He drove the first half-dozen balls indifferently, but the next one was really a good one.
"There was a beaut!" he exclaimed, turning to us as the ball disappeared with a bound over the crest of the slope. "What's the matter with you folks? Why don't you applaud when a man makes a good shot?"
"That's balls enough, papa, dear," said Miss Harding. "By the time you have found them your time will be up."
"Right you are, Kid," he admitted. "I'm proud of that last one, and I'm going to pace it. Help me pick 'cm up, boys, I'll drive 'em back, and then we'll go on."
He started to pace the distance of the longer ball, counting as he strode along. When he reached the crest of the slope we could hear him droning, "one hundred twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three," etc. Carter was hunting for the balls to the right and Chilvers for those to the left.
The red coat and plaid cap disappeared over the hill. Miss Dangerfield was chattering about something, I know not what. I was looking at Miss Harding, and did not hear her.
I did hear some sound which resembled distant thunder. A moment later I saw the top of that plaid cap bob above the hill. Then I saw the shoulders of that red coat, and the huge figure of the railroad magnate fairly shot into view.
He was running as fast as his stout legs would carry him, waving his club and occasionally looking quickly to his rear.
I knew in an instant what was the matter.
"What is papa running for?" exclaimed Miss Harding. That question was speedily answered.
"Run! Run, boys!" he yelled as he plowed down that slope. "Run like hell; he's after us!"
Carter and Chilvers took one glance and the three of them came tearing down that hill.
There came into view the lowered head and humped shoulders of a Holstein bull close on the trail of the lumbering millionaire. The women screamed.
"He will be killed; he will be killed!" moaned Mrs. Harding. "Oh, do something to save him, Mr. Smith; please do something!"
I am rather proud of my generalship at that critical moment. I have a certain amount of wit in an emergency, and luckily it did not fail me. It is not an easy matter to head off an enraged bull in an open field, but I saw a chance and took it.
[Illustration: "Run! Run, boys!"]
I grasped Miss Harding and fairly threw her to the ground.
"Jump! Jump!" I yelled to the others.
Mrs. Chilvers and Miss Dangerfield instantly obeyed, but Mrs. Harding was too terrified to comprehend my orders. Her eyes were fixed on her husband, and she neither saw nor heard me. There was not a second to lose.
I swung that heavy touring-car in a backward curve, so as to face the fence over which Mr. Harding had climbed. Turning on full speed I headed for it.
The powerful machine quivered for the fraction of a second and then leaped from the roadway. There was a crash of splintered fence posts and boards, a glimpse of flying lumber, and we were in the meadow.
It takes some time to tell this, but it was not long in happening. When we went through that fence Harding was probably seventy yards away and to our left. The bull was not twenty feet back of him and gaining rapidly at every jump. I saw nothing of Carter or Chilvers.
Harding had dropped his club and was running desperately. I feared every moment that he would fall. He was headed for the pond, but never would have reached it.
"Drop down! Drop down!" I shouted to Mrs. Harding.
We went over a hummock where a drain-pipe had been laid and I thought we were done for. The shock hurled Mrs. Harding to the floor. Beyond that point the ground was hard and fairly smooth and our speed became terrific.
[Illustration: "Then I struck the bull"]
The distance between the bull and his intended victim had decreased to so small a space that I despaired of cutting him off. I cannot tell exactly what happened. I only know that I kept my eye on that bull as religiously as one attempts to obey the golf mandate, "keep your eye on the ball."
Then I struck the bull.
I caught him with the left of the front of the car. The collision was at an angle of about thirty degrees, I should say. I missed Harding by not more than six feet. I presume we were travelling at a rate of a mile a minute, and that bull certainly was going one-third that fast.
As the front of the machine was upon the animal I ducked, but did not release my firm grip on the steering-wheel. There was photographed on my brain an impression of a shaggy head, short and sharp horns, rage-crazed eyes, a wet nose and lolling tongue, of turf cast up by flying hooves, of a bearded face with staring eyes, of a red coat and a bewildering plaid—and then the machine was upon them.
The shock of the collision was so slight that I feared I had missed my target. I shut off the power and swung sharply to the right. One glance proved that Mrs. Harding was uninjured.
Two objects were on the ground over which I had passed, and Carter and Chilvers were running toward them. Had I struck Harding? I suffered agonies in those moments, and I was the first to reach his side.
As I sprang from the car he raised to a sitting posture and attempted to speak, but it was impossible to do so. Before Mrs. Harding could reach him he was on his feet, making gestures to indicate that he was not hurt.
"He's all right!" shouted Chilvers, rushing up to us. "Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Harding, he only stumbled and fell. He's winded but will catch his breath in a minute!"
Mr. Harding panted, and between gasps bowed and made pantomimic signs to indicate that Chilvers had correctly diagnosed his ailment.
His wife has too much sense to give way to her emotions at such a time.
She brushed his clothes and wiped the perspiration from his face. Miss
Harding and the others were on the scene before his voice came back to
him.
"I'm—all—right!" he declared with much effort, walking and swinging his arms to prove it to himself and us. Then he shook hands with me, and I noted that his violent exercise had not impaired the strength of his grip. We walked over and looked at the dead bull.
"That was a good shot, Smith," he said. "That was great work. Do you know how close you came to hitting me?"
"It was very close, but I had one eye on you," I replied.
"I honestly believe it was the rush of air from the machine that keeled me over, but I was about done for. I doubt if I would have made that pond."
"Governor," said Chilvers, "he would have nailed you in two more jumps.
That was as pretty a piece of interference as I ever saw."
There was not a mark on the dead animal, whose neck must have been broken.
"When you struck him," said Chilvers, "the air was full of surprised beef. That bull went at least twelve feet in the air, and he never moved after he came down. It was a glancing shot, and you could not have done better, Smith, if you made a hundred trials."
"Once is enough for me," I said.
I turned my attention to the automobile, and as I started toward it Miss
Harding intercepted me.
"That was very brave of you, Jacques Henri," she said, offering both of her hands. "You are an excellent chauffeur, and we all thank you."
"Don't praise me too much or I shall be tempted to demand an exorbitant salary," I declared. "I'm glad I had the sense to think of it in time. Let's see if much damage was done to the machine."
It was a happy moment for John Henry Smith, and I would tackle a bull every day under the same circumstances if I knew that there was waiting for me the reward of such a glance from those eyes and the clasp of those little hands.
The forward lamps were smashed beyond repair and several rods were slightly bent, but aside from these trifles I could not see that any damage had been done. Mr. Harding and the others joined us.
