The Tale of the Joyful Jane
A Motoring and Golf Story
A. C. Allenson
“By the Tip of an Eyelash,” etc.
THE feud between the Corries and the Jordans was a two-generation affair. It began about a scrap of land and a well. The Corries owned all the hamlet-town of Carsdale except for a fifty-acre farm that belonged to the Jordans and was situated under the aristocratic nose of the formers’ mansion.
When the Corries took the air on their veranda, and cast their eyes over their broad acres, there was the trumpery storey-and-a-half farmhouse, with its unsightly outbuildings, marring the foreground of the landscape.
George Jordan refused to sell and thus enable Mr. Corrie to abate the nuisance of plebeian proximity. When the Kaiser of Carsdale could not get what he wanted by negotiation, he tried force and arms. The casus belli was the well on the strip of land. Corrie claimed both, figuring that Jordan’s pugnacity would land him in a fight that would lead him to more accommodating views, or a sheriff’s sale. He guessed right, in parts. Jordan did fight, and, in the end, won. It meant a heavy mortgage on the little farm, and for many a long day the Jordans went without many desirable things to eat ai d wear. But ultimately they came through the stress,,right side up.
There were compensations, too. Whenever the Corries had social functions, lawn parties and the like, Jordan usually went over to the well, pumped a few buckets of water with a creaky winch, and outpoured them on the ground, just to show that all was right with the world. It made the Corries furious, and the knowledge was balm to George Jordan’s rueged soul.
When these fathers departed to their fathers, the sons took up the falling pennons, Percy Corrie in his high-nosed, supercilious way, Tom Jordan in his bluff, peppery fashion. They were born to clash. Corrie was a tall, thin, east-windy, dignified man, entirely conscious of the vast gulf that separated the Corrie family from the rest of Carsdale. He radiated a chill, foggy atmosphere. One sneezed and wanted something hot with lemon in it after five minutes’ intercourse with him. The outside world were hoi pollot, nouveau riche, parvenu. He was too dignified to call them bounders or outsiders or unwashed in plain terms.
Jordan was short, sciuare, stockilv built and had the family jaw and backbone, topped off with wiry, red hair. The coming together of the two men was like the meeting of a glossy, flossy, black Spanish rooster, and a red, scrappy gamecock.
Feathers would fly, more black than red ones. '
The Corries were rich, and when the town of Carsdale boomed they reaped heavy harvests. Jordan left the farm in the hands of a younger brother, and went to work in a machine shop, where things grew a bit faster than in Dame Nature’s factories. Percy Corrie, home from college, with fraternity pins puncturing his vest in jewelled magnificence, could look through his neighbor in overalls as if no such unsightly blot disfigured the streets of fair Carsdale. Later on Tom set up for himself in a bicycle selling and repairing shop. He was handy and clever, with a head full of shrewd notions and contrivances, and fingers that could express them in terms of steel. Then, a few years later he went into the automobile business, selling other people’s products. Finally he developed ideas of his own, secured financial backing, and started in to build cars.
All the critical hicks in town grinned in their usual sapient way. Wasn’t Henry Ford doing it all? Besides, who in time was Tom Jordan? A chap they’d known, gone to school with, worked alongside of, all these years. Better if he’d stuck where he belonged—doctoring bicycles. His pride and silly, unchristian ambition would lead to the road that meanders over the hill to the poorhouse. But, when things began to hum busily in the Jordan shop, the rail birds, watching the performance, said, “By Gosh ! If Tom Jordan ain’t saying something!” Then they wagged their whiskers, and prophesied what banks and borrowed money and competition would do to him one of these days. Fancy! Carsdale to buck up against Detroit and places like that !
