Complete Works of Earl Derr Biggers, page 263
On the fifteenth of the month — early enough to constitute a record, as all golfers will recognize — winter greens were abandoned at the Mayfield Country Club. Three days later, just as the noon whistles were blowing in the smoky town, Tom Meade stood on the tee of the eighteenth hole ready to drive off.
Solemnly, as befits such occasions, he took a practise swing. He seemed, if anything, younger than he had been on that Thanksgiving when he had last attempted a letter to Australia. True, his hair was now almost entirely white, but his figure had improved greatly and his cheeks glowed with health. Golf is a grand institution.
He approached the ball as one who has received that inner message that the hour is ripe to strike.
“Don’t forget the brook,” said his caddie suddenly. He glared at the boy with an expression of acute disfavor. Surely the child should have known that the brook was the one thing in all the world he had no wish to remember now.
He drew his club back slowly and drove straight and far. The ball bounded on toward the water hazard that traversed the fairway about a hundred and seventy-five yards away.
“In the brook!” shouted the boy, with no attempt to conceal his satisfaction. He had the caddie temperament.
“Nonsense!” said Tom Meade. “Something wrong with your eyes, Son. It stopped this side.”
An unwonted excitement shone in his face, for he was on the verge of a big moment. In the ten years during which he had been devoted to golf he had never gone round the course in less than a hundred strokes. But this morning, counting his drive in the final hole, his score was a beautiful ninety-six. If he made the cup in three his record would be smashed. He said a golfer’s prayer as he went toward his drive.
The prayer was answered — his ball lay a good two feet from the brook. Pointing out to his caddie the error of going through this world a pessimist, he took his mashie and accomplished a magnificent shot to the green. His heart sang; it was his morning, beyond dispute his morning of glory. He would have something to tell his fellow judges when the supreme court met again.
The brook being safely out of his way, he stood for a moment regarding it kindly. His eyes followed it as it crept out of bounds under a rail fence, across a field and disappeared amid a clump of trees. Old memories assailed him.
“Used to go swimming in this brook when I was a boy,” he told the caddie.
“Tha’s so?” said the caddie.
“Yes, sir. Over there under those trees — only cool place round here in July and August. We used to come tearing up from town, running across the fields, undressing as we ran.”
“Get arrested fer that,” the boy warned him.
“Yes, I guess we would nowadays. There were five fellows in my gang — Spider Griffiths, Mike Forrester, Dan Nelson—”
He walked on for a moment in silence. “Remember once Dan Nelson thought he’d be smart. Hid my clothes, and I had to hang round those woods until dark. Anybody ever hide your clothes, Son?”
“Naw,” responded the bored younger generation. “Here’s yer ball.”
It was ticklish business, those last two strokes. His heart almost stopped beating, but he managed them safely.
“Ninety-nine!” he cried. “Not bad for a man my age, eh, boy?”
“I seen the professional “ began the boy.
“Yes, but I’m no professional. Here, give me the bag. I’m just happy enough to mark you ‘excellent,’ though you know mighty well you don’t deserve it.”
He went exultantly into the locker-room. Passing cronies heard the news. The club steward heard it and was properly impressed. His chauffeur, waiting to take him back to Center Avenue, also heard it.
“Under a hundred — the first time in my life!”
He rolled away from the club, over the bridge that spanned the brook. The boards rattled beneath his heavy limousine. Back into the sprawling city, down Center Avenue, through the big gates and up to his house. Somewhat old-fashioned now, his house, but still imposing and dignified.
Clara was waiting for him in the big hall. She managed his house, now that Jenny was gone. Thirty-eight and unmarried, Clara. Once she would have been that creature scorned in Mayfield, an old maid. But the world was changing, even Mayfield, and the unmarried woman was no longer looked down upon. Clara was finding life not so bad, after all.
“Hello,” she said. “Lunch is ready if you are. Have a good time?”
“Did I?” her father cried. “Clara, went round in ninety-nine! What do you think of that?”
“Splendid!” she answered. “I’m so happy for your sake. I know it’s been your great ambition.”
