~ CHAPTER VIII. ~

I choose a set of clubs—Breakfast hints about feeding—The gentle reader—We start for Golfton

The next morning I was awakened by Adams rushing into my room.

“What, not up yet!” he cried. “Out of that at once! I’ve just been speaking to White, that fellow we saw yesterday, and he wants us to meet him at Golfton at eleven to play a foursome. What do you say?”

“The very thing,” I replied. “I used to be very fond of Golfton, and would like very much to see it now. I expect it has changed a good deal, though.”

“Yes, it has,” he said. “But hurry up, we have not too much time, and I must see about getting you clubs. You must have a set of your own. I’ll look after that just now. When you’re ready, come down, and I’ll have some looked out for you to choose from;” and with that he disappeared out of the patent door.

“Golfton,” I said to myself, “that’s splendid. I wonder how the old place will be looking after a hundred years of changes. The old landmarks will be the same, but all the faces will be new. Ay, ay, that’s a penalty I’ve got to pay for living a hundred years beyond my time.”

When I had finished dressing—I again took good care to keep well out of reach of that bath, for though if it be true that burnt children dread the fire, it is equally certain that half-drowned men dread the water—I went down, down, down, down—where? down the lift—ay, that’s it, it’s very difficult remembering not to say downstairs—and into the morning-room, where Adams, as good as his word, was surrounded by dozens of new patent golf-clubs.

“Ah, here you are,” he said, as I entered. “I think we’ll be able to find something here that will suit you.”

“I don’t know much about those clubs of yours, though,” I replied. “I’ll have to rely more on your judgment than on my own.”

He first picked out a driver, and after looking at several, I fixed upon one. It seemed to suit me because the feel of it was quite like the old wooden clubs I was accustomed to. I think I described the club before with its self-registering dial, & c. I said before there were no so-called iron clubs in use—except, of course, the revolving niblick. The nearest approach to one was a club with a very small head, something like our old driving mashy, but with a double face. Between the faces were placed all sorts of springs, & c., making it look more like the inside of a watch than aught else.

We picked six clubs—by the way, they evidently did not go in for the great sheaf of clubs so common in my day, but we carried one or two extra heads in case of accidents. The shaft fitted into a socket at the neck with a spring, or catch, which was tightened by screwing something at the other end of the shaft. It had to be carefully done, as the apparatus for scoring was carried from the head up the shaft.

Adams told me that some time ago there was a great move to do away with even the patent caddie, and carry the heads loose, taking only one shaft round with you, to fit all the heads; but this was found to be impracticable, as the heads were difficult to carry. Time, too, was put off in changing; for you could not, of course, change when walking between the shots, having to see how your ball was lying ere you knew what head you required. So that idea exploded.

When we had settled on the clubs—and a queer collection they were, too—Adams proposed breakfast, and we sat down. I was always a great hand at break­fast, especially with a big day’s golf before me. Many’s the last extra slice of toast I’ve put down after being quite satisfied, and felt the benefit of when about three holes from home, seeing my opponent going a little off, while I had plenty of “back” left, thanks to that last slice. At lunch, too, always make a good meal, say I, such as a couple of good chops or a steak, for choice, with a pint of beer to wash it down. You feel twice the man after it, and there’s no funk in you. You go for everything, and everything—or nearly everything—comes off. You put every putt at the back of the hole, and a good many of them find the bottom. The man, on the other hand, who has lunched on two wine biscuits and a bottle of potash, to keep his nerves all right, as he thinks, tries to creep round bunkers, and gets into them (serves him right, too); his putts are never up, and consequently, according to that time-honoured maxim, never in. No, no. If you want to play golf, feed. Nor is there any necessity to forget the drink—in moderation, of course, or you’ll be seeing stimies. If you don’t feed the engine with fuel, you can’t expect to get any work out of it.

But I must return to my subject, since I did not start out to give a lecture on “What food to eat, and how to eat it.” I never attended one myself, never thought I required to. I fancied I knew pretty well what to eat, and as for how to—well, it would be a decided waste of time for any doctor to teach me that. There I am again, drivelling away about what’s got nothing to do with this biography. No, no; it’s not a biography. History, is it? No, it’s not a history either. Well, never mind what it is. These are points you can settle for yourselves, gentle reader. I suppose, by the way, you are gentle, though why I should suppose so, I don’t know, only I’ve always heard readers talked about as gentle, and now when I come to think of it, when I’m reading a book I do feel gentle. You see I’m sitting in an armchair over the fire, I’ve had a good dinner, and my pipe is going—that’s always when I read books—and I do feel gentle, I wouldn’t harm a fly; and if anybody brought in a collection book in aid of a home for idiotic authors, I would head a new page. So you see when you read this I expect you to be gentle, at least try and look gentle, and don’t shy the book to the other end of the room with a muttered “D—d trash.” There now, you were just going to do it; but bear with me a little longer and I’ll try and behave better.

On this occasion, at all events, I made a capital breakfast. Adams, between mouthfuls, gave me scraps of news—golfing news, of course, for the paper he had stuck up in front of him contained very little else.

Miss Adams did not breakfast with us, for which I was not very sorry. Her brother explained that she breakfasted early and was away to London. I uttered a secret prayer that she would stop there. That kind of female—well, I don’t mind reading about them, but when it comes to a personal interview—I’d rather not. And she was just a little too large an order for me.

“That man Michigan seems to be in great form,” said Adams, looking up from the paper which he was reading. “I see he has broken another record. The Yankees think no end of him; but I intend to back our man. It’ll be a good match, though. We’ll see it in London, and then you’ll find how useful the mirrors are.”

“I should like to see it,” I replied; “but don’t you think it’s about time to be starting for Golfton.”

“By Jove! You’re right,” he said, jumping up. “We’ll have to hurry, and you haven’t got your jacket yet. Come on.”

He tore out of the room, and I followed. We jumped into the lift, and were at once on the floor above. He rushed into my room, opened the wardrobe, and produced a jacket.

“Here you are,” he said. “Allow me.”

“Is that that patent ‘fore jacket?’” I asked. “Because if so, I would rather be without one. It always puts me off, and I know I’ll never get used to it.”

“Oh, but you must,” he answered. “Every golfer has to wear one: it is a rule. There is a heavy fine if a man is found playing without one.”

“If I must, I suppose I must,” I replied, getting into it. “But if you take my advice you will not be on my side to-day. I’ll never be able to hit a shot with the confounded thing, what between expecting and listening for the shout, and then the shout itself.”

At last we got started, I armed with my new clubs and my jacket, à la concertina. We went into the same building as on the preceding day; repeated the operation of putting a coin in the slot, and descended into a room similar to the one of yesterday. The coin, I noticed, was the same as I had used in the trip to St. Andrews, and on my making this observation to Adams, he explained that they had only one fare, which was five shillings, and for that you could travel as far as you liked. If you wanted to travel a few miles you had to pay the same fare as you would were you to travel from one end of Great Britain to the other. It was automatic. You could not get into the train without first paying your fare. There were no porters or officials, or if there were I never saw any.

During the journey we made two stops, which I had come to recognise by seeing names appear on the wall, and the lift come down for passengers to get in and out. The last name just seemed to have disappeared, and I was looking at the place in the wall wondering what the next would be, when “Golfton” was signalled.

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