Torchy As A Pa

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE MANTLE OF SANDY THE GREAT

  "Vincent," says I, as I blows in through the brass gate from lunch,"who's the poddy old party you got parked on the bench out in theanteroom?"

  "He's waiting to see Mr. Ellins," says Vincent. "This is his third try.Looks to me like some up-state stockholder who wants to know whenCorrugated common will strike 110."

  "Well, that wouldn't be my guess exactly," says I. "What's the name?"

  "Dowd," says Vincent, reachin' for a card. "Matthew K"

  "Eh," says I. "Mesaba Matt. Dowd? Say, son, your guesser is way out ofgear. You ought to get better posted on the Order of Who-Who's."

  "I'm sorry," says Vincent, pinkin' up in the ears. "Is--is he somebodyin particular?"

  "Only one of the biggest iron ore men in the game," says I. "That is, hewas until he unloaded that Pittsburgh syndicate a few years ago. Also hemust be a special crony of Old Hickory's. Anyway, he was playin' aroundwith him down South last month. And here we let him warm a seat out inthe book-agent pen! Social error, Vincent."

  "Stupid of me," admits Vincent. "I will--"

  "Better let me soothe him down now," says I. "Then I'll get Old Hickoryon the 'phone and tell him who's here."

  I will say that I did it in my best private sec. style, too, urgin' himinto the private office while I explains how the boy on the gatecouldn't have read the name right and assurin' him I'd get word to Mr.Ellins at once.

  "He's only having a conference with his attorneys," says I. "I thinkhe'll be up very, soon. Just a moment while I get him on the wire, Mr.Dowd."

  "Thank you, young man," says Matthew K. "I--I rather would like to seeEllins today, if I could."

  "Why, sure!" says I, easin' him into Old Hickory's swing chair.

  But somehow when I'd slipped out to the 'phone booth and got in touchwith the boss he don't seem so anxious to rush up and meet his old sidekick. No. He's more or less calm about it.

  "Eh?" says he. "Dowd? Oh, yes! Well, you just tell him, Torchy, that I'mtied up here and can't say when I'll be through. He'd better not wait."

  "Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he's been here twice before. Seemsto have something on his mind that--well, might be important, youknow."

  "Yes, it might be," says Old Hickory, and I couldn't tell whether hethrew in a snort or a chuckle right there. "And since you think it is,Torchy, perhaps you'd better get him to sketch it out to you."

  "All right," says I. "That is, if he'll loosen up."

  "Oh, I rather think he will," says Old Hickory.

  It was a good guess. For when I tells Dowd how sorry Mr. Ellins is thathe can't come just then, and suggests that I've got power of attorney totake care of anything confidential he might spill into my nigh ear, heopens right up.

  Course, what I'm lookin' for is some big business stuff; maybe astraight tip on how this new shift in Europe is going to affect foreignexchange, or a hunch as to what the administration means to put over inregard to the railroad muddle. He's a solemn-faced, owl-eyed old party,this Mesaba Matt. Looks like he was thinkin' wise and deep about weightymatters. You know. One of these slow-movin', heavy-lidded,double-chinned old pelicans who never mention any sum less than sevenfigures. So I'm putting up a serious secretarial front myself when hestarts clearin' his throat.

  "Young man," says he, "I suppose you know something about golf!"

  "Eh?" says I. "Golf? Oh, yes. That is. I've seen it played some. I wason a trip with Mr. Ellins down at Pinehurst, five or six years back,when he broke into the game, and I read Grant Rice's dope on it more orless reg'lar."

  "But you haven't played golf yourself, have you?" he goes on.

  "No," says I, "I've never indulged in the Scottish rite to any extent.Just a few swipes with a club."

  "Then I'm afraid," he begins, "that you will hardly----"

  "Oh, I'm a great little understander," says I, "unless you mean to gointo the fine points, or ask me to settle which is the best course. I'veheard some of them golf addicts talk about Shawnee or Apawamis orEkwanok like--well, like Billy Sunday would talk about heaven. But I'vestretched a willing ear for Mr. Ellins often enough so I can----"

  "I see," breaks in Dowd. "Possibly you will do. At any rate, I must tellthis to someone."