“It was,” he corrected. “Got a new one now — ninety-five or better by September.”
After lunch he went into his library. The efficient Clara had a cheerful fire crackling on the hearth. He lighted a cigar and sat for a time in his favorite chair, at peace with the world. The cigar finished, he went over to his desk. Great piles of legal-looking documents awaited him. Ignoring them, he sat for a long moment staring into space. Then he began to rummage through the drawers of his desk. For about ten minutes he continued to search, then he abandoned the project — whatever it was. He laid out a blank sheet of paper and took up his fountain pen. He wrote:
“Dear Dan:”
[Pity he couldn’t find that old letter of Dan’s, but no matter, he didn’t need it.]
“Well, Dan, here I am again after all these years. Thought I’d dropped of? the earth, didn’t you? And no wonder. I certainly have been a failure as a correspondent, haven’t I, old man?
“However, I know it’s all right with you. I’ve been busy, Dan, busy as the devil with a lot of little things that, as I look back on them now, didn’t matter much after all. Every day now — I wonder if you find it that way, too — every day the memory of those middle years grows fainter and fainter, and the old times, the days of my youth, seem more distinct and nearer.
“I was out playing golf this morning, Dan. Oh, yes, we have a golf links here now — you wouldn’t know the old town. As I say, I was out on the links. They’re north of town, on what you may recall as the old Marvin tract. Across the fairway of the eighteenth hole runs a brook the sight of which would stir memories in you, Dan, as it always does in me. It’s the brook where we went swimming together as boys.
“Remember, Dan, that time you hid my clothes in the crotch of a tree and left me shivering half the evening in the woods? Pretty mean trick, my lad. I always swore I’d get even with you, but I don’t know that I ever did. Remember the time we held Spider Griffiths’ head under water because he said Republicans were skunks, and he almost strangled and scared us half to death? And the night Mike Forrester’s mother came for him with a switch, and got hold of you by mistake in the dark and caned you good? And said, when she discovered her error, that she wasn’t sorry, as she guessed you needed it. Maybe you did, eh, Dan?
“It’s the truth, Dan, you wouldn’t know Mayfield. It’s big and dirty and prosperous; full of strangers too. There’s a tire factory on the field where we played ball. Green Hill, where you and I went coasting, is now our most exclusive suburb, dotted with Italian villas and handsome colonial mansions somewhat the worse for soft-coal smoke. I was out there the other day and it reminded me of the time you broke your sled — your new one — and I could see you standing there in the snow with the tears frozen on your face and the red muffler round your neck, just as plain as though it was yesterday.
“I’ve got a colored man named Cuffy — he’s over ninety, I guess. He was in here the other day complaining about the weather. ‘We don’t have weather like it was in the olden times,’ he said. And he added, in a voice that brought a lump into my throat, ‘Oh, jedge, I’se sholy longin’ fo’ olden times to come back.’
“I’m like Cuffy, Dan. I’m sholy longin’ fo’ olden times to come back.
“Why not come home for a visit, Dan? Nothing would delight me more. We’d tear down this town as it is to-day and build it up as it used to be. I’d take you over our golf course. It’s a mighty sporty little eighteen-hole affair of more than six thousand yards. People tell us there’s nothing in Chicago can beat it. I go round in just under a hundred — not bad for an old fellow, eh, Dan?
“Dan, I’d love to see you. Jenny would have liked it, too, but she’s no longer here. She thought a lot of you, old man. She was always after me to answer that letter you wrote congratulating us on our engagement. I may be a little late now, but I want to tell you that we appreciated your good wishes. I guess your letter brought us luck and happiness. Certainly we had both. Thirty years together, Jenny and I — two children — life mighty kind. That’s about all there is to tell.
“Well, Dan, excuse the delay, and write me all about yourself. Do you play golf? Got a course in Melbourne, I suppose. What do you make it in? Don’t forget to tell me. Are you under a hundred too?
“Don’t wait as long as I did. And, if you can possibly arrange it, come home, Dan, come on home. You’ve been wandering long enough.
“Your old pal, Tom Meade.”
He was smiling softly to himself as he put the letter into an envelope and wrote Dan’s name on the outside. A keen satisfaction filled his heart. Here was a matter that had long demanded his attention; it was attended to at last. Pretty good letter, too. Covered the ground thoroughly. Only dimly was he conscious of the forty-one years he had delayed; it didn’t seem so long. Why, it seemed only yesterday that Dan was here!
He put the letter into his pocket, went into the hall and donned his overcoat. This time he would not delay an instant. He would go at once to Charley Nelson’s hardware store and find out Dan’s latest address.
“Mr. Nelson’s out, Judge,” said Phil Barclay, the clerk. “Be back in a minute, I expect.”
“I’ll wait,” said Tom Meade. He sat down on a keg of nails.
“Say, Judge, have you seen these new golf balls?” inquired the enterprising Phil. Charley carried a side-line of sporting-goods. He came over with a box of balls. “The Green Flyer. Liveliest ball made. Guaranteed to carry ten yards farther than any other. Permitted by the golf authorities too.”
“You don’t tell me!” Tom Meade replied. He took up one of the balls and examined it critically.
“Better buy a box, Judge,” Phil went on. “Cut ten strokes from your score as sure as fate.”
Tom Meade restored the ball to its place.
“No, I guess not, Phil,” he smiled. “I’m doing pretty well as it is. Went round in ninety-nine this morning. Not so bad for a man my age, eh?”
“Not bad at all,” answered Phil, his enthusiasm tempered by his failure to make a sale.
The front door slammed. Tom Meade saw Charley Nelson coming toward him. A thin wraith of a man, Charley; transparent, almost, a man who seemed not at all well.
How many years had it been, Meade wondered, since Jenny told him how worried Mary was about her husband. Long, long ago. Now Mary was gone, and Jenny, too, and Charley was still abroad amid his hardware.
“Want to see me, Judge?” he inquired.
“Just a minute,” Meade answered.
“Come into the office,” Charley said.
He led the way into a little cubby-hole at the rear, just big enough to accommodate an aged roll-top desk and a fat tipsy stove. Mild as the day was, the latter held a rousing fire. Charley Nelson had always found the world a mighty chilly place.
“What can I do for you, Judge?” he asked.
Tom Meade took the letter to Australia from his pocket.
“I’ve written to Dan, Charley,” he said. “I’ve written that letter at last. Here it is, sealed and stamped. I didn’t have his address, though, so I thought I’d drop in and ask you—”
He stopped. Charley was staring at him solemnly.
“You can’t send that letter, Judge,” he said.
“Can’t send it? Why not? What’s happened? Dan isn’t—”
“Dan’s left Australia,” Charley said. “He’s somewhere in California now. I expect him here in about two weeks.”
“Here? In Mayfield? Say, that’ll be great!” Tom Meade’s face was beaming. “Funny too. I was telling him he’d better come home — in this letter I wrote to-day.”
Charley stared owlishly at the envelope.
“Well, you was a little late,” he said. “Dan sailed from Melbourne last October. He’s been spending the winter on the Coast.”
“A little late,” Tom Meade smiled. “Forty-one years. Yes, Charley, I guess I was a little late.”
“I ain’t sure that Dan won’t settle down here,” Charley went on. “He’s alone in the world — wife gone, children married. He sold out all his interests over there. Yes, he spoke as if he might end his days right here in Mayfield.”
“Where he belongs,” answered Tom Meade. He sat staring dubiously at the letter in his hand. “Well, Charley, I guess I haven’t any use for this, after all. Forty-one years to get it finished, and now—”
He opened the door of the fat old stove. Live coals glowed within. Slowly he tore the letter across and laid the pieces on the fire. He closed the door.
“Judge,” Charley was saying, “you’ll be glad to know that Dan has done real well out there. I guess he’s worth a million or more. From what I hear—”
“There’s just one thing I want to know,” Meade said. “This is important, Charley, try to remember. Does he play golf?”
“I don’t recollect,” Charley answered. “He’s a wool merchant, you know — the biggest in Australia—”
“You don’t recollect! Think, man, think!”
