Part 17 (1/2)

”The talking golfer is undeniably the most p.r.o.nounced pest of our complex modern civilization,” he said, ”and the most difficult to deal with. It is a melancholy thought that the n.o.blest of games should have produced such a scourge. I have frequently marked Herbert Pobsley in action. As the crackling of thorns under a pot.... He is almost as bad as poor George Mackintosh in his worst period. Did I ever tell you about George Mackintosh?”

”I don't think so.”

”His,” said the Sage, ”is the only case of golfing garrulity I have ever known where a permanent cure was affected. If you would care to hear about it----?”

George Mackintosh (said the Oldest Member), when I first knew him, was one of the most admirable young fellows I have ever met. A handsome, well-set-up man, with no vices except a tendency to use the mas.h.i.+e for shots which should have been made with the light iron. And as for his positive virtues, they were too numerous to mention. He never swayed his body, moved his head, or pressed. He was always ready to utter a tactful grunt when his opponent foozled. And when he himself achieved a glaring fluke, his self-reproachful click of the tongue was music to his adversary's bruised soul. But of all his virtues the one that most endeared him to me and to all thinking men was the fact that, from the start of a round to the finish, he never spoke a word except when absolutely compelled to do so by the exigencies of the game. And it was this man who subsequently, for a black period which lives in the memory of all his contemporaries, was known as Gabby George and became a shade less popular than the germ of Spanish Influenza. Truly, _corruptio optimi pessima!_

One of the things that sadden a man as he grows older and reviews his life is the reflection that his most devastating deeds were generally the ones which he did with the best motives. The thought is disheartening. I can honestly say that, when George Mackintosh came to me and told me his troubles, my sole desire was to ameliorate his lot.

That I might be starting on the downward path a man whom I liked and respected never once occurred to me.

One night after dinner when George Mackintosh came in, I could see at once that there was something on his mind, but what this could be I was at a loss to imagine, for I had been playing with him myself all the afternoon, and he had done an eighty-one and a seventy-nine. And, as I had not left the links till dusk was beginning to fall, it was practically impossible that he could have gone out again and done badly. The idea of financial trouble seemed equally out of the question. George had a good job with the old-established legal firm of Peabody, Peabody, Peabody, Peabody, Cootes, Toots, and Peabody. The third alternative, that he might be in love, I rejected at once. In all the time I had known him I had never seen a sign that George Mackintosh gave a thought to the opposite s.e.x.

Yet this, bizarre as it seemed, was the true solution. Scarcely had he seated himself and lit a cigar when he blurted out his confession.

”What would you do in a case like this?” he said.

”Like what?”

”Well----” He choked, and a rich blush permeated his surface. ”Well, it seems a silly thing to say and all that, but I'm in love with Miss Tennant, you know!”

”You are in love with Celia Tennant?”

”Of course I am. I've got eyes, haven't I? Who else is there that any sane man could possibly be in love with? That,” he went on, moodily, ”is the whole trouble. There's a field of about twenty-nine, and I should think my place in the betting is about thirty-three to one.”

”I cannot agree with you there,” I said. ”You have every advantage, it appears to me. You are young, amiable, good-looking, comfortably off, scratch----”

”But I can't talk, confound it!” he burst out. ”And how is a man to get anywhere at this sort of game without talking?”

”You are talking perfectly fluently now.”

”Yes, to you. But put me in front of Celia Tennant, and I simply make a sort of gurgling noise like a sheep with the botts. It kills my chances stone dead. You know these other men. I can give Claude Mainwaring a third and beat him. I can give Eustace Brinkley a stroke a hole and simply trample on his corpse. But when it comes to talking to a girl, I'm not in their cla.s.s.”

”You must not be diffident.”

”But I _am_ diffident. What's the good of saying I mustn't be diffident when I'm the man who wrote the words and music, when Diffidence is my middle name and my telegraphic address? I can't help being diffident.”

”Surely you could overcome it?”

”But how? It was in the hope that you might be able to suggest something that I came round tonight.”

And this was where I did the fatal thing. It happened that, just before I took up ”Braid on the Push-Shot,” I had been dipping into the current number of a magazine, and one of the advertis.e.m.e.nts, I chanced to remember, might have been framed with a special eye to George's unfortunate case. It was that one, which I have no doubt you have seen, which treats of ”How to Become a Convincing Talker”. I picked up this magazine now and handed it to George.

He studied it for a few minutes in thoughtful silence. He looked at the picture of the Man who had taken the course being fawned upon by lovely women, while the man who had let this opportunity slip stood outside the group gazing with a wistful envy.

”They never do that to me,” said George.

”Do what, my boy?”

”Cl.u.s.ter round, clinging cooingly.”

”I gather from the letterpress that they will if you write for the booklet.”