them if I hit it. Where in thunder is that collar-b.u.t.ton?”

And then the four of us hunted for that elusive but useful article.

Miss Harding found it in a tuft of gra.s.s, and I stood and stupidly watched her while she put it in place, adjusted the collar and tied the cravat.

”Papa is very lucky in whatever he undertakes,” she said, addressing me rather than Carter, so I believe. ”I could have warned you that he would have beaten you, though I cannot understand how he happened to drive a ball as far as that.”