"I suppose somebody owns that bull," he said. "Do you happen to know who runs this farm, Smith?"
I had no idea. There was no farmhouse in sight, and Harding was in a quandary. He thought a moment and then produced one of his cards.
"Write this for me, Smith. My hand is too shaky. Let's see," and then he dictated the following: "While playing golf I was attacked by this bull. Send bill for bull to Woodvale Club."
"I should say that was all right," he said, reading it carefully. "It is short and does not go into unnecessary details."
We tied the card to the animal's horns, and I have an idea the owner of that unfortunate beast will be mystified to account for the fate which befel him. Having repaired the fence as best we could we resumed our journey to Oak Cliff, and Mr. Harding was content to remain in his seat until we reached there.
Later in the day Chilvers drew a diagram of this exploit on the back of a menu card, and I paste it in here as a droll memento of this incident.
[Illustration]
Chilvers attempted to explain to Harding and the rest of us that the collision between the auto and the bull resulted in "pulled or hooked shot," the bull taking the place of a golf ball and the machine serving as the face of the driver. It is quite accurate as showing the relative positions of the various factors, but I should not term it an art product.
"I am familiar with the road from here to Oak Cliff," said Miss Harding when we had gone a mile or so. "You may rest, Jacques Henri, and I'll take your place."
She did so, and handled the big car with the skill of an expert. I did not talk to her for fear of distracting her attention from the task she had assumed. I was contented to watch her, to be near her and to know that I had had the rare good fortune to do an unexpected turn for one who was near and dear to her.
I will tell of our day in Oak Cliff in my next entry.
ENTRY NO. XVI
MISS HARDING OWNS UP
"I Demand part of my payment this afternoon," I said to Miss Harding as we neared the Oak Cliff club house.
"You are impatient, Jacques Henri," she laughed. "Is it possible my credit is not good?"
"Not in this instance," I returned. "I am demanding that you refuse all invitations to play in foursomes, and that after luncheon you and I make the round of Oak Cliff."
"That is so modest a request that I grant it," she said, and ten minutes later I had the satisfaction of hearing her decline Carter's invitation to join in a foursome in which I was to take no part. This proves not only that all is fair in love, but that victory favours the one who strikes the first blow.
It was about ten o'clock when we reached Oak Cliff, and found Mr. Wilson waiting for us. Harding was impatient to test his skill against Wilson, and the two were ready to play when the rest of us were still chatting with Mrs. Wilson and others of their party.
"We are entitled to a gallery," declared Harding. "Come on, everybody, and watch me show Wilson how this game should be played."
Most of us accepted this invitation. Mr. Wilson fits the description Harding had given of him. He is wonderfully tall and slim, and I doubted if he had much skill as a golfer. His smooth-shaven features and dreamy eyes were those of the poet, but he is one of the best bankers and business men in the country.
Harding drove a fairly straight ball but Wilson promptly sliced into the tall grass. Miss Harding and I helped him search for his ball, and Chilvers joined in the hunt.
"Ah, this is very lucky!" exclaimed Mr. Wilson, bending his long frame over some object.
"Found your ball?" asked Chilvers.
"The ball? No, no," he said, coming to his feet with something in his hand which looked to me like a weed. "But I've found a rare specimen of the Articum Lappa. It is a beauty!"
"Looks sort of familiar," said the puzzled Chilvers. "What did you say it was?"
"The Articum Lappa, more commonly called the burdock," explained
Mr. Wilson.
"If you can't find your ball drop another one and play!" shouted Harding from the other side of course. Just then I discovered the ball, and after two strokes Wilson got it out of trouble, and then by a lucky approach and putt won the hole. Harding looked at him suspiciously.
[Illustration: "What are you looking for?"]
On the next hole their drives landed the balls not far apart and neither was in trouble.
"I'm afraid this man Wilson can beat me," Harding said to us in an undertone as we neared the balls.
"Don't lose your nerve, papa," cautioned his daughter.
Wilson was away, but when he was within a few yards of his ball he looked intently at the turf and then dropped to his knees and crawled slowly around.
"What are you looking for?" exclaimed Harding "There's your ball right in front of you."
"I know it," calmly said Wilson, running his hand over the turf, "but
I'm curious to know what kind of Trifolium this is."
"Wilson," said the magnate, as the former rose to his full height and took a club from his bag, "Wilson, I might as well quit and give up this game."
"Why?" asked the surprised banker.
"Let me tell you something," declared Harding. "I only took up this golf business a few weeks ago, and by hard work have found out about mashies, hooks, foozles, cops, one off two and all those difficult things, but I'm blamed if I ever heard of trifoliums, or whatever you call 'em, and you can't ring 'em in on me. I won't stand for it! We don't play trifoliums in Woodvale, do we, Smith?"
"But my dear Harding," interposed Wilson, his mobile face wrinkled in a smile, "Trifolium is not a golf term and has nothing whatever to do with the game."
"What in thunder is it?"
"Trifolium is the genus name for the clover plant, and these are beautiful specimens," explained this amateur botanist.
"It is, is it?" laughed Harding. "Well, let's see how far you 'can knock that ball out of that bed of Trifoliums."
We left them soon after and returned to the club house. The ladies did not care to play before luncheon, preferring to take a rest after the exciting experiences of the trip from Woodvale. I ran across an old friend of mine, Sam Robinson, and he and I played against Carter and Chilvers. Robinson is one of the best amateurs in the country and we defeated our opponents handily.
It was a merry party which gathered about the table which had been spread under the trees near the club house. Oak Cliff is the only club which Woodvale recognises as a rival, and the Wilson's entertained us charmingly. Mr. Harding was in great spirits.
"I won!" he announced as he returned with our elongated and smiling host. "Licked Wilson, trifoliums and all, right here on his own ground! But he found a Rumex and a lot of other weeds, so he don't care."
Miss Harding and I had discovered an oil painting in the club library which interested us, and when coffee and cigars had been served I asked Mr. Wilson about its history.
"Robinson gave it to the club," he said, "he can tell its story better than I can."
"It's an odd sort of a yarn," began Robinson. "Last fall an artist friend of mine of the name of Powers wrote a letter inviting me to come and spend a few weeks with him in a camp he had established on the upper waters of the Outrades River in northeastern Quebec. He was there sketching and loafing, and I took my golf clubs and went. While he painted I batted balls around a cleared space in the forest, fished, hunted and had so much fun that we stayed there until cold weather set in. Then we loaded up a boat and started down the river with a guide."
