The wires were working to Woodvale, communication having been made while we stood there, and the conductor was honoured that he had the privilege to hold the train while the famous Robert L. Harding sent a reassuring telegram to his wife.
It was nearly two o’clock when we arrived in Woodvale. I asked Mr. Harding how near the tornado came to the Oak Cliff club house.
“Smith,” he said, laying his hand on my arm, “it passed so close that I could have driven a golf ball into it, and I was tempted to try. That’s the best chance I’ll have to get a long carry.”
FAT EWES AND SHARP KNIVES
At last I have the spare time in which to bring this diary up to date, but where shall I begin?
One romance is ended. It was very pretty and interesting while it lasted, but all things must have an end, especially flirtations.
Miss Olive Lawrence has left Woodvale. The season has only started, but she confided to Miss Dangerfield that she was wearied with golf and Woodvale. So with a smile to all, and having settled in full with Wallace for a dozen or more lessons she left for the south with an assortment of trunks which tested the capacity of the baggage car.
I feel rather sorry for Wallace, though I give him credit for enough sense to have realised that her interest in him could amount to nothing more than a desire to amuse herself. It does not speak well for fascinating qualities for our Woodvale gallants that Miss Lawrence selected this unknown outsider even as a target on which to practise flirtation archery, but, in common with most men, it is beyond my ken to fathom the caprices of a pretty woman.
[Illustration: “She left for the South”]
Wallace says nothing, but I can see that he takes it to heart. He spends most of his spare time at Bishop’s, but attends strictly to his business. He is the best professional we have ever had, and it is fortunate for the club that he did not gain the fair prize which many of us thought was within his grasp.
I have won the “Harding Trophy!”
Carter and I played for it last Thursday. I had absolute confidence that I should win, and when Miss Harding smilingly told me that she was “pulling for me,” I had no more doubt that I could win than I had that I was alive. We had the largest gallery that ever has followed a match in Woodvale. The betting was two to one against me.
I beat Carter four up and three to play, and made a medal score of seventy-six, breaking the amateur record for the course. That statement is quite sufficient to tell the story of the game.
I gave a dinner in honour of my victory, and at its conclusion Miss Harding presented the “Bronze Gent,” as Chilvers calls this beautiful statuette. She made a graceful speech and we cheered her wildly. How charming she looked as she stood beside the huge bulk of her proud father! I tried to say something in reply, but the light in her eyes seemed to hypnotise me, and after a few incoherent sentences Chilvers came to my relief by striking up our club song, to the tune of a familiar hymn: