Mr. Pallzey found himself criticizing the Form of the Players. That should have been his Cue to climb the Fence.
All of the Mashiemaniacs start on the downward Path by making Mind-Plays and getting under Bogey.
Back on the sloping Sward between No. 18 and the Life-Saving Station, the two Contestants were holding the usual Post-Mortem.
“Let me see that Dewflicker a minute,” said Mr. Pallzey, as he carelessly extracted a Mid-iron.
He sauntered up to the silly Globule and look an unpremeditated Swipe. The Stroke rang sweet and vibrant. The ball rose in parabolic Splendor above the highest branches of a venerable Elm.
Just as the Face of the Club started on the Follow Through, the Bacillus ran up and bit Mr. Pallzey on the Leg.
He saw the blinking White Spot far out on the emerald Plain. He heard the murmur of Admiration behind him. He was sorry his Wife had not been there to take it in.
“Leave me have another Ball,” requested Mr. Pallzey.
The Virus was working.
He backed up so as to get a Running Start.
“This time,” quoth Mr. Pallzey, “I will push it to Milwaukee.”
Missing the Object of Attack by a scant six inches, he did a Genee toe-spin and fell heavily with his Face among the Dandelions.
The Host brushed him off and said: “Your Stance was wrong; your Tee was too high; you raised the Left Shoulder; you were too rapid on the Come-Back; the Grip was all in the Left Hand; you looked up; you moved your Head at the top of the Stroke; you allowed the Left Knee to turn, and you stood ahead of the Ball. Otherwise, it was a Loo-Loo.”
“If I come out next Sunday could you borrow me a Kit of Tools?” asked Mr. Pallzey. He was twitching violently and looking at the Ball as if it had called him a Name. “I got that first one all right, and I think—-“
So it was arranged that the poor doomed Creature was to appear on the following Sabbath and be equipped with a set of Cast-Offs and learn all about the Mystery of the Ages between 11 A.M. and 2 P.M.
Mr. Pallzey went away not knowing that he was a Marked Man.
On Monday he told the Stenographer how he stung the Ball the first time up. He said he was naturally quick at picking up any kind of a Game. He thought it would be a Lark to get the hang of the Whole Business and then get after some of those Berties in the White Pants. He figured that Golf would be soft for any one who had played Baseball when young.
Truly all the raving is not done within the Padded Cells.
He came home in the Sabbath Twilight, walking on his Ankles and babbling about a Dandy Drive for the Long Hole.
Regarding the other 378 Strokes he was discreetly silent.
He told his Wife there was more in it than one would suppose. The Easier the Swat, the greater the Carry. And he had made one Hole in seven.
Then he took a Parasol out of the Jar, and illustrated the famous Long Drive with Moving Pictures, Tableaux, Delsarte, and some newly acquired technical Drivel, which he mouthed with childish Delight.
Now we see him buying Clubs, although he refers to them as Sticks–proving that he is still a groping Neophyte.
He thinks that a shorter Shaft and more of a Lay-Back will enable him to drive a Mile. The Gooseneck Putter will save him two on every Hole. Also, will the Man please show him an Iron guaranteed to reach all the way down to the Dimple and plunk it right in the Eye.
Then all of the new Implements laid out at Home and Wife sitting back, listening to a Lecture as to what will be pulled off on the succeeding Day of Rest.
She had promised at the Altar to Love, Honor, and Listen. Still, it was trying to see the once-loved Adult cavorting on the verge of Dementia and know that she was helpless.