"One evening we came to an island with rapids below it. We had to portage around these rapids, so we decided to camp for the night. It was cold, and rapidly growing colder, but Powers insisted in making a trip to that island, the beauty of its rocks fascinating his artistic soul. We emptied the boat and he pulled across the swift current. Ten minutes later we heard him yell. His boat had drifted from where he thought he had moored it, and had been dashed to pieces in the rapids below. The guide declared that there was no way to reach him without a boat, and that he would have to go back twenty miles to a lumber camp for one. We explained this to Powers, and told him to light a fire and make the best of it until morning. The current was so swift that no swimmer could breast it. It was already down to zero."
[Illustration: "Had ignited the matches"]
"Powers searched his pockets," continued Robinson, "and made the startling announcement that he did not have a match. Without a fire he surely would freeze before the guide could return. He was dancing up and down on a rock and swinging his arms to keep warm."
"He certainly was in a bad fix," interrupted Harding. "Was there no way to get at him?"
"Absolutely none," continued Robinson. "The sun was sinking—when I had an idea. In the bottom of my golf bag were four badly hacked and split balls. I called to Powers to keep his nerve. The balls were rubber-cored, and I widened the crack in one of them and gouged out a space in the rubber. In this I put the heads of three matches, teed the ball on the beach, called to Powers what I had done and told him to keep his eye on the ball. I hit it clean and fair, but a trail of smoke told that the concussion had ignited the matches. The ball fell in the underbrush a few yards from Powers, and he almost cried when he took out the charred match heads."
"How far was it?" asked Harding.
"I paced it later and found it to be about one hundred and forty yards," said Robinson.
"You paced it?" exclaimed Harding. "You're a bit mixed on this story,
Robinson, aren't you?"
"Not at all," laughed that gentleman. "You wait and I'll explain. Then I fixed another ball and wrapped the match heads in surgeon's cotton. I popped that ball in the air. The next one was pulled, struck a rock and bounded into the water. One remained, and it was a critical moment. I was numbed with the cold, it was almost dark, and I had to make a shot for a man's life, but I made it. It went far and true and struck in the branches of a fir tree over Power's head. He did not see it, but he heard it. Then began a search for a lost ball. It was pitch dark half an hour later when Powers shouted that he had found it, and soon after we yelled like madmen when a tiny yellow flame curled up from the island. Powers asked me to drive a ham sandwich across, but I did not attempt it. The guide started back after another boat, and Powers and I spent the long hours over our respective bonfires in an effort to keep from freezing."
"It dropped to twenty-five below zero before morning, and when daybreak came I went down to the beach. The water still flowed swift and black directly across, but when I looked to the north I found that the ice extended from the shore to the upper end of the island. I put several sandwiches in my pocket and carefully walked across. Powers was trying to cook some freshwater clams when I came upon his bonfire."
"That is as much of the story as you will be interested in," concluded Robinson. "Powers kept the ball which saved his life, and in return gave me that oil painting depicting the scene at nightfall as I was driving that last ball."
"It's a good thing for your friend Powers that it was not up to me to drive that last ball," declared Harding. "That story is all right, Robinson, and the picture proves it."
As we were leaving the table Mrs. Chilvers called me aside.
"Have you made up a game for this afternoon?" she asked, and I thought I discerned a mischievous glance in her eyes.
"Why—why, yes," I hesitated, wondering if I were to be dragged into some wretched foursome. "I have arranged to play with Miss Harding."
"What, again?" she asked.
"This is only my third game with her," I declared.
"Ah, Mr. Smith, do you remember how I warned you several weeks ago?"
I remembered but did not admit it.
"I told you then that some time you would meet a golfing Venus," she said triumphantly, and without waiting for me to make a defense left and joined Miss Dangerfield.
Miss Harding and I waited until we had a clear field ahead of us before we began our game. It was one of the perfect early summer afternoons when it is a delight to live. Oak Cliff is famous for its scenery and for its velvet-like greens.
"I'm going to play my best game this afternoon," announced Miss Harding when I had teed her ball.
"I always play my best game; don't you?" I asked.
"You shall judge of that when we finish this round," she declared.
It was my first game with her since the day she won the touring car from her father, on which occasion she made Woodvale in 116. This was so marked an improvement over her former exhibition that I was at a loss to account for it. Since then Miss Harding had confined her golf to the practising of approach shots and putting, following the instructions given by Wallace. I have been so busy with Wall Street and other affairs that I have paid little attention to golf, and smiled at her enthusiasm.
"How shall we play?" I asked. "You have improved so much and are so confident that I dare not offer you more than a stroke a hole."
"I shall beat you at those odds," she said. "This is a short course, you know."
"You will have to make it in a hundred to beat me," I replied.
"Fore!" she called, and drove a beautiful ball with a true swing which was the perfection of grace. I made one which did not beat it enough to give me any advantage, and we started down the field together.
"Mr. Wallace must be a wonderfully clever teacher," I said, "or else he has a most remarkably apt pupil. I wish I could improve that rapidly."
Miss Harding smiled but declined to commit herself. Her second shot was a three-quarter midiron to the green and she made it like a veteran. She played the stroke—and it is one of the most difficult—in perfect form, and I was so astounded that I cut under a short approach shot and had to play the odd. She came within inches of going down in three, and I then missed a long putt and lost the hole outright, she not needing the stroke handicap.
"One up, Jacques Henri!" she laughed.
She drove another perfect ball on the next hole, but the green was three hundred and fifty yards away and I reached it in two against her three. My work on the green was abominable and we both were down in fives.
"Two up, Jacques Henri!" she exclaimed, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Really, now, don't you think I've improved?"
"Improved!" I gasped. "That's not the word for it! You have been translated into a golf magician! I cannot understand it!"
I don't suppose I played my best game, but even if I had I could not have won at the odds stipulated. I never lose interest in a golf game, but I must confess that I paid far more attention to her play than to my own.
It was not the first time that I had witnessed a fine exhibition of golf by a woman, but it was the first time I had been privileged to see a strikingly pretty girl execute shots as they should be made. All former experiences had led me to the belief that feminine beauty and proficiency in golf run in adverse ratio. But here was a superb creature who combined beauty with a skill which was surpassing.
It was difficult to believe the testimony of my own eyes. Here was a girl who had taken fifteen to make the first hole of Woodvale only a few weeks preceding; who had driven eight of my new balls into a pond which demanded only an eighty-yard carry; who had told me that the one ambition of her golfing life was to drive a ball far enough so that she might have difficulty in finding it; who had repeatedly missed strokes entirely, had mutilated the turf, sliced, pulled and committed all the faults and crimes possible to a novice—here was this same young lady playing a game which was well-nigh perfect to the extent of her strength!
