The Last Drive (16 page)

About noon of the following Monday accordingly, Mr. Jellie took a train to Jersey City, accompanied by two men carrying a large wooden box with rope handles. At the Jersey terminus they took a taxi and were driven to a remote part of the town where the streets were dirty, the dwellings poor and dingy, and the atmosphere tainted with the smoke odors of numerous factories.

Before a door of one of the latter, marked “Office of the Darnton Tanning Company,” the taxi halted and Mr. Jellie sprang out, followed by the two men with the wooden box. Five minutes later they were ushered, box and all, into the office of the president of the company. This was a dapper little man with eyeglasses and an engaging smile who got up from his chair to greet Mr. Jellie with outstretched hand in an enthusiastic welcome.

“Ah, Jellie, my boy,” said he, “what a surprise! Glad to see you again.”

The visitor returned the greeting, then turned to the two men, who had deposited the box in the middle of the floor, gave them each a five dollar bill and dismissed them.

“It's been four years since we've met,” observed the president when they were alone.

“All of that,” agreed Mr. Jellie, and there followed thirty minutes of reminiscences. After which Mr. Jellie came to the point of his visit. He first asked for a hammer, and when it arrived he removed the lid of the wooden box, disclosing to the other's astonished view the carcass of a white dog.

“There he is, Bill,” said Mr. Jellie sadly.

“But what—what is it?” gasped Bill.

“Nibbie,” replied Mr. Jellie. “My dog Nibbie. He died—he was killed Saturday on the links. I tell you what, Bill, he was an intelligent dog. He knew more about golf than I do. I want to pay proper respect to his memory. What I want to know is this, could you have the body skinned and cure the hide?”

“Why—I suppose so—”

“Then do so as a favor to me. I want the hide made as soft as possible. I want to use it for a particular purpose. I know it will be a lot of trouble, but I'll pay well for it. You'll do it, won't you, Bill?”

It appeared that Bill would. The details were discussed and it was decided that after being skinned Nibbie's body should be sent to a nearby crematory. Then Bill wanted his old friend Jellie to go home with him to dinner, but Jellie managed somehow to get out of that, and by four o'clock he was again on a train headed for the Jersey hills and the Grassview Country Club.

He played no golf that week. He had decided that so much was due to the memory of Nibbie. Those of the others who managed to get out for a day on the links tormented him without mercy, and when the Saturday weekend crowd arrived poor Jellie was forced to take to his room. Through the window he could see the smooth turf stretching away through the hills and woods, with here and there a spot of lighter hue that marked the putting greens, and he heard continually the sweet, seductive sound of the impact of wood on gutta percha. But he gritted his teeth and stuck to his decision, even throughout Sunday, when the putts trickle from dawn to dark and the tees grow hot.

Tuesday morning a package arrived from Jersey City. Mr. Jellie opened it in feverish haste, and there in his hand lay the skin of poor Nibbie, dark, wrinkled, hairless, certainly unrecognizable. But it seemed to the bereft master that the thing was alive; he fancied that he felt in its soft texture a spirit, a sentient thrill, and he remembered what Marsfield had said of the old Egyptian belief concerning the soul of a dog.

He took the skin down to the club professional, together with his bag of clubs, and said:

“Mac, here's a new kind of leather I got from a friend of mine. I think it ought to make a good grip. I've got eleven clubs here altogether. Do you think there's enough in this piece to make grips for all of them?”

The Scotchman took the skin and measured it, then made some calculations on a piece of paper.

“Plenty, Mr. Jellie,” he replied. “What kind of leather is it?”

“Why—why—” Mr. Jellie stammered. “It's a sort of Egyptian leather,” he said finally. “I'd like to have the clubs tomorrow morning if possible.”

The following day was Wednesday. Mr. Jellie was up early, as usual. After breakfast he went for a stroll in the woods back of the club house, but he was uncomfortable. He hadn't swung at a ball for ten days, and his hands itched. Any golfer can sympathize with him; who has not experienced that irresistible yearning to feel the ping of the wood, the sturdy impact of the iron? Mr. Jellie returned to the club house, and there, on the piazza, saw Monty Fraser gazing around him on every side as though in search of something.

