FullReads

I was surprised when Ralph Bingham supported the suggestion. He was so near holing out that I should have supposed that nothing would have kept him from finishing the match. But he agreed heartily.

“Breakfast,” he said, “is an excellent idea. You go along in. I’ll follow in a moment. I want to buy a paper.”

We went into the hotel, and a few minutes later he joined us. Now that we were actually at the table, I confess that the idea of breakfast was by no means repugnant to me. The keen air and the exercise had given me an appetite, and it was some little time before I was able to assure the waiter definitely that he could cease bringing orders of scrambled eggs. The others having finished also, I suggested a move. I was anxious to get the match over and be free to go home.

We filed out of the hotel, Arthur Jukes leading. When I had passed through the swing-doors, I found him gazing perplexedly up and down the street.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“It’s gone!”

“What has gone?”

“The car!”

“Oh, the car?” said Ralph Bingham. “That’s all right. Didn’t I tell you about that? I bought it just now and engaged the driver as my chauffeur, I’ve been meaning to buy a car for a long time. A man ought to have a car.”

“Where is it?” said Arthur, blankly. The man seemed dazed.

“I couldn’t tell you to a mile or two,” replied Ralph. “I told the man to drive to Glasgow. Why? Had you any message for him?”

“But my ball was inside it!”

“Now that,” said Ralph, “is really unfortunate! Do you mean to tell me you hadn’t managed to get it out yet? Yes, that is a little awkward for you. I’m afraid it means that you lose the match.”

“Lose the match?”

“Certainly. The rules are perfectly definite on that point. A period of five minutes is allowed for each stroke. The player who fails to make his stroke within that time loses the hole. Unfortunate, but there it is!”

Arthur Jukes sank down on the path and buried his face in his hands. He had the appearance of a broken man. Once more, I am bound to say, I felt a certain pity for him. He had certainly struggled gamely, and it was hard to be beaten like this on the post.

“Playing eleven hundred and one,” said Ralph Bingham, in his odiously self-satisfied voice, as he addressed his ball. He laughed jovially. A messenger-boy had paused close by and was watching the proceedings gravely. Ralph Bingham patted him on the head.

“Well, sonny,” he said, “what club would you use here?”

“I claim the match!” cried Arthur Jukes, springing up. Ralph Bingham regarded him coldly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I claim the match!” repeated Arthur Jukes. “The rules say that a player who asks advice from any person other than his caddie shall lose the hole.”

“This is absurd!” said Ralph, but I noticed that he had turned pale.

“I appeal to the judges.”

“We sustain the appeal,” I said, after a brief consultation with Rupert Bailey. “The rule is perfectly clear.”

“But you had lost the match already by not playing within five minutes,” said Ralph, vehemently.

“It was not my turn to play. You were farther from the pin.”

“Well, play now. Go on! Let’s see you make your shot.”

“There is no necessity,” said Arthur, frigidly. “Why should I play when you have already disqualified yourself?”

“I claim a draw!”

“I deny the claim.”

“I appeal to the judges.”

“Very well. We will leave it to the judges.”

I consulted with Rupert Bailey. It seemed to me that Arthur Jukes was entitled to the verdict. Rupert, who, though an amiable and delightful companion, had always been one of Nature’s fat-heads, could not see it. We had to go back to our principals and announce that we had been unable to agree.

“This is ridiculous,” said Ralph Bingham. “We ought to have had a third judge.”

At this moment, who should come out of the hotel but Amanda Trivett! A veritable goddess from the machine.

“It seems to me,” I said, “that you would both be well advised to leave the decision to Miss Trivett. You could have no better referee.”

“I’m game,” said Arthur Jukes.

“Suits me,” said Ralph Bingham.

“Why, whatever are you all doing here with your golf-clubs?” asked the girl, wonderingly.

“These two gentlemen,” I explained, “have been playing a match, and a point has arisen on which the judges do not find themselves in agreement. We need an unbiased outside opinion, and we should like to put it up to you. The facts are as follows:…”

Amanda Trivett listened attentively, but, when I had finished, she shook her head.

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about the game to be able to decide a question like that,” she said.

“Then we must consult St. Andrews,” said Rupert Bailey.

“I’ll tell you who might know,” said Amanda Trivett, after a moment’s thought.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“My fiance. He has just come back from a golfing holiday. That’s why I’m in town this morning. I’ve been to meet him. He is very good at golf. He won a medal at Little-Mudbury-in-the-Wold the day before he left.”

There was a tense silence. I had the delicacy not to look at Ralph or Arthur. Then the silence was broken by a sharp crack. Ralph Bingham had broken his mashie-niblick across his knee. From the direction where Arthur Jukes was standing there came a muffled gulp.

“Shall I ask him?” said Amanda Trivett.

“Don’t bother,” said Ralph Bingham.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Arthur Jukes.