When a woman is beautiful and plays a beautiful game of golf, then physical grace reaches its highest exemplification. Even an ugly woman becomes attractive when she swings a driving club with an evenly sustained sweep, picking the ball clean from the turf or tee. But when a supremely charming girl acquires this skill it is impossible to express in mere language the exquisite grace of it—and I am not going to attempt it.
Miss Harding made that round in a flat ninety against my eighty-two, and with the odds I had given her defeated me by five up and four to play. She made the same score as Chilvers, and he is a good player when on his game.
The game ended, we rested in the shade of an arbour where we could watch the players on many greens.
"Come now; make your confession," I insisted, looking into her face through the blue haze of a cigar.
"Confess what?" she innocently asked.
"Confess why it is that you deliberately deceived me regarding your game," I demanded. "Don't you suppose I know that you were not trying to play that day when you first favoured me with a game at Woodvale?"
"You know nothing about it," she laughed. "I have been taking lessons since then."
"Tell that to someone who does not understand the difficulty of learning this game," I responded. "Your father for instance. Unless you confess the truth, I shall tell him that you deliberately lured him into a trap by which you won that touring car."
"Tell him; I dare you!" she challenged me. "If he believes it he will think it a huge joke."
"And you told me that you once made a nine-hole course in Paris in ninety-one," I accused her.
"I did," she laughed. "It was in a competition with one club—a putter."
"Was that when you won the gold cup?"
She shook her head.
"What score did you make when you won that gold cup in Paris?" I asked.
"The witness declines to answer," she defiantly replied.
"You are guilty of contempt of court. Tell me, Miss Harding, why you played so atrociously that day?"
"Atrociously?" she exclaimed with mock indignation. "You told me that I was doing splendidly, and you said that with a little practice I would make a fine player. And now that I have verified your predictions you seem vastly surprised."
"I was—I was trying to encourage you," I faltered.
"In other words you were deceiving me, Jacques Henri. Confess that you were!"
"I do confess," I laughed. "You were the worst player I ever saw. Now you confess why you did it."
"I shall confess nothing," she declared, her eyes dropping as I gazed into them. "I shall confess nothing, Jacques Henri! Since when has it been decreed that a lady must confess to her chauffeur? Do not forget your place, Jacques Henri. Let's start for the club house; I see papa and others on the lawn."
I have a theory of the truth, but it is too foolish to put in writing.
We made a speedy run to Woodvale after a most delightful afternoon.
ENTRY NO. XVII
THE PASSING OF PERCY
During the forenoon of the day following our visit to Oak Cliff Mr. Harding, Carter and I were sitting under the big elm tree near the first tee. We had our clubs with us, but the railroad magnate wished to finish his cigar before starting to play.
A farm wagon drove up the circular roadway which surrounds the club house, and the owner after glancing doubtfully about approached us. He was tall, angular, and whiskered.
"Can any of you folks tell me if a man named Hardin' hangs out 'round this here place?" he said, squinting at a card which I instantly recognised.
"I'm Harding," said that gentleman, walking toward him. "I reckon you're the man who owns the late deceased bull?"
"I shurely am," said the farmer, stroking his whiskers nervously.
"How much do you want for him?" demanded Harding, with characteristic promptness.
"Stranger," began the man with the hoe, "if you'll tell me how in thunder you broke the neck of that critter with one of them there sticks," pointing to our golf clubs, "I won't charge you one doggoned cent for doin' it."
We all roared, and then Harding briefly explained what had happened.
"I reckon you couldn't do nothin' else under what the stump speakers call existin' sar-cumstances," slowly drawled the farmer, "but he was a mighty fine young bull, an' I hated like all sin tew lose him."
"How much was he worth to you?" asked Harding.
"He was a Holstein, Mister, and I wouldn't er sold him for two hundred and fifty the best day you ever saw. He took second prize as a yearlin' at our county fair, and I was plumb sure he'd have the blue ribbon hung on him this year, but instead of a ribbon I found this here on his horns," he concluded sorrowfully, looking at the card with its string still attached.
"I'll give you three hundred and fifty dollars and call it square," said
Harding.
"Dew you mean it, Mister?" his watery blue eyes opening wide, his thin lips pursed and his leathery face curiously wrinkled. "Dew ye mean it?"
"Of course I mean it, but I want his head. I'm going to have it mounted."
Mr. Harding opened his wallet, stripped off the bills and handed them to the pleased farmer.
"Mister," the latter said, "that's more than he was worth, and I feel kinder ashamed ter take all of it. Tell you what I'll do! I've got an old bull that's no good, but ugly as all get out, and if you'd like ter tackle him with that ortermobill of yours I'll turn him loose in that same medder, an' you can have it out with him an' it won't cost you a cent."
[Illustration: "He was tall, angular, and whiskered"]
"Much obliged," laughed Harding, "but nature evidently did not design me for a matador."
If Miss Lawrence does not develop into a great player it will not be because of a lack of assiduity in taking lessons. Since Wallace has become professional at Woodmere she has taken one and sometimes two each day. She was starting to take one of these "lessons" when Harding returned.
"See here, Wallace," he said with mock sternness, "I am becoming curious to know if you are professional to our charming young friend or to the club."
"Why, Mr. Harding!" exclaimed Miss Lawrence, blushing furiously. "I have taken only six lessons, and you have no idea how I have improved."
"Without doubt," observed the remorseless millionaire, "but when do I get a lesson? My game has steadily deteriorated since I hit my first ball. As Smith says, I am way off my game."
"I shall be glad to give you a lesson any time to-morrow afternoon, Mr.
Harding," said Wallace.
"All right. You and I will play Smith and Carter, and you put me right as we go along."
That was satisfactory all around and Wallace turned his attention to his fair pupil. I wonder if he is as exacting and she as interested at all times as during the few moments they were under our observation?
"A little nearer the ball," he cautioned her. "Grip firmly but keep the wrists flexible. Let the club-head come back naturally. Be sure and keep the weight of your body on the heels and not on the toes. That's better. Try that back swing again. Do not go so far back. Be sure that at the top of the swing your entire weight is on the right leg, and that the knee is not bent. Do not pause at the top of the stroke. Keep the head perfectly still and your eyes on the ball; not on the top of it, but on the exact spot where you propose to hit it. Now make a practise swing."
