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Pallzey found himself criticizing the Form of the Players. That should have been his Cue to climb the Fence. All of the Mashiemaniacs start on the downward Path by making Mind-Plays and getting under Bogey. Back on the sloping Sward between No. 18 and the Life-Saving Station, the two Contestants were holding the usual Post-Mortem. "Let me see that Dewflicker a minute," said Mr.
Every member was a Chick Evans when he got back to the nineteenth hole. Mr. Pallzey now began to regard the Ancient and Honorable Pastime as a compendium of Sacraments, Ordeals, Incantations, and Ceremonial Formalities. He resigned himself into the Custody of a professional Laddie with large staring Knuckles and a Dialect that dimmed all the memories of Lauder.
After that their daily Life revolved around the $2 bargain in Britannia. Mrs. Pallzey had to use Metal Polish on it to keep it from turning black. Then he would ask all present to feel of his Forearm, after which he would pull the Favorite One about Golf adding ten years to his life. Mrs. MORAL: Remain under the Awning.
So it was arranged that the poor doomed Creature was to appear on the following Sabbath and be equipped with a set of Cast-Offs and learn all about the Mystery of the Ages between 11 A. M. and 2 P. M.. Mr. Pallzey went away not knowing that he was a Marked Man. On Monday he told the Stenographer how he stung the Ball the first time up. He said he was naturally quick at picking up any kind of Game.
In a short time the Form was classy, but the Score had to be taken out and buried after every Round. Mr. Pallzey saw that this Mundane Existence was not all Pleasure. He had found his Life-Work. The Lode-Star of his declining Years would be an even one hundred for the eighteen Flags. Wife would see him out in the Street, feeling his way along, totally unmindful of his Whereabouts.
In other words, he was Normal, believing nearly everything that appeared in the Papers. While the Dog-Fennel was softly brushing the Foot-Board and the Motor was purring consistently beneath, Mr. Pallzey looked over into a close- cropped Pasture and became the alert Eye-Witness of some very weird Doings.
The grizzled Warrior rose to an equal Altitude by remarking that if the dag-goned Loon had to do it for a Living, he'd think it was Work. Mr. Pallzey had heard of the new Diversion for the Idle Rich, just as people out in the Country hear of Milk-Sickness or falling Meteors, both well authenticated but never encountered.
They had Seasoned Hickory for Breakfast, Bunkers for Luncheon, and the Fair Green for Dinner. As a matter of course they had to give up their comfortable Home among the Friends who had got used to them and move out to a strawboard Bungalow so as to be near the Execution Grounds. Mrs. Pallzey wanted to do the White Mountains, but Mr. Pallzey needed her.
"Oh, no," spoke up the conversational Conductor, "He is playing Golluf," giving the word the Terre Haute pronunciation. Mr. Pallzey looked with pity on the poor Nut who was out in the Hot Sun, getting himself all lathered up with One-Man Shinny. He said to G. A. R. that it took all kinds of People to make a World.
The latter went along, just out of Politeness, but he was a good deal disappointed in his Friend. It certainly did seem trifling for a Huskie weighing one hundred and eighty to pick on something about the size of a Robin's Egg. Mr. Pallzey played Gallery all around the Course.
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