JORDAN just plugged ahead. Wind wouldn’t make him and certainly wouldn’t mar him. Real nifty little things his cars were, too. Popular, but
not the vulgar kind of popularity, you know. His product represented the stage beyond the jitney, the flivver, and the Tin Lizzie, the second spasm in the disease. Jordan’s specialty was a thousand-dollar car, no more, no less. Those who bought it did not have to look up to everybody else. It was one of the niftiest, sweetest, subtlest, simplest machines that ever purred. One hardly knew it from one of those five thousand dollar beauties unless a shark at the trade. Someone succinctly named it, to emphasize the gulf separating it from the Tin Lizzie, Jordan’s Joyful Jane. And the title stuck.
It wasn’t the kind of car everybody bought. Ambitious young men, cultivating the society of desirable girls, felt that the Jane was helpful. It takes a mighty fine kind of a girl to smile on a man when he is taking her out in a smelly, blue-smoke rattletrap that sounds like a man coming along with the scissors and knife grinding peripatetic factory in the same cordial way as when he pranks up to the front door with a Jordan’s Jane. Tom Jordan was a philospher. He understood that, while men are born free and equal, they everlastingly itch to do away
with the handicap; and women more so. They want to be equal to the tier higher up, not the other bunch. Jordan knew this, and landed on the right spot. Mr. Robert Fitzsimmons has the credit of discovering the solar plexus. Of course, - there was a solar plexus in humanity’s physical scheme before his day, but only anatomical sharks knew anything about it. The world now knows it is a spot provided by beneficent Nature for knock outs. That is just where Tom Jordan landed. When Dun and Bradstreet, and impertinently inquisitive people of that ilk, began to put pleasant figures to Jordan’s commercial standing, the birds on the rail discovered that Tom was a genius, as they had always declared. They nudged one another in the ribs, asking if they had not, on the level, said he'd land somewhere or other one of these days.
At forty-five Jordan was warm, not a millionaire yet, but approaching the precipice of the deceitfulness of riches. He had a booming business, a jolly, amiable, good-looking wife, and a tall, pretty daughter who kept his veranda from looking lonely on pleasant evenings. Corrie sneered at him as nouveau riche, while Jordan never lost an opportunity of giving it as his opinion that the other was a
frosty-faced snob. The only time the fog-environed iceberg was known to betray warm emotion was when secured admittance into the social and golf clubs of Carsdale. He enquired pathetically what the world was coming to. Tom wasn’t much on society, it is true. Often he said “was" when it ought to have been “were,” and his habit of messing up pronouns would have made a conscientious pedagogue shiver down the back. Still Carsdale did not run violently to culture, and few were erudite enough to throw stones or be over-critical. Jordan, nearly everybody admitted, was a good enough fellow, square, obliging, and a comer. So what’s a frill or two of culture among friends?
*”Vv XTOW this haP-
i N pened on a fine Saturday afternoon. Jordan was bowling along the street in his Jane when he saw something that made him sit up and take notice. It was the sight of his daughter, Mary, walking up the High Street with a a tall, presentable-looking, young man. For a moment he was puzzled to identify the latest victim. Then he remembered that someone had said Robert Beatson was back home. Yes, it was Bob, undoubtedly. Bob was an artist, so it was alleged, and had been abroad for several years studying art and other things in England and France and Italy, and places like those. The Beatsons came from a village near Carsdale, and were real, oldtime, society folks, genuine as the Corries, but without the lucre encumbrances. Bob’s father had been a clergyman and his mother lived, since her husband’s death, in Carsdale. She had an income sufficiently large to enable her to reside in modest comfort, and Bob had expended a small legacy, left him by a grandfather, on his artistic education.
Jordan had-a poor opinion of artists. They seemed a happy-go-lucky sort of people who owned little real estate or few blocks of stock. He had seen some of Bob Beatson’s pictures, and they looked all right. They had trees with leaves on them and cows and horses that could not well be mistaken for anything else. In others there were figures with fewer clothes on them than Jordan thought quite the thing. Bob himself was all right. A little bit coltish, formerly, like most parson’s sons who seem to have their father’s omitted devilment doubled up on them; but nothing bad. He and Mary had been rather chummy when they were at school. Of course, things were different now.. Mary would have his pile one of these days, and Jordan had no fancy for a sonin-law who spent his time dabbing com-
mon cows on bits of canvas, or painting ruined windmills that ought to be pulled down, or depicting individuals whose chief ambition appeared to be to cheat tailors and dressmakers out of their livelihood. What good was painting, anyway? If you wanted truth, there were the photographers, and if color was craved, what about a real sporty, splashy chromo?