“Well, I guess he did say something in one letter — oh, yes, he stopped in California to play golf. I remember now. Of course Dan never says much about the big success he’s made. But in a roundabout way—”
“I wonder what he goes round in?” Tom Meade cut in on him again.
“Round what?” asked Charley, who was no golfer.
“Round the golf course — his score.”
“Oh, his score. Land sakes, I wouldn’t know that, Judge! But I guess anything Dan does he does well. He built that business of his up out of nothing. On the day he left Australia they gave him a dinner in Melbourne, and the leading men of the place—”
“Well, he ought to be good,” said Tom Meade. “He’s been at it all winter.” He stood up. “You let me know when he’s due, Charley, and I’ll be at the station to meet him. I’ll have him up at the club before he gets his breath.” He smiled gently. “Dan and me playing round the old Marvin place once more,” he added. “Life sort of moves in a circle, doesn’t it, Charley?”
“I guess it does,” said Charley Nelson.
Tom Meade returned to the front of the store and summoned the clerk to his side.
“What was the name of that ball?” he asked.
“The Green Flyer,” said Phil. “Do you want—”
“Wrap me up a box of ’em,” he ordered.
Phil smiled as he handed them over.
“Not quite satisfied with your score, after all?” he ventured.
“Not yet,” said the Honorable Thomas Meade.
He had a number of errands in the town, and dusk was falling when at last he swung up Center Avenue on his way home. The box of golf balls was clutched firmly under his arm, his heels clicked a youthful tattoo on the stone sidewalk, his shoulders were thrown back, there was fire in his eye. Now and then he glanced up at the soft spring sky; he hoped to-morrow would be fine.
To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow! Looking forward still!
NINA AND THE BLEMISH
THE DESERT CARAVAN in which Jim Dryden rode traveled only at night. Long nights they seemed to Jim, with the wind howling in his ears, the sage and the mesquite lying in a deathly hush under the pale unfriendly stars and the gray sand whirling ahead of him down that lonely stretch of macadam.
He stepped on the gas and glanced at his speedometer. Thirty miles — thirty-two. Vainly he sought to catch the whir of his motor above the roar of the wind. Was it running smoothly now? He hoped so. Dawn ought to find him close to his journey’s end. For day and the sun’s heat in that country meant that the precious cargo at his back in the truck would perish. He bent over and, skilful from practise, lighted a cigarette, his wrists guiding the wheel.
A romantic figure? The idea would have startled him — called forth that slow, surprised smile of his. A young man, lean and tanned, in khaki shirt and trousers, doing his job. Speeding on down the long road that leads by the Salton Sea; rumbling through little desert settlements where people awoke suddenly at the noise and knew that the Imperial Valley was sending its cantaloupes up to the breakfast tables of Los Angeles.
To-night he rode alone; the caravan was far in advance. An exploding tire, faulty ignition — one thing after another had caused him to fall behind. He thought of his melons in the boxes and was worried. But that cold biting wind still swept in on him from the sandy waste land and brought him, oddly enough, comfort. Thank heaven for the wind. Better than the refrigerator cars in which the freight shipments traveled East.
His headlights caught a sign on the road ahead: Stop! U. S. Officers. One more delay. He cursed under his breath and threw on the brakes. Two sleepy immigration men with flash-lights and absurdly large guns greeted him as he leaped to the ground.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said one of the officers. “So far behind the rest of the gang we almost missed you.”
“Well, I guess I could ‘a’ lived through that too,” Dryden grinned. “What can I do for you? Breakfast? I can give you a real nice melon, but I’m a little short on coffee an’ rolls.”
One of the men climbed on to the truck and his flashlight played over the crates. The Imperial Valley lies close to the border and smuggled aliens on the melon trucks are not unknown. Dryden watched him, a tired smile on his face.
“You’re the most suspicious guys I ever met in my life,” he commented. “Ain’t you ever goin’ to trust me? What would I be doin’ with smuggled Chinks at a measly three thousand a head? Me, I ain’t got no use for money.”
