~ CHAPTER X. ~

Golf wars—We see the American match in London—Dornoch wins—The dinner—Adams’s speech—I make myself known—Finis

A week had now passed, and the close of it found me still the guest of Mr. Adams, and enjoying myself, to use slang, “down to the ground.” I had quite got into my golf, and was playing a first-rate game. I had visited several greens, including some that I had played on before (a hundred years before, I mean) and others that were quite new to me, and had found each one more charming than the last. In fact, I could not make up my mind which one I would settle down to play permanently on. Of course everybody stuck to his own green; if you visited others you did not participate in the daily prize-money, unless on special days. I thought I would look well about me before finally settling.

Golf, I think I told you before, was the business of the male population, while the women, the females—females is the best word to express the gentler sex now, though I don’t think they would like to hear me calling them the gentler sex, and, in fact, I don’t think they are, but they won’t see this book, so it does not matter; and the 1892 ladies, bless their little hearts!—but I’m not going to say anything about them; words fail me . . . Well, those double-distilled females of 2000 looked after all these trivial matters, such as Church and State, financial establishments, and so on. Why, we men really hadn’t time for things of that kind. The invention of a new putter was of more importance than a European war; though I should mention, by the way, that wars had ceased in Europe. They had come to be too much of a farce.

Guns, rifles, & c., were out of date altogether. They had invented some kind of gas which, encased in a bomb, could be projected any distance up to one hundred miles, and then made to burst. When it burst it turned everybody within a radius of ten miles insensible, and they remained so for about two days. Thus one shot would render a whole army hors de combat. An agreement was therefore come to among the powers of Europe that wars should cease, and disputes should instead be settled by—by what do you think? Why, golf matches. There is a triumph for golf! Fancy the fate of an empire hanging on a putt—the hopes of a country shattered by a bad lying ball! What do you think of that, you 1892 golfers, who look glum when you have to hand over your half-crowns? There, surely, was something to incite the youthful golfer. His was the prospect of perhaps representing his country on the field of battle, or what now was the field of battle. What patriotic feelings must stir your manly bosom when you grasped your driver, or seized your niblick with a do-or-die look about you! Why, Horatius and all those old fogies wouldn’t be in it with you.

These matches were, however, very rare. They were played by a hundred men a-side—fifty playing in the one country and fifty in the other, and each couple on a separate green. You may judge of the excitement such matches caused in the country—or the world, for the matter of that. They were watched eagerly by crowds in every large town, and the position of the whole match was known at every hole. If a Frenchman missed a short putt at Pau, it was seen, and chuckled over, through the whole of Great Britain.

The match which I referred to before, between Jack Dornoch—or, to give him his correct title, Sir John Dornoch—and the American, Michigan, was coming off; so Adams and I went up to London to see it. It could be watched in our own town, but Adams had some business—golfing business, of course—in London on that day, and we thought we would kill two birds with one stone.

After he had finished his business we made our way to a large hall in Oxford Street, put a shilling in the slot, and went in. It was an immense hall with three tiers of galleries, seated for about five or six thousand people. We got good seats, well forward, in a part railed off for golf officials. The rest of the hall was packed. The glass on which we were to see the match represented was at first dark; but on a bell sounding it got suddenly bright, while the rest of the hall was darkened. Represented on the glass were a number of men standing about, all life-size. The match was evidently just going to begin. It was actually being played in America, you must remember, at that moment, though not, of course, at the same hour of the day. By the by, we rather score off the go-ahead Yankees there. They fancy they can keep ahead of us, but in the matter of time we’re always a little in front. Suddenly everybody moved aside, and a tall young fellow stepped forward. This, my companion informed me, was Dornoch. He drove off, and was followed by his adversary, Michigan, who was a shorter though stouter-built man. When they had both driven they walked on. The effect was very curious. You saw them walking, yet they never moved from the same part of the glass. The ground glided behind them, but as the hall was darkened and the glass was the only part of the hall lighted up, you did not notice that. They looked quite natural walking along. The American had to play the odds. The ball, after it was struck, vanished. Of course you could not follow its flight, as the glass only took in a few yards round the players. They both reached the green in three. The putting was much the most interesting part of the game to watch, as you saw the ball from start to finish. The first hole was halved in five, as also the second. The third Dornoch managed to secure by a long putt, and led by one, but this temporary advantage he did not maintain, as the American squared matters at the next hole, and, moreover, improved his position by winning the next two. It was now the Scotchman’s turn, and he took full advantage of it by winning two out of the next three holes. Thus the match stood all square at the turn. The first hole in fell to Dornoch, his opponent being bunkered off his second, and the next three being halved, matters were looking slightly healthy for the Scotchman, especially after the next hole, which he won, thus standing two up with four to play. He lost the next, however, and the sixteenth being halved, he now stood one up with two to play.