Miss Lawrence did so, and it seemed almost perfect to me, but Wallace's keen eyes detected faults.
"That right shoulder dropped a little," he said. "That's a bad fault. Let the right shoulder go straight through. Ah, that was a decided improvement! Now swing and keep that right elbow at least four inches from the body. You let your wrists in too soon, Miss Lawrence. Do not start them to work until you are well down on your stroke. That shoulder dropped again! Don't look up as your club goes through; that is a fatal fault. Fall back on those heels! Keep the back straight, or curved back, if at all. Now we will try it with a ball."
Wallace teed a ball and Miss Lawrence drove a very good one for her. It was straight and a trifle high, but it had a carry of fully 120 yards.
"Didn't I tell you I was improving!" she exclaimed, smiling triumphantly at Mr. Harding. "Mr. Wallace is a splendid teacher."
"Yes, and you are a splendid pupil," returned Mr. Harding, with a knowing smile, "but you give me a chance, or I'll lodge a protest with the board of management."
She laughed, waved her hand mockingly at him, and away they went. I noticed that Wallace was not playing. He carried the clubs and they walked close to each other. He said something and she looked up to his face and smiled. It was evident they had much to talk of, and while I cannot prove it, I am inclined to doubt if their conversation was restricted to the details of the game.
Harding watched them, a quiet smile on his strong, kindly, and rugged face. He was humming the air of an old love song.
"Smith," he said after an interval of silence, "there are only two things in this life really worth having."
"What are they?"
"Youth and health."
"How about love?" I asked.
"Youth and health own love," he replied. "Love is their obedient servant. I thank God that I have not lost my youth or my health."
I was privileged to see this remarkable man for a moment in a new light, one which increased my respect and admiration for him.
When we returned to the club house the veranda was buzzing with gossip. Miss Dangerfield was delighted when she found that I was not acquainted with the cause of the excitement. It gave her a chance to impart the news to one ready to listen, and she was not slow in taking advantage of it.
"Miss Lawrence has refused Mr. LaHume!" she whispered, though she might as well have screamed it through a megaphone, since I was the only one on the veranda in ignorance of it.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I dare not tell," she said, but I knew she would. "If you'll promise not to reveal it to a living soul I'll tell you."
I promised.
"Mr. LaHume told Mr. Chilvers, Mr. Chilvers told Mrs. Chilvers, Mrs. Chilvers told Miss Ross, and Miss Ross told me, so you see that I have it right from the original source."
"And you told me," I said. "Why should the chain stop in so obscure a link. I am dying to tell somebody."
"But you promised not to," Miss Dangerfield protested.
"So did you," I replied.
"It seems that Percy flatly asked her to marry him, and that she flatly refused him," she continued, ignoring my implied threat. "I understand that Mr. LaHume is going to resign from the club."
"Why?" I asked. "Does he not find it effective as a matrimonial agency?"
"I don't know," she said. "There he is now, and he's trying to catch your eye."
I turned and saw LaHume, who signalled that he wished to speak to me. I saw at a glance that he had been drinking. He shoved a piece of paper into my hands.
"There is my resignation from the Woodvale Club," he said, his voice husky, and sullen anger in his dark eyes. LaHume is a handsome fellow, but there is something amiss with him. Possibly his ego is over-developed.
"I will present it to the board," I said, preferring to avoid discussion with him while in his then condition.
"I don't care a blank whether they accept it or not," he declared with a rising voice. "From this day I shall never step foot in Woodvale."
"Better think it over later on," I said.
"If you think I care to have anything further to do with a club which shelters and encourages low adventurers like this fellow Wallace, you do not know Percy LaHume," he declared, working himself into a fury. "And you and Carter are to blame for it," he concluded.
"I shall refuse to discuss that with you at this time," I calmly replied and abruptly left him.
A few minutes later I saw him striding down the path on the way to the railway station. As luck would have it, Wallace and Miss Lawrence had just left the eighteenth green, and stood chatting near the path which leads to the station. If they saw the approaching LaHume they paid no attention to him. At this moment Carter and Miss Harding joined me and the latter asked what I found so diverting.
"I hope that LaHume will have the sense not to pick a quarrel with Wallace," I said, pointing in his direction. "He is excited and—and nervous."
"Why don't you say it—intoxicated," drawled Carter.
LaHume had reached the professional and his pupil. We saw Wallace lift his cap as LaHume came within a few yards of them. The latter stopped, and though the trio was quite a distance away, we could plainly hear LaHume's voice, but could not make out the words. Wallace made a deprecatory gesture and Miss Lawrence drew herself up and faced LaHume in an attitude of scorn.
I noted that LaHume was gesticulating with his left hand, and that his right arm was lowered and to his back. He kept edging closer to Wallace.
Of a sudden LaHume's right hand swung out and he made a vicious lunge at Wallace. I saw the latter throw up his guard, but it was too far away to tell if the blow had landed. There was a struggle for a second or two, then Wallace pushed him clear, and like lightning I saw his left hand swing across to LaHume's stomach. LaHume was shot back several yards and fell heavily, his feet in the path and his head and shoulders on the turf.
It all happened so quickly that we stood there, spellbound. We saw Miss
Lawrence rush forward and half fall into Wallace's arms. We saw him
stagger to a lawn settee, she still clinging to him and screaming.
LaHume lay as if dead.
These latter details I noticed as Carter and I were running toward them.
Wallace was on his feet before we reached him. He was attempting to calm Miss Lawrence who was moaning, "He has killed him; he has killed him!" I knew she feared for Wallace, but I was much more apprehensive as to the fate of LaHume.
Blood was trickling down the face of the young Scotchman, and its red had stained a handkerchief which Miss Lawrence had pressed to his scalp above his left temple. It was the sight of this which frightened her, but she comported herself with as much bravery as would most women under similar circumstances.
"I'm not much hurt," declared Wallace with a reassuring smile. "It's only a scratch on the scalp. Miss Lawrence is more alarmed than I am injured. I assure you it is nothing."
"LaHume struck him with a knife!" exclaimed Miss Lawrence, recovering her nerve as a wave of anger came to her. "He called Mr. Wallace a coward and a cad, and when Mr. Wallace tried to calm him he struck at him with a knife. Oh, I hope you have killed him!"
[Illustration: "LaHume was shot back several yards"]
"I'm afraid your hope is realised," said Carter, bending over the inert form of LaHume.
"Small fear of that," said Wallace, but I detected a note of apprehension in his voice. "I aimed to disable without seriously injuring him."
