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Carter is a rattling good fellow and a fine golfer he has made Woodvale in seventy-seven; two strokes better than my low score but he is a bit conceited; he imagines he is a lady's man, and I propose to take him down a peg. I am certain he schemed to play with Miss Harding before I did, and he went about it in what he doubtless thought was a diplomatic way.
"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.
"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.
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.
"Yes," said George, "we are homeward bound, and have been gone so long that we feel in somewhat of a hurry." "May I ask where your home is?" "In southern Ohio, at the settlement of Woodvale, near the mouth of the Miami." "You are a long way from there." "Yes," Victor took it upon himself to remark, "but we have been a good deal farther." "When did you leave Woodvale?" "About a year ago."
It was 5:45 before the machine gave its first sure signs of returning consciousness. Miss Harding gave a glad cry and a quarter of an hour later when the red monster stood coughing in the muddy roadway those dry shoes were where they belonged. With light hearts we waved farewell to the kindly old culvert and set our pace toward Woodvale.
The superintendent of the Woodvale Woolen Mills, one of the Cambria Iron Company's concerns, was one of the very few fortunate ones in that little place. He and all his family got into the flouring mill just below the woolen mill and upon the roof. The woolen mill was totally wrecked, though not carried away, and the flouring mill was badly damaged, but the roof held and all were saved.
One foot was partially covered by a cut shoe, while on the other foot he wore a boot from which the heel was missing. This was Stephen Johns, a foreman at the Johnson Steel Rail Works at Woodvale. He was a big, strong man, but his whole frame trembled as he said: "Yes, I am from Johnstown. I lost my wife and three children there, so I thought I would leave."
It was recess at the Woodvale school, and the forty-odd boys and girls were having a merry time on the playgrounds, which included the broad highway. Within the building, Mr.
The old post road runs parallel to the line of this hole, and forms the western boundary of the Woodvale links. There is no bunker save the railroad bank for the entire distance, and it is an ideal hole for the golf "slugger." "Where is the green?" asked Harding, standing on the elevated tee.
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