“Ah, how are you, Jellie,” exclaimed Fraser, his face suddenly brightening. “Thought I wouldn't go in to the office today and ran over for a little fun. But I couldn't find—”

He stopped suddenly, his face falling.

“But I forgot,” he continued. “You're in mourning and won't play.”

“No; that's all over,” returned Mr. Jellie, eagerly.

“Then are you on for a match?”

“Just waiting for one.”

Whereupon Fraser repaired to the locker room and Mr. Jellie went upstairs to don their fighting clothes. On his way back down the latter stopped to get his clubs from the professional. They were all ready, with pieces of poor Nibbie's skin wrapped neatly around the shafts.

“That's good leather, all right,” remarked Mac.

“Want to put anything up?” asked Fraser as the other joined him at the caddie house.

“Sure. Anything,” responded Mr. Jellie.

“Box of balls?”

“Sure.”

“All right,” the other agreed; “but really, Jellie, you've got to take a handicap. It's absurd. I go around in 85 to 90 and you average 115 or more. Take at least a stroke a hole. That'll make the match interesting.”

“No, I won't,” said Mr. Jellie, stubbornly.

And he wouldn't, though Fraser argued with him clear to the tee. They tossed a coin and Fraser won the honor. He was a good driver, and he got a ball 220 yards down the center. Mr. Jellie teed up and took his driver from the caddie.

It is amazing the number of extraneous and impertinent thoughts that can occupy a man's mind when he is trying to hit a golf ball. Though skies tumble and the earth shakes on its foundations he is supposed to keep his eye and mind directed on the ball and nothing but the ball; but such is the perversity and levity of the human brain that at the most critical instant it is apt to be concerning itself with mere trifles, such as the latest quotation on C., A. & Q. or the price of your wife's last hat. Mr. Jellie found himself considering the curious feel of the new grip on his driver. An inexplicable sensation seemed to communicate itself from the shaft into every part of his body, even to the tips of his toes; a sense of confidence, elation, mastery. Always before, when preparing to make a shot, he had been nervous, stiff, uncomfortable, and painfully doubtful of his ability to hit the ball at all; now he felt as though he could walk up carelessly and knock the thing a million miles.

“It's because I haven't played for so long,” he was saying to himself. “It's because—
but I must keep my eye on the ball
—I haven't played—
but I must
—for so long—”

He swung savagely. To Fraser's eye it appeared to be the same old Jellie swing, stiff, ungraceful, jerky, ill-timed; and his astonishment was therefore the greater when he saw the ball sailing true and straight far down the course. Midway in its flight it appeared to gain new momentum, lifting gently upward, and in direction it was absolutely dead.

“Some drive,” said Fraser, encouragingly, as the two men started down the fairway.

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Jellie, who was intensely surprised. But what he was surprised at was the fact that he was not surprised. It was unquestionably the longest and straightest drive he had ever made. Two weeks ago that shot would have left him electrified with astonishment, and now he actually seemed inclined to take it as a matter of course.

“Well,” he thought, “it's been ten days since I've played. Wait till I flub a couple.”

The first hole at Grassview is 475 yards. The fairway is narrow, with hazards on one side and out of bounds on the other, and just in front of the green is a deep sand pit. On his second Fraser took a driving mashie and played a little short of the sand pit. Mr. Jellie, who had outdriven him by thirty yards, used a brassie and carried over the hazard to the green.

“By Jove, you're putting it up to me,” said Fraser, in some surprise.

Mr. Jellie nodded. His face was a little flushed. Never before had he been on that green in two; more often he had made the sand pit on his third or fourth. He felt vaguely that something was the matter, and the curious thing about it was that he experienced no surprise. He had taken the brassie for the purpose of making the green, and as he addressed the ball he had felt absurdly confident that it would go there.

Fraser, who had played short, had only an easy mashie pitch left. He played it perfectly; the ball dropped on the edge of the green, rolled over the smooth turf straight for the pin and stopped six inches away, dead for a four. Mr. Jellie was twenty feet from the hole. He took his putter from the caddie, walked up to the ball and tapped it. It started straight, seemed to waver for an instant, then went on and dropped in the cup with a gentle thud.

“Three,” said Mr. Jellie in a voice that trembled.