  "I know," says I. "I've seen 'em like that. Shoot."

  "As you are probably aware," says he, "Ellins was in Florida with melast month. In fact, we played the same course together, day in and dayout, for four weeks. He was my partner in our foursome. Rather a helpfulpartner at times, I must admit, although he hasn't been at the game longenough to be a really experienced golfer. Fairly long off the tee, buterratic with the brassie, and not all dependable when it came to shortiron work. However, as a rule we held them. Our opponents, I mean."

  I nods like I'd taken it all in.

  "A quartette of bogey hounds, I expect," says I.

  Dowd shakes his head modest. No, he confesses that wasn't an exactdescription of their ratin'. "We usually qualified, when we got in atall," says he, "in the fourth flight for the Seniors' tournament. But asa rule we did not attempt the general competitions. We stuck to ourdaily foursome. Staples and Rutter were the other two. Rutter's insteel, you know; Staples in copper. Seasoned golfers, both of them.Especially Rutter. Claims to have turned in a card of 89 once at ShortHills. That was years ago, of course, but he has never forgotten it.Rather an irritating opponent, Rutter. Patronizing. Fond of telling youwhat you did when you've dubbed a shot. And if he happens to win--" Dowdshrugs his shoulders expressive.

  "Chesty, eh?" says I.

  "Extremely so," says Dowd. "Even though his own medal score wasn'tbetter than 115. Mine was a little worse, particularly when I chanced tobe off my drive. Yes, might as well be honest. I was the lame duck ofthe foursome. They usually gave my ball about four strokes. Thought theycould do it, anyway. And I accepted."

  "Uh-huh," says I, grinnin' intelligent--I hope. I sure was gettin' anearful of this golf stuff, but I was still awake.

  Dowd goes on to tell how reg'lar the old foursome got under way everyafternoon at 2:30. That is, every day but Sunday.

  "Oh, yes," says I. "Church?"

  "No," says Dowd. "Sandy the Great."

  "Eh?" says I, gawpin'.

  "Meaning," says Dowd, "Alexander McQuade, to my mind the best all aroundgolf professional who ever came out of Scotland. He was at ourAgapoosett course in summer, you know, and down there in the winter. AndSunday afternoons he always played an exhibition match with visitingpro's, or some of the crack amateurs. I never missed joining the galleryfor those matches. I was following the day he broke the course recordwith a 69. Just one perfect shot after another. It was an inspiration.Always was to watch Sandy the Great play. Such a genial, democraticfellow, too. Why, he has actually talked to me on the tee just beforetaking his stand for one of those 275-yard drives of his. 'Watch thisone, me laddie buck,' he'd say, or 'Weel, mon, stand a bit back while Igie th' gutty a fair cr-r-rack.' He was always like that with me. Do youwonder that I bought all my clubs of him, had a collection of his bestscores, and kept a large 'photo of him in my room? I've never been muchof a hero worshiper, but when it came to Sandy the Great--well, thatwas different. You've heard of him, of course?"

  "I expect I have," says I, "but just how does he fit into this--"

  "I am coming to that," says Dowd. "It was a remarkable experience.Weird, you might say. You see, it was the last day of our stay inFlorida; our last foursome of the season. We had been losing steadilyfor several days, Ellins and I. Not that the stakes were high. Trivial.Dollar Nassau, with side bets. I'd been off my drive again and Ellinshad been putting atrociously. Anyway, we had settled regularly.

  "And Rutter had been particularly obnoxious in his manner. Offered toincrease my handicap to five bisque, advised me to get my wrists intothe stroke and keep my body out. That sort of thing. And from a man wholunges at every shot and makes a 75-yard approach with a brassie--Well,it was nothing short of maddening. I kept m
y temper, though. Can't saythat my friend Ellins did. He had sliced into a trap on his drive, whileI had topped mine short. We started the first hole with our heads down.Rutter and Staples were a trifle ostentatious with their cheerfulness.