As he spoke LaHume moved, groaned and half raised himself. In the meantime a group had gathered, and in it was Doctor Barry, a member of the club. LaHume was conscious but completely dazed. We were much relieved when the doctor said that he was not permanently injured. Ordering two of the servants to take LaHume to the club house and put him to bed, Doctor Barry turned his attention to Wallace.
Despite the spilling of blood the cut was a trifling one, and after giving it simple treatment, the doctor assured Wallace that he could attend to his duties as usual. An hour later the nervy Scotchman was out on the links giving Lawson a lesson.
We picked the knife from the walk near the scene of the encounter. The blow had been aimed at the breast or neck, but Wallace parried it and received the scratch before he could grasp LaHume's wrist. The quick wrench which caused the knife to fly from LaHume's hand fractured one of the small bones in his forearm, as was learned when that desperate young man had more fully recovered.
It was a disagreeable incident, and I take no pleasure in recording it. Wallace immediately tendered his resignation, but Carter and I told him it would not be considered, and I am sure the management will uphold us in that action.
The conduct of Miss Lawrence convinces me that she is much attached to Wallace. Of course, nothing else was talked of during the afternoon and evening.
In the cool of the day Miss Harding accepted my invitation to play "the brook holes," as we call them, and we climbed to the top of "The Eagle's Nest" to watch the sunset.
I helped her up the steep rocks and finally we stood breathless, gazing down on our little world.
"At last we are alone," I said.
It was one of my usual brilliant remarks. There must have been a ring of tragedy or melodrama in my voice, but really I said it only because I could think of nothing else to say at that moment.
Miss Harding looked up with a curious expression in her deep brown eyes and a rather timid smile on her lips. It was as if she were wondering if I meditated hurling myself to the depths below, or if I intended to take this opportunity to launch some tender declaration.
I wish I had the command of language of the garrulous and ever entertaining hero of the popular novel. If I ever propose it will be in writing.
I can see that look of startled curiosity on her pretty face as I write these lines, and the more I think of it, the more am I convinced that she expected something far different from what followed.
I wonder what she would have said or done if I had thrown myself at her feet and passionately declared the love I bear to her? I wonder if those tender lips would have murmured the words which would have raised me to the seventh heaven of happiness, or if she would have firmly said—oh, what is the use of wondering?
"No danger of being hit with a golf ball up here," I said, when she remained silent.
And then she laughed. Since there was nothing witty in my remark she must have been laughing at something else. I have an idea what it was, but I had sense enough to laugh with her.
"Do you know," I said, determined to frame a rational statement, "I believe Miss Lawrence is in love with Mr. Wallace."
"Indeed?" she exclaimed. "And what of Mr. Wallace?"
"I believe Mr. Wallace is in love with Miss Lawrence."
"What a delightful state of affairs!" she laughed. "Nothing then remains but to set the date, celebrate the event and live happily ever afterward."
"I do not say she will marry him," I ventured to qualify. "It probably started as a harmless flirtation on her part, but I really think she cares more for him than she would be willing to admit."
"If she liked him well enough to encourage his attentions, which is a fairly good definition of a harmless flirtation," she said, quite seriously, "and later discovers that she loves him and that he loves her, why should they not marry?"
I think my tactics at this point were rather clever. I saw a chance to obtain her views on a question most vital to me, and I proceeded to do so, but I hope I did not lower myself in her estimation. As I have said before, I think Wallace is good enough for any woman.
"Consider the difference in their stations in life," I interposed. "She has wealth, family, and a high position in society. Of Wallace we know nothing except that he comports himself like a gentleman in reduced circumstances."
"I should imagine that would be the most difficult time to play such a role," Miss Harding said. "We know those who cannot be gentlemen even under the most encouraging circumstances. The greatest happiness which can come to a good woman is to marry the man she loves, and if she allows wealth, position or any other selfish consideration to stand in the way she does not deserve happiness."
"Right you are!" I declared with an enthusiasm which may have betrayed me. "I agree with every word you have said."
"See those perfect yellows against that bar of vivid red," she said, pointing to the west, where the sky quivered with a naming sunset. "See how the light flashes from the windows of the club house! One would think it filled with molten metal. How sharp the old church belfry shows against that mass of golden cloud to the northwest!"
We watched this glorious scene in silence until the upper rim of the sun sank beneath the rounded crest of "Old Baldy." Then I helped her down and we walked slowly back to the club house.
Have I not the right to assume that Miss Harding "likes me well enough to encourage my attentions," which is her definition of a flirtation? I believe I have. I know that other young gentlemen belonging to the club have attempted in vain to compete with me for the favour of her society. All have failed—Carter alone excepted. But recently I have been with her more than has Carter. In fact I fear him less at the present moment than I have at any time. I shall soon know my fate.
For the first time the strain of my stock operations is telling on me. I have now purchased 35,000 shares of N.O. & G., and the market for it closed to-night at 60. If I were forced to settle at this figure I would be about $345,000 loser. If the stock is valueless, as some of the experts are now declaring, I am liable for nearly $2,000,000 more.
I have converted everything except my equity in Woodvale into money, and counting the margins in the hands of my brokers I find that I have nearly $3,000,000. I suppose I could get out with a loss of half a million, and there are moments when my cowardice struggles against me and when I am tempted to abandon this hazardous enterprise.
I shall stick it out, however. I know the conspiracy which has been hatched, and I do not believe they will dare force the price down much lower. I am going to buy another block of ten thousand shares if it continues to decline, and then await developments. If it goes to zero I shall still have a little money left, and I shall have the income from the old farm—but I shall not have the hardihood to ask for the hand of Grace Harding.
You may talk as much as you please but money is a commanding factor in love and marriage. It is all very well for a wealthy man to fall in love and marry a poor girl, but it is an entirely different thing for a poor man to aspire to the hand and heart of a wealthy woman.
Honestly, I don't believe it right that women should be permitted under the law to inherit vast sums of money—at least marriageable women. No man of ordinary means who possesses a proper self-respect will espouse a woman whose income overshadows his own.
I would limit the inheritances of marriageable women to a maximum amount of $100,000. I wish Miss Harding did not have a dollar.
The contest for the Harding Trophy—I mean the bronze, and not the real Harding Trophy—has narrowed down to four of us, Carter, Boyd, Marshall and myself. I have a sort of a premonition that as that 'bronze gent' goes, so will go everything which I hold dear. I am making the fight of my life for it. I play Marshall to-morrow morning.