IT was rather late when Mary reached home that evening. She had telephoned at dinner time saying she was at Ellen Bradley’s and would not be back till late. When she arrived, at ten, she was quite cheerful, and had a bit more color than usual in her face. She started fussing
about her father rather unusually. There were slippers to bring, his pipe to find, newspapers to pick up from the floor where her parent had scattered them, the light to arrange rather unnecessarily. Then she perched on the arm of his chair and began to ruffle his bristly hair.
“Had a perfectly scrumptious day, daddy,” she said. “Shopped all morning with Ellen Bradley, lunched downtown, and then, when she had to go home, whoever do you think I met? Why, Bob Beatson !’”
“Very remarkable,” commented her father, drily.
She looked at him rather enquiringly, then continued.
“Yes,” she said. “We went up to the tennis courts and played till five. Then the Bradleys would have us go there to dinner.”
“I saw you on the street,” he intimated. “Really! But I never saw you,” she
“No, I guess not,” he said. “That was Bob Beatson, eh?”
“Yes. Isn’t it nice to have him back?” Mr. Jordan did not appear to be overimpressed by the event.
“What’s he going to do now? Work for a living?” he grunted.
“Work! Why, of course, he works, tremendously hard,” she said. “He has wonderful talent. Everyone says so, but you know that a beginner has to get known before people will buy his work. A man with a name can paint the most awful stuff and sell it, while a young man, unknown, can do wonderful pictures' and nobody will buy. Ignorance is the enemy of art.”
“I see,” replied her father. “Pity he doesn’t paint something useful. There’s an opening right here for a hustling house painter. I’d give him a job right away for those fence pickets. And then there’s always room in the car shops for a really smart body painter.”
“Father!” she protested indignantly. “He’s an artist.”
“Well, we’d make allowances for all that,” he answered amiably. “That is if he’s the right, trying sort. Most of these artists are all front and no back, full window and empty shelves.”
Mary was too indignant to pursue the topic. Mr. Jordan knew she was offended, and tried to coax her round.
“Went out to the Country Club this afternoon,” he said. “Got round in ninetythree. I guess that’s about my high-water mark. I’d give a tidy bit to be a real scratch man, but I’ve always a loose bolt somewhere. If I drive in form I’m a waster with my irons, and when I’m running ’em down blindfold I couldn’t hit a haystack on the tees. Just look at that Corrie! Plays like a machine, drive, iron or mashie, couple of putts, and a four on the card, or if it’s a five the next’ll be three.”
“He hasn’t soul enough to be a bad golfer,” he went on, now in full stride. “Walks through competitions as if they had been framed to provide bric-abrac for his house. There’s the Governors’ Challenge Cup, to be the property of the man who wins it three times, and he has two legs of it already, with a dead certainty that in two or three weeks he’ll gulp it all. It’s a sheer piece of ridiculous nonsense to have a scratch competition in a club like ours. It means a dead
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gift to Corrie. I wish I could pull in a ringer who’d cut him up piecemeal, hole after hole.”
“Father, I think you’re horrid," said Mary, who was not a bit interested in Mr. Corrie's vices or virtues. And giving him a snappy little peck on the forehead she departed for the night.
THERE could be no doubt about it.