  "I will admit that I played the first four holes very badly. A ten onthe long third. Wretched golf, even for a duffer. Ellins managed to holdlow ball on the short fourth, but we were seven points down. I couldhave bitten a piece out of my niblick. Perhaps you don't know, youngman, but there is no deeper humiliation than that which comes to a dubgolfer who is playing his worst. I was in the depths.

  "At the fifth tee I was last up. I'd begun waggling as usual, bodyswaying, shoulders rigid, muscles tense, dreading to swing and wonderingwhether the result would be a schlaff or a top, when--well, I simplycannot describe the sensation. Something came over me; I don't knowwhat. As if someone had waved a magic wand above my head. I stoppedswaying, relaxed, felt the weight of the club head in my fingers, knewthe rhythm of the swing, heard the sharp crack as the ivory facing metthe ball. If you'll believe it, I put out such a drive as I'd neverbefore made in all my 12 years of golf. Straight and clean and true pastthe direction flag and on and on.

  "The others didn't seem to notice. Rutter had hooked into the scrubpalmettos, Staples had sliced into a pit, Ellins had topped shortsomewhere in the rough. I waited until they were all out on the fairway.Some had played three, some four shots. 'How many do you lie?' askedRutter. I told him that was my drive. He just stared skeptical. I couldscarcely blame him. As a rule I need a fair drive and two screamingbrassies on this long fifth before I am in position to approach acrossthe ravine. But this time, with a carry of some 160 yards ahead of me, Ipicked my mid-iron from the bag, took a three-quarter swing, bit asmall divot from the turf as I went through, and landed the ball fairlyon the green with a back-spin that held it as though I'd had a stringtied to it. And when the others had climbed out of the ravine orotherwise reached the green I putted in my four. A par four, mind you,on a 420-yard hole that I'd never had better than a lucky 5 on, andusually a 7 or an 8!

  "Rutter asked me to count my strokes for him and then had the insolenceto ask how I got that way. I couldn't tell him. I did feel queer. As ifI was in some sort of trance. But my next drive was even better. Ascreamer with a slight hook on the end that gave the ball an added roll.For my second I played a jigger to the green. Another par four. Rutterhadn't a word to say.

  "Well, that's the way it went. Never had any one in our foursome playedsuch golf as I did for nine consecutive holes. Nothing over 5 and onebirdie 3. I think that Staples and Rutter were too stunned to make anycomment. As for Ellins, he failed to appreciate what I was doing.Somewhat self-centered, Ellins. He's always counting his own score andseldom notices what others are making.

  "Not until we had finished the 12th, which I won with an easy 3, didStaples, who was keeping score, seem to realize what had happened.'Hello!' he calls to Rutter. 'They've got us beaten.' 'No,' says Rutter.'Can't be possible!' 'But we are,'insists Staples. 'Thirteen pointsdown and twelve to go. It's all over. Dowd, here, is playing like acrazy man.'

  "And then the spell, or whatever it was, broke. I flubbed my drive,smothered my brassie shot, and heeled my third into the woods. Ifinished the round in my usual style, mostly sevens and eights. Butthere was the score to prove that for nine straight holes I had playedpar golf; professional golf, if you please. Do you think either Rutteror Staples gave me credit for that? No. They paid up and walked off tothe shower baths.

  "I couldn't account for my performance. It was little short of amiracle. Actually it was so unusual that I hardly felt like talkingabout it. I know that may sound improbable to a golfer, but it is afact. Except that I did want to tell Alexander McQuade. But I couldn'tfind him. They said at the shop he was laid up with a cold and hadn'tbeen around for several days. So I took the train north that nightwithout having said a word to a soul about those wonderful nine holes.But I've thought a lot about 'em since. I've tried to figure out justwhat happened to me that I could make such a record. No use. It was allbeginning to be as unreal as if it was something I had dreamed of doing.