ENTRY NO. XVIII
MR. HARDING'S STRUGGLE
I won my match with Marshall after a contest which went to the twentieth hole. He had me dormie one coming to the eighteenth, but by perfect playing I won it in a five and halved the match. Nothing happened on the first extra hole, but on the following I held a fifteen putt for a three and won a beautifully contested match.
Miss Harding went around with us and was my Mascot. I broke my record for the course, making a medal score of seventy-eight. Miss Harding congratulated me and I was so happy I could have yelled. Dear old Marshall did not take his defeat the least to heart, but he is not playing for the stakes that I am.
I have dreamed twice that if I won the Harding Trophy I should win everything.
Carter beat Boyd handily, and the prize will go to one of us. I must beat him; I shall beat him!
After having declared innumerable times that he would master the secrets of golf without aid from anyone, Harding finally surrendered and took his first lesson this afternoon.
"I take back everything I ever said about this being an easy game to play," he said. "I'm a pretty good 'rule of thumb' civil and mechanical engineer, I know a few things about the laws of resistances and all that sort of thing, I have watched you fellows hit that ball and have tried to imitate you, but it's no use. Now I'm going to do just what Wallace tells me, and if he can teach me to drive I'll pay him more than any professional ever made in the history of the game."
Harding certainly has had a time of it. For weeks he has laboured with a patience worthy of better results, he has purchased every known variety and weight of club. He has a larger collection of drivers, brassies, cleeks, mashies, midirons, jiggers, niblicks, putters and other tools than Billy Moon, and Moon is a specialist in that direction.
The surrounding woods, the ponds, brooks and swamps contain unnumbered balls which Harding has misdriven. He will not waste one minute looking for a ball which gets into difficulty, and since his arrival our orders to the manufacturers have more than doubled.
One of his ambitions has been to drive a ball across the old mill pond.
It is a long carry and beyond probability that he can accomplish it, but
I have seen him drive box after box of balls and give them to the
caddies who have recovered them.
Wallace was on hand at the appointed time to give Harding his first lesson, and we had quite a gallery for our foursome, including Miss Harding and Miss Lawrence. Wallace was to play with Harding against Carter and me, but the chief interest centred in whether Wallace could effect any improvement in the playing of his ponderous pupil.
He told Harding to make several practise swings Harding did so and
Wallace studied them closely.
"A man of your build should play with the left foot advanced," he said. "Bend the left knee but keep the other one more nearly rigid. Keep the weight of your body on your heels or you will fall on your ball when you swing through. Do not curve your back like a letter C. Keep the backbone straight but not rigid. It is the pivot on which your body and shoulders must turn, and how can it turn true if your vertebræ is bent?"
"I had not thought of that," admitted Harding, making a much better stroke.
"Unless the back is straight the right shoulder will drop, and that is fatal," cautioned Wallace. "Grip firmly and evenly with the fingers—not the palms—of both hands, but let the wrists be flexible until the club-head comes to the ball."
Wallace corrected other errors, and after fifteen minutes of instruction
Harding teed a ball and for the first time in his life cleared the lane.
He was as delighted as a boy who unexpectedly comes into possession of
his first gun.
"Wallace," he declared, "if you will stick to me until I get so I can do that well half of the time I'll give you a hundred shares of the L.M. & K. and a job which beats this one all hollow."
"I think you will be able to do even better than that," said Wallace confidently.
As the game progressed Harding's play steadily improved and his face took on an expression of supreme satisfaction delightful to contemplate.
His crowning triumph came on the thirteenth hole, in which he drove the green and found his ball laying within a foot of the cup, from which distance he easily negotiated a two which won the hole, and, as it subsequently developed, the match, Wallace holding the best ball of Carter and myself even.
Harding made the round in 106, which is ten strokes better than any of his previous records. He tried in vain to induce Wallace to take some large sum of money, but this strange young Scotchman positively refused to accept more than the regular rate for a lesson.
LaHume left, bag and baggage, early this morning, and I doubt if Woodvale will see him again. His membership is for sale, and at a special meeting of the board his resignation was accepted. He seems to have been the villain of this diary, but really he is not a bad sort of fellow, save for a strain of tactless selfishness. I presume that his good looks eventually will win for him some unfortunate heiress.
Had he remained here until this evening he would have been treated to another surprise. Wallace took Miss Lawrence's high-powered automobile from the garage, and, after a preliminary run of several miles in which to become familiar with certain new devices, swung it around the club house and up to the landing steps with the easy skill in which he handles a mashie.
As Bishop says, he certainly is "a most remarkable hired man."
Miss Lawrence, Miss Ross and Miss Dangerfield soon appeared and, with Wallace, started on a trip which was to include a call at Bishops, and later a spin down the old post road and back by some circuitous route.
It is only a week from to-day until the meeting of the directors of the N.O. & G. I shall then know whether I am to be comparatively a financial nonentity or a man of affairs. And then I shall know something of vastly more importance!
ENTRY NO. XIX
THE TORNADO
Early Monday morning Mr. Harding took a train for Oak Cliff, where he had an appointment with Mr. Wilson. He made a remark to the effect that his mission pertained more to business than golf. Mr. Wilson is president of the bank through which the "Harding System" transacts most of its financial operations.
"You can do me a favour, if you will, Smith," he said. "I shall stay over night in Oak Cliff. We have visitors coming to Woodvale to-morrow evening, and I should be back here to dine with them by six o'clock. There is no train from Oak Cliff within hours of that time, and it has occurred to me that the folks might come for me in the red machine. Of course the Kid thinks she can handle it, but I hate to trust her on so long and hilly a route. Could you come with them?"
An invitation was never accepted with more cheerful willingness. It was arranged that Mrs. Harding, Miss Harding and I should arrive at Oak Cliff with the auto at about four o'clock Tuesday afternoon.
We were to start from Woodvale at half after one o'clock, so as to have plenty of time. That Fate, which is always prying into and disarranging the plans of us poor mortals, interfered with our arrangements an hour before the time fixed for our departure. The visitors who were to arrive in the evening came shortly after noon. It was exasperating.
I pictured myself making that long trip alone, and cursed the chattering arrivals who had the bad form to anticipate the hour set for their welcome. There were three of them, and I noticed that they were of mature years.
I sat glumly watching them and heartily wishing that the train which brought them had been blocked for an hour or two, when Miss Harding came smilingly towards me.
"Mamma cannot go," she said.
"And you?" I asked, hardly daring to hope for the best.
"They seemed glad to excuse me, Jacques Henri," she laughed.