Corrie was a golfing Minotaur, a war profiteer, a son of the horse-leech, a lean and hungry Cassius, all rolled thinly into one. In a word he was an Argentomaniac, which seems a horrible accusation to hurl, but it is true. In the vulgar tongue, he was an incorrigible pot-hunter. He had a burglar’s craving for plate. Let a new trophy be presented to the club for competition and Corrie would regard it as a fox contemplates a plump and hapless rooster that has ventured recklessly into No Man’s Land. After taking in its æsthetic points, he would weigh it in his hands, investigate its marks, flip it with an enquiring finger nail to hear the musical ring of the metal, and then sit down to figure out just the place it would occupy best in his trophy cabinet. He had a collection of prizes that would have stocked a silversmith’s establishment. Cups and medals and salvers; shields and mugs and spoons. He went about amassing metals with the painstaking enterprise of a junkman, and the ruthlessness of a Hun prince of the blood looting a church altar or a widow’s chateau. To suggest that he was unpopular at the club does not convey the proper impression.
The Governors’ Challenge Cup was a big silver tank on three legs, one of those monstrosities that are excrescences on the hide of the royal and ancient game. As a plutocratic baby’s bathtub it would have possessed virtues, but as a token of a golfer’s victory it was a gross banality. Still it represented the high-water mark of Carsdale golf.
When it was brought into the club dinning room, and put on exhibition prior to the big contest, it seemed to cast a leery blight on the entire establishment. It was a jibe, a taunt, a sneer, to the proletariat of golf, the honest rank and file of the course. Everybody knew how things would turn out. A few brave fellows, plucky enough to put up some kind of a fight, would turn in fair cards, but Corrie would wade through them, playing his bloodless, soulless game, pack the cup into its box, tuck it under his arm, and take it to his lair. It was not the cup itself, not the lickings it involved, that worried members, but the smirking, frosty bumptiousness of Corrie. Of course, there was always a chance that he would drop dead during the competition, or lose an arm or leg by some favoring interposition of Providence. But, apart from these improbable occurrences, the cup was as good as his.
'T' HE sorest man in the entire club and A county, during these days, was Tom Jordan. He was as sore as a boil, an aching tooth, a pet corn in a tight shoe, a licked politician. And when Tom was sore, he was sore, and the world knew about it. Things, apart from the Joy-
ful Jane, were not going at all well. Mary had not been quite the same to him since he suggested new avocations for Bob Beatson, and this, added to the impending triumph of Corrie, made the world rather a vale. Mrs. Jordan was a kind of Swedish neutral, which means she preserved outward impartiality, but inwardly gave much aid and comfort to the anti-Tom confederation.
Jordan saw Bob at the Country CLub now and again, but the youngster never seemed to care for a full-blooded game. He would make a bluff at it but, when a man goes out with just a pretty girl and a mashie, and they cut across, regardless of the plan of the artist who laid out the grounds, it is fair presumption that golf is a minor interest.
“Guess a straight eighteen hole game would rack him all up,” said Tom irritably to his daughter. “I saw him hit out real savagely with a toy mashie the other day, and the ball went a full hundred feet, but it seemed to tucker him out badly.”
“Yes, you see,” said Mary. “He has to take care of his hands. And then he is always seeking for ideas and inspirations. You might not think it, but he has always his profession in mind. He is like you used to be, though not quite as cross, when you were thinking out the Jane— always pondering things, and figuring out plans and improvements.”
“When I went out to think, I didn’t take a girl with me,” he grunted.
“Perhaps you might have come on quicker if you had,” she answered flippantly.
“Huh !” he retorted.
“You’d be astonished, father, to know what ideas and plans come into his mind when he rambles over the course,” she smiled. She was always smiling these days, even when he was grumpiest, he meditated darkly.
“I daresay I should,” he replied.
“He is going to play real golf from now on,” she said. “I’ve told him that he ought to. A man’s got to be a mixer. Who knows what it may lead to? He may be painting the portraits of most of the golf folks soon. He does not like Mr. Corrie either. Mr. Corrie drove into us when we were approaching the fifteenth green. We had only stopped a minute or two to rest.”
