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The Competition Spirit
by [?]

About six weeks ago a Canadian gentleman named Smith arrived in the Old Country (England). He knew a man who knew a man who knew a man … and so on for a bit … who knew a man who knew a man who knew me. Letters passed; negotiations ensued; and about a week after he had first set foot in the Mother City (London) Smith and I met at my Club for lunch.

I may confess now that I was nervous. I think I expected a man in a brown shirt and leggings, who would ask me to put it “right there,” and tell me I was “some Englishman.” However, he turned out to be exactly like anybody else in London. Whether he found me exactly like anybody else in Canada I don’t know. Anyway, we had a very pleasant lunch, and arranged to play golf together on the next day.

Whatever else is true of Canada there can be no doubt that it turns out delightful golfers. Smith proved to be just the best golfer I had ever met, being, when at the top of his form, almost exactly as good as I was. Hole after hole we halved in a mechanical eight. If by means of a raking drive and four perfect brassies at the sixth he managed to get one up for a moment, then at the short seventh a screaming iron and three consummate approaches would make me square again. Occasionally he would, by superhuman play, do a hole in bogey; but only to crack at the next, and leave me, at the edge of the green, to play “one off eleven.” It was, in fact, a ding-dong struggle all the way; and for his one-hole victory in the morning I had my revenge with a one-hole victory in the afternoon.

By the end of a month we must have played a dozen rounds of this nature. I always had a feeling that I was really a better golfer than he, and this made me friendly towards his game. I would concede him short putts which I should have had no difficulty in missing myself; if he lost his ball I would beg him to drop another and go on with the hole; if he got into a bad place in a bunker I would assure him it was ground under repair. He was just as friendly in refusing to take these advantages, just as pleasant in offering similar indulgences to me. I thought at first it was part of his sporting way, but it turned out that (absurdly enough) he also was convinced that he was really the better golfer of the two, and could afford these amenities.

One day he announced that he was going back to Canada.

“We must have a last game,” he said, “and this one must be decisive.”

“For the championship of the Empire,” I agreed. “Let’s buy a little cup and play for it. I’ve never won anything at golf yet, and I should love to see a little cup on the dinner-table every night.”

“You can’t come to dinner in Canada every night,” he pointed out. “It would be so expensive for you.”

Well, the cup was bought, engraved “The Empire Challenge Cup,” and played for last Monday.

“This,” said Smith, “is a serious game, and we must play all out. No giving away anything, no waiving the rules. The Empire is at stake. The effeteness of the Mother Country is about to be put to the proof. Proceed.”

It wasn’t the most pleasant of our games. The spirit of the cup hung over it and depressed us. At the third hole I had an eighteen-inch putt for a half. “That’s all right,” said Smith forgetfully; and then added, “Perhaps you’d better put it in, though.” Of course I missed. On the fifth green he was about to brush away a leaf. “That’s illegal,” I said sharply, “you must pick it up; you mayn’t brush it away,” and after a fierce argument on the point he putted hastily–and badly. At the eighteenth tee we were all square and hardly on speaking terms. The fate of the Mother Country depended upon the result of this hole.