“Your hole,” observed Fraser. “Good Lord, Jellie, what's the matter with you? Two under par! Some three! I got one under myself.”

“Oh, I've sunk twenty-footers before,” replied Mr. Jellie, with an effort at calmness. But the flush on his face deepened and there was a queer look in his eye.

On the second, a hole for a long and short shot, they got good drives and were on in two. Fraser's putt was strong by four feet, but he holed it coming back. Jellie's thirty-footer hung on the lip of the cup. It was a half in four.

The third is 320 yards. Mr. Jellie, retaining the honor, made his first poor shot from the tee. It was a long ball, but a bad slice carried it into the rough, in the midst of thick underbrush. “Ah,” Fraser smiled to himself, “old Jellie's getting back on his game;” and, swinging easily, he got a straight one well out of trouble.

Mr. Jellie, kicking through the underbrush with his caddie, suffered from mingled emotions. Was it possible that he was going to return so soon to his eights and nines? This slice looked like it. At length the ball was found, buried in deep grass, with bushes and trees on every side; it was all but unplayable. One hundred yards away the green glimmered in the sunshine.

“Better play off to one side and make sure of getting out,” counseled Fraser.

Without replying, Mr. Jellie took his niblick and planted his feet firmly in the grass. His eyes glittered and his jaw was clamped tight. The heavy iron swung back and came down with tremendous force, plowing through the grass and weeds like a young hurricane. Up came the ball, literally torn out by the brutal force of the blow, up through the underbrush it sailed, up over the tops of the trees, farther, still farther, and dropped squarely in the middle of the green a hundred yards away.

“My God!” said Fraser.

“Nice recovery, sir,” said the caddie, in a tone of awe.

Mr. Jellie was smiling, but his face was pale and his hands trembled. He knew very well that he had made a wonderful shot. But what was this strange feeling that was growing stronger within him every minute, this feeling of absolute assurance that he could make a hundred such shots if necessary? He tried to reply to his companion's appreciative remarks, but his voice wouldn't work. He made his way out of the underbrush like a man dazed.

Fraser approached nicely and took two putts, but Mr. Jellie, whose ball was stopped eight feet from the pin, holed out for a three. The fourth, a little over 500 yards, was halved in five. By this time Fraser was beginning to wobble a little, unnerved by pure astonishment. Was this Jellie, the dub, the duffer, the clod? Was this thing possible? Can eyes be believed? Aloysius Jellie one under 4s! No wonder Fraser was upset with amazement.

The fifth is a short hole over a lake. Mr. Jellie stood on the tee, mashie in hand. He remembered how many hundreds of balls he had caused to hop feebly over the grass and dribble into that lake. Again his jaw set tight. Would the marvel continue? It did. He swung his mashie. The ball rose true and fair over the water and dropped on the green. Fraser, completely unnerved, got too far under his ball. It barely cleared the hazard, falling far short, and he lost the hole.

At the turn Mr. Jellie was six up. The cards were as follows:

Jellie . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 3 5 3 3 5 4 4—34

Fraser . . . . . . . . . . . 4 4 4 5 4 6 5 7 7—46

From there on it was a farce. Mr. Jellie, it is true, appeared to be laboring under a great strain. His face was pale as death and his hands trembled nervously as he reached for his driver or knelt to tee up his ball. But his shots went straight and far, and his putts found the cup. He made a recovery from a sand pit on the eleventh that was only less marvelous than the one from the underbrush on the third. Fraser was shot to pieces, and the match ended on the eleventh green.

“I'm going to play it out,” said Mr. Jellie in a husky voice, “and see if I can break 70.”

Fraser could only stare at him speechlessly.

“All right,” he managed finally to utter.

Very few men find in a lifetime the ineffable sweetness, the poignant, intense delight that the following days held for Mr. Aloysius Jellie. For one awful, sleepless night he feared a fluke. He had made a 69. Great gods, could it have been a fluke? He sweated and tossed and slept not. As soon as dawn broke he took his clubs and flew to the first tee. A 240-yard drive, straight as an arrow—ah, thank heaven!

He made the first nine holes in 36, and, drunk with happiness, returned to the club house for breakfast.