I have no doubt I grinned like a Cheshire cat. I refrained from telling the abominable falsehood that I was sorry Mrs. Harding could not go with us, and an hour later the huge touring car rolled smoothly away from the Woodvale club house, its front seat occupied by a supremely happy gentleman of the name of Smith, and by his side a supremely pretty young lady who waved her hand to the elderly group on the veranda.
I had been so absorbed in the unfolding of the incidents just narrated that I took no note of the weather or of anything else. For a month or more the weather has been so uniformly fine that we had come to accept the succession of warm but cloudless days as a matter of course.
When I was a boy my father drilled into me a knowledge of the visible signs of impending changes in meteorological conditions. As I became older the study of the warnings displayed in the sky and in the indescribable variations in the feel of the air possessed a fascination for me. During the early years after the formation of the club the members jested me on account of my predilection for weather forecasting, but the uniform accuracy of these guesses commanded their surprise and subsequently won their respect.
Chilvers and others sometimes call me "Old Prog. Smith," and I am more proud of that pleasantry than of some others.
There was not a breath of air stirring. The atmosphere seemed stagnant, like a pool on which the sun has beat during rainless weeks. The dried tops of the swamp grass and reeds pointed motionless to the heat-quivering sky. The dust cast up by our car hung over the road like a ribbon of fog.
The forest to our left shut off a view of the western sky, but I felt sure that the clouds of an approaching storm were already marshalled along its horizon. Then we shot out into a clearing and I took one swift look.
From north to south was spanned the sweeping curve of a gray cloud with just a tinge of yellow blended into it. The ordinary observer would have seen in it no premonition of a storm. It was smooth, light in tone and restful to the eye as compared with the angry blue from out of which the sun blazed.
The upper edges of this mass were unbroken save at one point near the zenith of its curve. From this there protruded the sharper edges of a "thunder-head," as if some titanic and unseen hand were lifting to the firmament a colossal head of cauliflower, its shaded portions beautifully toned with blue. This description may be homely, but it has the merit of accuracy.
I said no word of my certainty of the oncoming tempest, but threw on full speed and dashed ahead at a rate which startled my fair companion. From the turn in the road just beyond the clearing we headed directly into the line of march of the storm. If it were slow-moving I calculated we would reach Oak Cliff before it broke, but I realised it would be close work.
Miss Harding leaned over and said something to me. The whirr of the machinery and the swaying of the car made conversation difficult. I presume she thought I was determined to show my nerve and skill as a driver.
"Why this mad haste, Jacques Henri?" she again cried, her head so close to mine that her hair brushed my cheek.
I returned a non-committal smile and fixed my eyes on the road which slipped toward us like a huge belt propelled by invisible pulleys.
The miles kept pace with the minutes. Of a sudden the sun was blotted out. When I lifted my eyes from the road I saw birds circling high in the sky. The cattle in adjacent fields lifted their heads and moved uneasily as if some instinct sounded a warning in their dull brains. Above the trees I saw the skirmish line of the storm.
In after hours Miss Harding told me that she had quickly solved the secret of my wild dash. For a quarter of an hour she hung to the swaying seat and said no word. Once I looked into her eyes and read in them that she understood.
We dashed through a little village and paid no heed to the angry shouts and menacing gestures of a man who wore a huge star on his chest. Oak Cliff was only ten miles away. Could we make it?
The restful grays of the cloud had disappeared; and low down on the horizon I saw a belt of bluish black, and as I looked, a bolt of lightning jabbed through it. We were now running parallel to the storm, and I believed I could beat it to Oak Cliff. I felt certain I could reach the little hamlet of Pine Top, and from there on it would be easy to get to shelter. Between us and Pine Top was practically an unbroken wilderness, a part of the country reserved as a source of water supply for the great city far to the south of us.
Into that wilderness we dashed.
We were taking a hill with the second speed clutch on when a grating sound came to my alert ears, and with it an unnatural shudder of the machinery. I threw off power and applied the brakes. As the car stopped the deep rolling bass of the thunder rumbled over the hills.
"We are caught," declared Miss Harding, but there was no fear in her voice.
"Not yet!" I asserted, springing from the car and making a frenzied examination of the cause of our breakdown. I knew it was not serious, and when I located it I joyously proclaimed it a mere trifle. But automobile trifles demand minutes, and nature did not postpone the resistless march of its storm battalions. As I toiled with wrench and screw-driver I cursed the folly which induced me to plunge into that desolate stretch of forest and marsh.
The roar of the tempest's artillery became continuous. The low scud clouds travelling with incredible velocity blotted out the blue sky to the east and darkness fell like a black shroud. I could not see to work beneath the floor of the car, and lost another minute searching for and lighting a candle.
In the uncanny gloom I saw the fair face of the one whose safety now was menaced by my bold folly. I saw her form silhouetted against the black of a fir tree in the almost blinding glare of a flame of lightning.
"Just one minute and I will have it fixed!" I said, and she smiled bravely but said nothing.
Still not a breath of air! The spires of the pine trees stood rigid as if cast in bronze!
This is the time when a storm strikes terror to my soul. With the first patter of the rain and the onrushing of the wind I experience a sensation of relief, but it is nerve-racking to stand in that frightful calm and await the mighty charge of unknown forces.
As I bolted the displaced part into its proper adjustment I reflected that had it not been for the ten minutes thus lost we would have been in Oak Cliff. My calculations had been accurate, but again Fate had introduced an unexpected factor. I started the engine and leaped into the car.
"Only a mile to shelter!" I exclaimed. "I think we can make it. Where are the storm aprons?"
"We forgot them," she said.
"I forgot them, you mean," I declared. "Hold fast! It is a rough road!"
The red car leaped forward. I remembered that there was a farmhouse a mile or so ahead.
Never have I witnessed anything like the vivid continuity of that lightning. With a crash which sounded as if the gods had shattered the vault of the heavens a bolt streamed into a tree not a hundred yards ahead, and one of its limbs fell to the roadway. It was impossible to stop. She saw it and crouched behind the shield. With a lurch and a leap we passed over it.
I felt a drop of rain on my face. The trees swayed with the first gust of the tempest. We were going down hill with full speed on. A few hundred yards ahead was a stone culvert spanning the bed of a creek whose waters years before had been diverted to a reservoir a mile or so to the east. Save at rare intervals, the bed of this creek was dry.
As the recollection of this old culvert came to me I raised my eyes and saw something which drove the blood from my heart! A quarter of a mile ahead was a gray wall of rain, and dim through it I saw huge trees mount into the air and twist and gyrate like leaves caught up in an air eddy.