The Last Drive (17 page)

Tom Innes arrived on the nine o'clock train, and Mr. Jellie took him out and beat him 6 and 5 in the morning and 8 and 7 in the afternoon. On the following day Silas Penfield was the victim, also for two matches. By that time Mac Donaldson had heard of the miracle that was taking place on the fashionable links of the Grassview Country Club, and Friday morning he took Mr. Jellie on for a match, and was badly beaten.

On Saturday nothing was heard at Grassview but talk of Jellie. His caddie had acquired an air of insolent arrogance. Mac Donaldson spoke of him in low, mysterious tones. But for the most part there was doubt, especially on the part of those men who had been winning innumerable boxes of balls from him for the past three years with ridiculous ease.

“Yes,” said Marsfield, the Egyptologist, employing a formula of golf wit that is older than St. Andrews; “yes, Jellie might make a 69—for nine holes.”

“I'll tell you what I'll do,” retorted Mr. Jellie, turning on him. “I'll take you and Rogers and Huntington and play your best ball for five hundred dollars a side.”

There ensued a clamor of discussion. Fraser took Marsfield to one side and advised him strongly to “stay off.” Rogers was scornful, but cautious. Huntington, a good sport, decided it by declaring that it would be worth the price to see old Jellie do it.

Old Jellie did it, but not without a tussle. News of the match had spread over the links and through the club house, and by the time they reached the turn they were trailed by a gallery of some fifty persons. Mr. Jellie gave them all they were looking for. He went around 3 under par and won by 4 and 3. They forced him to make a speech in the dining room that evening, and in a toast he was referred to as “our next club champion.”

And this Aloysius Jellie, who had been the sucker, the easy thing, the object of much amused contempt, became the glory and pride of Grassview. The months of June and July were one continuous succession of triumphs. Middleton, who had met Francis Ouimet in the semi-finals at Ekwanok the year before, was the only member of the club who dared to play him on even terms, and Middleton suffered ignominious defeat. The greatest day of all occurred in mid-July. Tom McNamara and Mike Brady had appeared at Grassview on a visit to their old friend Donaldson, and about the first thing Mac had spoken of was Jellie and his miraculous reversal of form. The two visitors expressed a desire to see the marvel in action.

And Mr. Jellie took on McNamara, Brady and Donaldson and beat them one up, playing their best ball.

He played exhibition matches with various visiting amateurs and pros, and suffered no defeats. On July 28 he won the New Jersey, and on July 12 the Metropolitan amateur championship. He lowered the course records from one to four strokes at Englewood, Baltusrol, Garden City, Wykagyl, Piping Rock and Upper Montclair. The whole golfing world was ablaze with his fame, and countless duffers tried to imitate his ungainly, bizarre swing, with disastrous results. The newspapers ran columns about him, and the sport writers unanimously predicted that with Jellie to lead the attack the next American assault on Vardon, Taylor and Braid would bring England's cup across the water. There was printed again and again the amusing tale of the dog Nibbie, and the story of his untimely death.

Mr. Jellie himself was far from forgetting Nibbie. Often, when at Grassview, he would stand for some time in his room gazing at a small bronze urn which occupied the place of honor on the mantel. It was inscribed:

Herein Repose the Ashes of

NIBBIE,

Faithful Companion and Critic of

Aloysius Jellie.

He Died on the 17th Day of May, 19—,

A Martyr to

The Angry Passion of His Master.

Mr. Jellie would stand and gaze at this urn, not in sorrowful memory of the past, but in perplexed and painful consideration of the present. Mr. Jellie was not a superstitious man. But what had happened could be accounted for only by admitting the supernatural, and one miracle is as likely to happen as another. Was it Aloysius Jellie who had astounded the golfing world by averaging under 4s for 342 consecutive holes? Or was it in fact, in some mysterious manner—was it Nibbie?

But it was another query, a corollary of this, that caused the frequent frown of worried perplexity on Mr. Jellie's brow. Finally, one evening in early August, he got Marsfield, the Orientalist, into a corner and asked him point-blank:

“How long does a dog's soul stay on earth?”

The other gazed at him in astonishment.

“Why, bless me,” he responded, “I didn't know a dog had any soul.”