“The course isn’t a drawing room,” he replied. “Still that Corrie thinks he owns the place. He’ll think so still more after the cup contest is over.”
“I suppose he’s sure to win?” she asked.
“Unless Providence intervenes,” he replied with that gloominess with which faith regards Providence in trying situa-
“Bob sent in his entry to-day. He said he might as well be in the swim,” she told him.
“Swim!” he scoffed. “It will be in the sink. What on earth does he pick out a scratch competition for as a starter?”
“He can’t do worse than get beaten, like the rest of you,” she replied unfeelingly. “Then again he hasn’t the Corrie scare on him like other players seem to
“Well, if by some miracle he can put a fence between Corrie and that cup, I’ll think a mightv lot better of his art,” he said. “But, Mary, don’t make a mistake and be too friendly with young Beatson. He might get notions into his head.”
“Why, father, what kind of notions?’ she asked in wide-eyed innocence.
“Oh! Just notions,” he answerec vaguely. “And remember, Mary, hi hasn’t a dollar in the world, and precioui
little chance of making any. One of these days you’ll be a pretty rich woman, if all goes right.”
“Father!” And she rose from her chair. “If anybody else said such a thing
I should say he was a-” Then she
“A what?" he asked rumblingly.
“Just what you call that Mr. Corrie. I should say you were a —— snob.” And w'ith such undaughterly remark she left him to cogitate, flinging back to him a smile and a kiss at the door to neutralize the sting.
IN the club room was the deepest gloom.
The run of the draw had brought Corrie against the club’s likeliest men, and they had gone down like ninepins. Beatson had experienced phenomenal luck. First he got a bye, then played the worst man in the competition, managing to foozle home a hole or so ahead, and then his third opponent scratched. The fourth round was a contest of dubs. Bob’s opponent could do nothing right while Bob himself was little better, but just good enough to win in a horrible encounter, and land into the final—the scrubbiest finalist the competition had ever known. Little wonder the club was in dark despair.
A few of the more frivolous minded sought to give a sporting fillip to the occasion, and shoot a joy dart or two into spectral gloom.
“Isn’t there a sporting soul in all this mob of undertakers?" enquired Stokes, a giddy young broker. “A hundred to twenty-five on Corrie.”
“If you are really wanting spending money, why don’t you send the hat round nicely?” grunted Marchbank, the club secretary.
“Hundred to twenty then, old dear,” answered Stokes. “Come on, some of you. Show your sporting blood and give the lad a show of backing."
There was a grizzled old Scotsman, a visitor from a neighboring club, sitting in a corner. His name was MacDougall, and what he did not know about golf and golfing was not worth knowing. He looked up from his benedictine, and fixed Stokes with his glittering eye.
“I’ll take that,” he said, to the general astonishment. MacDougall was rather notorious for his extreme carefulness. “We ought to encourage the lad. I’ve known him since he was a baby, and his people before him. Just a hundred to twenty, eh, Stokes?”
“Double it, or more, if you like. Say five hundred to one hundred,” offered Stokes.
“I’m no plutocrat,” said MacDougall. “But make it double, two hundred to forty. There’s always a chance. Corrie might get lumbago or something like that. I win if Beatson gets the cup?”
“That suits me,” replied Stokes. “He’s as likely to get lumbago as that lawnmower out there. He only gets what nobody wants him to get, and that’s not lumbago.” They were an unfeeling lot.
Jordan gave MacDougall a lift back to town in his Jane. He knew the old Scot, and was suspicious. If the old man had broken out into philanthropy toward a stock broker, it was a conclusive sign .of senile decay.
“A sporty little flutter, that of your’s Mac,” said Jordan.
“Just an impulsive fancy,” replied MacDougall. Jordan knew that his companion was as much given to impulsive
fancies in finance as a wheelbarrow is to amorousness.
“But look at Bob’s performance. Enough to make a man shiver,” said Tom.