The excitement in the hall was tremendous, every shot being watched with deep interest, and shouts of, “Hurry up, Yankee Doodle!” and “Well played, Sir John!” broke in every now and again. That was one advantage in watching a match that was being played four thousand miles away. You could make as much row as you liked, it did not disturb the players. I must say, however, the audience, under the circumstances, kept remarkably quiet, only some exceptionable bits of play being greeted by shouts of approval. The second last hole was a great one for the Scotchman. He was lying badly in a bunker, just off the putting green, while Michigan was within two yards of the hole. They had both played four, and Dornoch was giving the odds. He took his niblick and put his back into it. It looked as if he had emptied the bunker, and for a second he could not be seen for the sand. I was watching him, when a deafening shout almost lifted the roof off the building. He had holed it. The ball had not landed on the green and rolled into the hole; it had lofted right in and stayed there—a fluke, of course, but a wonderful shot. Michigan had only this for a half, and he studied his putt with great care. The first half of a hole is proverbially the best.

He addressed himself to the ball, and played it. It stopped just on the lip of the hole. First a deep sigh, and then a shout went up from every throat in the hall. Dornoch had won the match by two up and one to play. It was an exciting enough finish in all conscience. They did not play the last hole, but walked in, and we lost sight of them, the glass again being darkened and the hall lit up. It was wonderful. No anxious waiting for the next morning’s papers to see the result of a match now. Here was I, four thousand miles away from the scene of action, watching every shot played as if I had been on the green itself.

Adams was in great form at the result of the match, having won his money. He had been backing Dornoch to some extent.

“That’s something of a novelty for you,” he said to me, as we were leaving.

“True,” I answered, “but I am getting used to all that kind of thing now.”

“Oh, by the by,” he went on, “White and Nelson, and one or two others, are going to dine with me to­night. I’ve never introduced you properly to my friends; but I will to-night, though of course there’s no need to tell them everything. They’ll all be very pleased at the result of the match, and so they ought to be—it’s quite a national victory. You see we can still hold our own as golfers, as well as everything else, though, for the latter, we leave that, as you know, to the women, and as long as they’ve got anything to do with it there’s no fear of Britain being anywhere but in the front rank.”

So Adams ran on as we made our way home. He was evidently in great spirits over the match, and he never stopped talking till we got into the house. He spoke of nothing but golf and golfers—golfers who had died, and golfers still living—and we got into quite a hot discussion as to whether Allan Robertson and some other nineteenth-century players whom he named—he called them the fathers of golf—played as good a game in their day as was played now, of course allowing for the rude, old-fashioned clubs they used. (Talking about rude, old-fashioned clubs, I remember some very rude, old-fashioned players, but that is “buy the whey,” as the milkman said.) I maintained that they did. He said they didn’t, and we were still fighting it out when we found ourselves once more under his friendly roof.

I hurried off to prepare myself for dinner, and when I was ready I went to the pink room, where I found Adams ready waiting for his guests.

I don’t think I told you before that gentlemen’s evening dress had undergone a marked improvement. Only in it did they allow themselves to appear in any kind of colour. Through the day their dress was of the most sombre description.

I must say I was glad when I saw they had done away with those black coats and white shirt-fronts, in which you could never tell a gentleman from a waiter unless he had an eyeglass—the gentlemen, of course. I never did see a waiter with an eyeglass. The dress now consisted of a scarlet jacket, a white silk waistcoat, and scarlet silk knee-breeches, with white silk stockings and scarlet shoes. Very pretty it was.

