Down the Line With John Henry by Hugh McHugh - HTML preview

JOHN HENRY ON GOLF.

Hereafter golf is the game for Gillis!

Me for the niblick and the brassie—fine!

Billy Baldwin, Harry Ford and Eddie Bartlett took me out last summer and put me wise to the whole lay-out. In less than an hour I could play the game better than Doolan, and he's the man that made it.

Golf has all the other games slapped to a sit-down.

I know it because I played it once and Billy told me that as soon as a few Scotch thistles sprouted on my shins I'd be the real rinakaboo!

Harry told me I could drive good enough to own a hack, and Eddie thought I was the likeliest side-stepper that ever did a grass-chopping specialty.

The only drawback they found was that I didn't hit the ball.

It's immense for the chest measurement to have the bunch hand you out the salve spiel—believe me!

I took my lady friend out Westchester way last week and on the road I was Reckless Robert with the big talk.

It's a habit with me to go up and butt the ceiling every time my lady friend is near enough to listen.

Most of us young guys are gushers with the loud language when the Best and Only is in the building.

How we do like to gather the gab and hand out hints to the heroine that she's gazing on the greatest ever!

When Clara Jane asked me if I knew the game I told her that I used to room with the man that built the first links.

When she asked me his name I told her it was McDougall, because that's the name of a head-waiter who helps to spend my money.

She asked me if I knew what a lofter is and I said, "Sure, I eat them for breakfast every morning!"

When we reached Westchester we met a Society duck named Lionel von Hamburg.

I think his father invented the Hamburger steak.

Lionel was all to the best.

He was Finnegan the Fine Boy, for sure.

One of those tart little red coats squeezed his shape, and around his neck he had a pink stock that was waiting for a chance to choke him.

My lady friend met this gilly once at a bean soiree and she was his evening star.

They sat on the stairs together and put a kink in the caramels.

When the gong sounded for the ice-cream that night Lionel had dipped her out a tubful, and he was sure she liked him for his boyish ways.

So on this occasion it was Lionel's play to give me the low tackle and claim the calico.

But I'm something of a Mr. Fox myself on rare occasions, and I couldn't see Lionel doing a two-step through the farm lands with my Esmeralda—not through the opera glasses.

Clara Jane introduced me to His Pinkness and he invited us in the clubhouse to throttle our thirsts.

I ordered a rickey, Clara Jane called for a lemonade, and Lionel's guess was a pail of Vichy and milk.

When the suds rolled up I gave the Vichy stuff the sad eye and Lionel caught the gaze.

I could see that he wanted to back pedal right then, but he waited until the next round and then he waded out among the high boys.

It was the bluff of his life.

His limit on bug bitters was imported ginger ale with a piece of lime in it.

When he was out roystering and didn't care what became of him he would tell the bartender to add a dash of phosphates.

But now he made up his mind to splash around in the tide waters just because the lady was looking on.

Lionel felt that the future was at stake and he must cut out the saw-dust extracts and get busy with the grown-up booze.

After the first high ball Lionel began to chatter and mention money.

The mocking birds were singing down on the old bayou, and he began to give Clara Jane the loving leer.

She grew a bit uneasy and wanted to start the paddle wheels, but I signalled to the waiter because I wished her to see her Society slob at his best.

At first he insisted upon dragging out a basket of Ruinart, and he wanted to order rubber boots so we could slosh around in it.

But I steered him off and he went all the way up the hill and picked out another high fellow.

When the second high was under cover he reached over and patted Clara Jane on the hand.

He wanted to lead her away to Paris and show her everything that money could buy.

When she gave him the "Sir!" gag he apologized and said he didn't mean Paris, he meant the Pan-American.

Then he smiled feverishly and opened a package of hiccoughs.

When Clara Jane and I moved out on the links Lionel was watching the floor and trying to pick out a spot that didn't go 'round and 'round.

His chips were all in and he was Simon with the Souse, for sure.

Clara Jane said, "What a ridiculous person!" but what she meant was, that that would be about all from Lionel.

Then we chartered a couple of caddie boys and started in to render a few choice selections on the clubs.

My caddie boy's name was Mike, and he looked the part.

The first crack out of the box I lost my ball and Mike found it under his left eye.

I gave him a quarter to square myself and he said I could hit him on the other eye for ten cents more.

I made the first hole in 26, and felt that there was nothing more to live for.

Clara Jane could have made it in 84, but she used up her nerve watching a cow in the lot about two miles away.

My lady friend is a quitter when it comes to cows.

Then we decided to stop playing and walk around the links just so we could say that we had seen most of the United States of America.

Out near the Fifth hole we met young Mil Roberts and Frank Jenvey.

They were playing a match for 60 cents a side and they were two busy boys, all right, all right.

Mil had his sleeves rolled up to show the mosquito bites on his muscles, and Frank was telling himself how he missed the last bunker.

I asked Mil what time it was and he told me, "Three up and four to play!"

I suppose that was Central time.

I handed Frank a few bars of polite conversation but he gave me the Frostburg face.

Did you ever have one of those real players pass you out the golfish glare?

You for the snowstorm when you get it—believe me!

Then Mil and Frank dove in the mudcan, cooked a pill, placed the ball on it, slapped it in the slats, gave us the dreary day-day and were on their way.

It must be awful to play for money.

At the Seventh hole we found Jake Roberts ploughing the side of a hill with his niblick.

He said he lost a ball there one day last summer and he wanted it back because it belonged to a set.

Jake said he went to Three in four with that ball once, but the folks wouldn't believe him till he showed them the ball.

When I introduced him to Clara Jane he invited her to join the hunting party, and intimated that I'd enjoy the new mown scenery further down the line.

 
 "Jake invited her to join the hunting party."

I whip-sawed him with a whistling specialty entitled, "Why Don't You Get a Lady of Your Own?" and he promised to be good.

After we trailed over the mountains, through seven farms, across three rivers, up the valley and down the railroad, we finally reached the end of the links and took the steamer back to mother.

Clara Jane says golf would be a great game if it wasn't so far from home.

Yours till the bench breaks—believe me!

JOHN HENRY