  "And then yesterday, while reading a recent golf magazine, I ran acrossthis item of news which gave me such a shock. It told of the suddendeath from pneumonia of Alexander McQuade. At first I was simplygrieved over this loss to myself and to the golfing profession ingeneral. Then I noticed the date. McQuade died the very morning of theday of our last match. Do you see?"

  I shook my head. All I could see was a moonfaced, owl-eyed old party whowas starin' at me with an eager, batty look. "No," says I. "I don't getthe connection. McQuade had checked out and you won your foursome."

  "Precisely," says Dowd. "The mantle of Elijah."

  "Who?" says I.

  "To make it plainer," says Dowd, "the mantle of Sandy the Great. It fellon my shoulders."

  "That may be clear enough to you, Mr. Dowd," says I, "but I'll have topass it up."

  He sighs disappointed. "I wish Ellins would have the patience to let metell him about it myself," says he. "He'll not, though, so I must makeyou understand in order that you may give him the facts. I want him toknow. Of course, I can't pretend to explain the thing. It was psychic,that's all; supernatural, if you please. Must have been. For there Iwas, a confirmed duffer, playing that course exactly as AlexanderMcQuade would have played it had he been in my shoes. And he was, forthe time being. At least, I claim that I was being controlled, orwhatever you want to call it, by the recently departed spirit of Sandythe Great."

  I expect I was gawpin' at him with a full open-face expression. Say, Ithought I'd heard these golf nuts ravin' before, but I'd never been upagainst anything quite like this. Honest, it gave me a creepy feelin'along the spine. And yet, come to look him over close, he's just awide-beamed old party with bags under his eyes and heavy common-placefeatures.

  "You grasp the idea now, don't you?" he asks.

  "I think so," says I. "Ghost stuff, eh?"

  "I'm merely suggesting that as the only explanation which occurs to me,"says he. "I would like to have it put before Ellins and get his opinion.That is, if you think you can make it clear."

  "I'll make a stab at it, Mr. Dowd," says I.

  And of course I did, though Old Hickory aint such an easy listener. Hecomes in with snorts and grunts all through the tale, and when Ifinishes he simply shrugs his shoulders.

  "There's a warning for you, young man," says he. "Keep away from thefool game. Anyway, if you ever do play, don't let it get to be a diseasewith you. Look at Dowd. Five years ago he was a sane, normal person; thebest iron ore expert in the country. He could sniff a handful of redearth and tell you how much it would run to a ton within a dime's worth.Knew the game from A to Izzard--deep mining, open pit, low gradewashing, transportation, smelting. He lived with it. Never happier thanwhen he was in his mining rig following a chief engineer through newcross-cuts on the twenty-sixth level trying to locate a fault in thedeposit or testing some modern method of hoisting. Those were things heunderstood. Then he retired. Said he'd made money enough. And now lookat him. Getting cracked over a sport that must have been invented bysome Scotchman who had a grudge against the whole human race. As thoughany game could be a substitute for business. Bah!"

  "Then you don't think, Mr. Ellins," says I, "that we ought to have theboy page Sir Oliver Lodge?"

  "Eh?" says he.

  "I mean," says I, "that you don't take any stock in that mantle of Sandythe Great yarn?"

  "Tommyrot!" says he. "For once in his life the old fool played his headoff, that's all. Nine holes in par. Huh! I'm liable to do that myselfone of these days, and without the aid of any departed spirits. Yes,sir. The fact is, Torchy, I am practicing a new swing that ought to haveme playing in the low 90's before the middle of the next season. Yousee, it all depends on taking an open stance and keeping a stiff rightknee. Here' pass me that umbrella and I'll show you."

  And for the next ten minutes he kept a bank president, two direc
tors anda general manager waiting while he swats a ball of paper around theprivate office with me for an audience. Uh-huh. And being a high aceprivate sec. I aint even supposed to grin. Say, why don't some geniusget up an anti-golf serum so that when one of these old plutes foundhimself slippin' he could rush to a clinic and get a shot in the arm?