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Updated: May 25, 2025
Of course most of those who started declared that they had no expectation of winning, or even of qualifying in the first sixteen. For instance, there was Peabody, whose best medal score is 112. "Are you going to play for that bronze gent?" demanded Chilvers, as Peabody came to the first tee. "Thought I might just as well enter," said Peabody.
But he plays a good game of golf, with at least four deliberate practise swings before each stroke at the ball. Chilvers wanted to have a team hitched up and ride over in the club bus. He said it tired him to walk. We vetoed that proposition, and Chilvers stopped twice to rest on the half-mile jaunt to Bishop's.
Quivers. "I shall see that your wife hears that!" "Don't tell her; she'll beat him terribly," warned Chilvers. "Did you ever hear, Boyd, why our friend Smith is so sour when he sees a lady on these links?" Chilvers has told that story on me many times, but Boyd declared he had not heard it. "As you know," began Chilvers, "Smith was born on this farm.
Great news; great news!" "What is it?" asked Miss Ross, her deep-brown eyes brightening with curiosity. "Another heiress coming!" announced Chilvers, with the bow of a jeweller displaying some rare gem " another heiress on her way to Woodvale! This is going to be a hard season for such perennial bachelors as Smith, Boyd, Carter, and others I could name.
Lady Kimbuck was crocheting, Lord Evenwood dozing, Lady Eva reading, and Roland thinking. A peaceful scene. A soft, rippling murmur, scarcely to be reckoned a snore, had just proceeded from Lord Evenwood's parted lips, when the door opened, and Teal announced, "Miss Chilvers." Roland stiffened in his chair.
When, some hours later, he read over the ten or twelve exceedingly passionate epistles which, with the butler's assistance, he had succeeded in writing to Miss Maud Chilvers, Roland came to the conclusion that there must have been a time when Mr. Teal was a good deal less respectable than he appeared to be at present.
Though I was the referee I was "rooting" for Harding, and so was Carter, while Marshall and Chilvers were giving mental and vocal encouragement to Bishop. I do not suppose any of us realised we were saying a word. First Harding would have a slight advantage, and then the tide would turn in favour of Bishop. The latter was more agile, but the former outclassed him in power.
We all solemnly sampled it from small glasses, which Bishop produced from some mysterious hiding place. "There is no taste to it," declared Chilvers. "It's smooth as oil, but it has no flavour." "Hasn't, eh?" smiled Bishop. "You just wait a minute and you'll get the bouquet as you wine experts call it. It's one of these coming tastes, but when it hits you you cry for more."
Carter, LaHume, Marshall, and Chilvers admitted that their idea of hard cider was a beverage which had started to ferment. Bishop placed his hand reverently on a blackened, time-charred cask. It was evident he was as proud of that possession as others might be of an authenticated Raphael. "I don't tap this here very often," he said, "but in honour of this occasion I'll let it run a bit.
"How does it happen that the Hardings are coming here?" asked Mrs. Chilvers, when told the cause of this excitement. "Are they Mr. Carter's guests?" "Mr. Harding is a charter member of Woodvale," I informed her. "For some unknown reason he joined the club when it started, but has never been here, and I doubt if he has ever played golf.
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