The company soon began to arrive, and when they had all assembled, to the number of about twenty, we made our way down—dash it all, I very nearly said downstairs again! Most of them I had met before. They were all golfers, I need not say, in an age when everybody played. Miss Adams, I am glad to say, was not at dinner. She was engaged in London on parliamentary business or something of that sort. It was just as well. Had she been there she would have acted like the proverbial wet blanket. She wasn’t a kindred spirit. We had a first-rate dinner, with plenty of fizz. Everybody was in great form, and jokes and golfing anecdotes were flying about like squibs on the 5th of November. I wish I could remember some of them. One I do recall, though, and I’ll tell it to you. It was Adams’s anecdote, and was about a nineteenth-century golfer, which gave my host occasion to look at me as he told it. A golf club committee were revising the handicaps the night before a match. It was proposed to raise one old fellow’s handicap, when a member interposed. “Jist leave it alane,” he said, “he’s a gay guid coonter.” There were many more, but I do not remember them. One story at a time, as the man said when he fell over the window.

It was getting pretty late, when old Fitzroy, a guest with a very red face, who was sitting next Adams, and had been concealing a good quantity of champagne about his person during the evening, rose, put both hands in his pockets, looked round the table, and smiled across to me.

“Shentlemen,” he said, “I’m going to give you a tosht, drink a hel—hie—hish. I’m not customed—hie—to undress meetingsh.” Here we all burst out laughing; he looked rather annoyed, but went on: “but I shink on—hie—thish suspicious—hie—occasion—” Here we all simply roared, and kept on laughing for about five minutes, when he sat down muttering, “Don’t know what—hie—got to laugh at.”

He sat very quiet and glum after that; I was rather sorry for the old chap.

Adams now got up.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “Mr. Fitzroy was about to propose the health of my friend Mr. Gibson, and though the spirit was willing enough, the flesh was weak. I’m afraid I’ll not be able to do it as well as he would. I shall content myself with few words. I want you all to extend to Mr. Gibson the hand of friend­ship, the golfer’s hand of friendship. He is a true golfer in this age when every man is a golfer and every golfer a true golfer. Gentlemen, here’s long life to Mr. Gibson, and may his golf always improve.”

The toast was drunk with great enthusiasm. I, of course, had to reply—I’m awfully bad at making speeches, but I couldn’t get out of it, so I thought I would just tell them who I was, about lying for so long and all that.

“Gentlemen,” I began, “thank you all very much for the cordial way in which you drank my health. As Mr. Adams said, I am a golfer, I hope a true one, and strange as it may sound, I began golf before any one in this room was born. In fact I first played golf in the year 1876. No, I’m not drunk, but I thought that would surprise you. I think most of you know of that living corpse, if I may call it so, that Adams has had for years lying in his house. Not only the skeleton, but the whole body, in the cupboard. Well, gentlemen, I am that body come to life again.”

They were all gazing at me in wonder. Most of them had seen me as the corpse, but of course they could not recognise me without the beard, & c.

“Yes, gentlemen, for one hundred and eight years, as Adams will tell you, I lay in a trance. In my former existence I was a golfer, in my present existence I am a golfer, and in my future existence I hope still to be a golfer” (this statement was greeted with great applause), “though how they will play golf in that future existence I am frightened to think. You seem to have brought it as near perfection as it is possible. This was the dream of my nineteenth-century life—a dream that I little thought would be realised. And now, gentlemen, I must again thank you for the kindly welcome you have given me, and I hope that we will all have many a tough fight yet on the links.”

When I sat down they all crowded round me, and I had to answer dozens of questions. It was evidently to be a secret no longer, so I determined to see the doctors on the morrow, and get my money, & c.

At last everybody had gone, and I made my way up to my room.

Now, dear reader, this tale is ended. But don’t think I’m going to bed to wake up in the morning, and find myself back in 1892 again, and this all a dream. No, no; I’m in 2000, and in 2000 I mean to stay. It suits me far better than ever 1892 did with all its work and its worry. The year 2000 is the year for me, and if I meet any of your great-great-great-grand-children going about, I’ll put them up to a wrinkle or two. So, gentle reader, for the present “good-bye,” and if I come across anything more that I think will interest you I’ll let you know. So ta, ta.

FINIS.

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