“Of course not, of course not,” Mr. Jellie agreed hastily. “What I mean is, I remember once you spoke about some ancient belief—”

“Did I? Perhaps so. There are many interesting ancient ceremonies and beliefs connected with the canine family. The Moslems, like the old Hebrews, hold them to be unclean. They were worshipped by the Asgans, and the Egyptians honored them. The latter held a belief that the soul of a dog remains on earth after death, either to console or torment his master, according to the treatment he received in life.”

“Yes, that's it,” said Mr. Jellie, eagerly. “And how long does—did—how long did they think the soul stayed around?”

“Three moons. That is equivalent to three months, or more accurately, eighty-eight days in our calendar.” After a moment's pause Marsfield added: “Still thinking of the lost Nibbie, eh, Jellie? By Jove, old man, I should think the past two months would have driven him out of your mind.”

“No, I haven't forgotten him,” replied the other, thoughtfully. Then he shook himself. “Much obliged, Marsfield. Come on, let's join the others.”

Late that evening, in his room, Mr. Jellie took a piece of paper and made a calculation. It appeared simple enough, though cryptic, consisting merely of a sum of four figures:

14

30

31

13

88

He sat gazing at the figures on the paper until the minutes dragged into hours.

Ever since Mr. Jellie's startling leap into the sphere of the masters all Grassview, members, caddies and pros, had been looking forward to an event which was now drawing near. It was discussed in the locker room, the caddie house, the library and the nineteenth hole. The opinion in all these places was the same, though expressed differently. In the caddie house: “Gee, Mr. Jellie kin lick them guys with nothin' but a putter.” In the library: “Jellie'll win sure. Hurrah for Jellie!”

The approaching event was the annual tournament for the amateur golf championship of the United States, to be held on the Baltusrol links, August 8 to 13.

But though the opinion at Grassview was unanimous, elsewhere it was divided. The papers of the Middle West said that Chick Evans was due to win the great prize that should have been his long before. Down East could see no one but Ouimet. In the Metropolitan district some picked Travers, saying that despite Jellie's brilliancy he would probably falter under the gruelling strain of the National; but others, who had seen Jellie in action, favored his chances.

Two or three days before the tournament was to begin a delegation of Grassview members called Mr. Jellie into council to register a solemn protest.

“Mr. Jellie,” said Clifford Huntington—he always called him simply Jellie, but this was a grave occasion—“Mr. Jellie, we have heard that you do not intend going to Baltusrol to familiarize yourself with the course by practise before the tournament. Without any desire to appear presumptuous, we must say that we question the wisdom of this. No champion thinks it beneath his dignity to study the ground on which he is to fight his battles. Mr. Evans arrived at Baltusrol yesterday. Mr. Travers and Mr. Ouimet will be there today. The perpetual honor and glory of yourself and Grassview are at stake. Mr. Jellie, we beg you to reconsider your decision.”

The speaker sat down amid applause, and Aloysius Jellie arose.

“Mr. Huntington and the rest of you fellows,” he said, “I appreciate your interest and kindness. But I see no necessity of reconsidering my decision. I don't need any practise.”

And with those sublime words he sat down again, while cries arose on every side:

“But, Jellie, it's absurd!”

“They all do it!”

“Man, we want you to win this championship !”

“For the Lord's sake, Jellie—”

And Tom Innes put in:

“You know, you've only played Baltusrol once.”

“Yes,” replied Jellie calmly, “and I broke the course record by three strokes.”

So they gave it up, but there were shakings of the head and doleful mutterings. Later in the day Monty Fraser approached him and said anxiously:

“You know, Jellie, old man, I don't want to seem officious about this, but we've got eight thousand dollars up on you. You really think you'll win, don't you?”

Jellie looked at him a moment and replied:

“Ask the Egyptians.”

Then he strode off.

“Now what the devil—” muttered Fraser, gazing after him in bewilderment.

“‘Ask the Egyptians'! I've half a mind to hedge.”

On the morning of August 8 the golfing world gathered at Baltusrol. It was a busy and animated scene. Buses, taxis, and private cars were constantly arriving from all directions, especially from that of the Short Hills railway station. The broad piazza of the club house, overlooking the 18th green, was crowded with men and women of all ages and appearances, walking, talking and drinking, and there were even more on the lawns. Tents had been improvised to cater to the wants of the overflow of visitors. Gay expectancy was the keynote. Here and there you would see a face, usually with a permanent coat of tan, which wore the set, tense expression of a busy lawyer in his office or a statesman considering some delicate and difficult complication. That would be one of the contestants—one of the master golfers.

At five minutes past eight the first pair started off on the qualifying round. All day the wood and iron heads whistled and the putts rolled. The links, a bright green paradise in the Jersey hills, with clusters of trees here and there and occasionally a glimmering ribbon of water, stretched forth a lovely panorama for the eye. Some noticed and praised it, but for the most part the thousands of visitors were too busy following and applauding their chosen idols to pay any attention to the beauties of nature.

The best five scores of the qualifying round of 36 holes were as follows:

Jellie . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 - 71—141

Evans . . . . . . . . . . . 72 - 76—148

Marston . . . . . . . . . 75 - 73—148

Lewis . . . . . . . . . . . 78 - 71—149

Gardner . . . . . . . . . 73 - 77—150

That evening a crowd of Grassview members remained at Baltusrol for dinner. Aloysius Jellie occupied the seat of honor at their table, and his slouching form was the focus on which all eyes were centered. He had won the gold medal for the qualifying round by playing 36 holes 7 under par—an unprecedented score. At that pace there was no man in the world who could even make it interesting for him. The draw had come out as evenly as could be expected from that haphazard proceeding. Chick Evans, Gardner and Marston were among the lower sixteen; Travers, Ouimet and Jellie in the upper.

“Your man hasn't a chance to reach the finals,” said a Mr. Higginbotham of Upper Montclair, stopping beside the Grassview table. He was glad to get away from there immediately after.

Jellie came through his first two matches with flying colors. To be sure, his opponents were not in his class—young Anderson of Clinton Valley and McBride of Oakdale. They were smothered.

For his third match he drew Ouimet, and the match drew the gallery. The great conqueror of Ray and Vardon had not been playing up to his best form in the tournament, but his prestige is great, and that, linked with the notoriety of his opponent, drew two thousand spectators. They saw some masterly golf, but the match was a farce. At the end of the first nine holes Jellie, out in 36, was 4 up, and he finally won 6 and 5. In the meantime. Jerry Travers had beaten John Anderson, and it was Jellie against Travers in the semifinals, with Bob Gardner and Chick Evans in the other half.

“Only two more to beat, old man,” said Tom Innes that night to the hope of Grassview.

Mr. Jellie nodded, but did not reply. It did indeed appear, as the sport writers had predicted, that the strain of the great tournament was telling on him. His face was drawn a little and his eyes had the reddish hollow look of a man who is not getting enough sleep. He was getting morose, too, and touchy. That same evening at Grassview, when Huntington had asked him why he didn't try the jerk stroke on full mashies, he had responded in ironic terms more heated than elegant.

“It's getting old Jellie's goat,” declared Monty Fraser, anxiously. “We must make him go to bed early tonight.”

The following day was one that Jerry Travers and four thousand spectators will never forget.

Travers and Jellie teed off at nine o'clock, and the gallery followed. Jellie, who appeared haggard and nervous, was expected by everyone to crack. As he took the driver from the caddie and addressed the ball the trembling of his hands could be perceived by those fifty feet away.

“It's a shame to take the money,” whispered Grantland Rice to a friend. “Why, the man's a nervous wreck.”

And yet the nervous wreck won the first hole, a par 5, with a 3. Travers, who had been on his game all week, merely smiled. The second was halved in 4. The third, a short hole at Baltusrol.

Jellie won by sinking a 30-footer for a two. Again Travers smiled. But when Jellie reached the green on the fourth in 2, a long tricky hole with an immense sand pit just in front of the green, an amazed murmur went up from the great gallery, and Travers was observed to bestow a thoughtful and serious look on his opponent.

From there on it was a heart-breaking, merciless struggle between perfection and transcendence. Never before had Travers, the king of match play, gotten balls so straight and far with the wood, never had he laid his irons to the pin with such deadly accuracy, and he putted as only Travers can putt. How he was beaten on that day he cannot yet understand. Jellie was unsteady as a sapling in a storm. He sliced continually and forced himself to play many shots from hazards and the rough. It was these incredible recoveries that caused the great throng of spectators to gasp amazedly and stare at one another in speechless wonder, then to burst out into a roar of applause that shook the Jersey hills.