“Beat his man, didn’t he?” enquired MacDougall. “What’s the use of punishing your mount when the race is in your hand? A good jockey doesn’t ride his horse all out. A nose is as good as twenty lengths, and a good sportsman doesn’t make a show of his adversary.”
“You think Bob has a chance?” asked Jordan.
“Golf’s a funny game, Tom,” said MacDougall sententiously. “That’s its charm. Everybody else, playing against Corrie, has been licked before he got to the first tee. In ’97 I was in Scotland and at Muirfield saw a Scotch undergraduate laddie, Jack Allan, with not a hundred to one chance, as it was thought, lift the amateur championship of Great Britain against the pick of the land. It’s a funny game.”
THAT evening Tom Jordan was more silent than usual, his daughter more exuberantly joyful.
“Going to the final to-morrow?” he asked Mary.
“Rather! Wouldn’t miss it for worlds,"
“I should think you’d hate to see your friends slaughtered by a butcher like Corrie,” he said. .
“You’ve got to stand by them, win or lose,” she replied, with cheery sportsmanship.
“And you think Bob has a chance?” he enquired.
“Golf’s a funny game,” she declared. It was MacDougall’s reflection. Jordan was not superstitious, but was prone to be influenced by coincidence. The night was yet young. He decided he would take a breath of air. So, putting on hat and coat, he strolled along to the club. There was a festive crowd in the billiard room. Corrie was there. Beatson at the billiard table was putting up an unusually good game. Some of the members were chaffing him on the long odds that prevailed against him, and he was taking it all very
“Come on, Tom,” shouted a friend across the room. “Any part of five hundred at five to one on Corrie for tomorrow. How big a piece of it do you
Tom saw Corrie’s tight shut mouth
open the least bit to smile.
“I’ll take the bunch,” replied Jordan. There was a roar of laughter and applause. Young Beatson stopped as he was about to make a stroke and looked over at Mary’s father, frankly pleased.
His home lay in the same direction as Jordan’s, so they strolled along together.
“That was a mighty nice compliment, Mr. Jordan,” Bob said. “I don’t want to talk about chances, but I’ll do my best to give you a sporting run for your money.” “Go to it. Bob,” said Jordan. “Lick
Corrie and I’ll-. By Jupiter, I’ll let
you paint Mary’s portrait.”
Bob expressed utmost gratification, but did not feel called upon to say that the work was already far advanced. It does not do to tell fathers everything, all at
WITH all golfing, and some barbarian,: Carsdale behind him Corrie drove off from the first tee, a long ball, straight down the middle of the course. Bob followed on the same line. The stroke was
the whippy, graceful sweep of the golfer who has learned his game in the classic schools—easy stand, smooth swing, natural follow through. Corrie, and others, seeing the manner of the smiting, knew there might be a game after all. Both approaches were played faultlessly, and with a couple of putts each they halved the hole. Thereafter the gallery settled down to a real fight. The dark horse was a goer, and knew track tricks, wherever he’d learned them.
The next three holes were halved in par golf, every stroke a fighting blow, nothing asked, nothing given, nothing wasted. Then there was a break in the monotony, a long putt at the fifth giving Corrie the lead.
At the seventh Beatson squared the game, and they turned on equal terms a( the ninth. Corrie was playing with machine-like exactness, Beatson less careful and precise, but saving himself in tight pinches by dash and brilliance that made his game the more delightful of the two to watch. Jordan was in the seventh heaven of delight, the more so as a new anxiety appeared on Corrie’s face now and again. It was improbable that the faultless playing could be maintained. One or the other would crack presently, and the advantage usually is with the steady, rather than the brilliant man. At the eleventh, without any warning at all, it seemed that the crack had come. A bit of bad luck in the lie from the tee put Bob at disadvantage, and Corrie snapped the hole, like a terrier bolting a rabbit. At the twelfth Bob found a bad bunker with a plucky, hazardous shot, and lost the hole hopelessly, while at the thirteenth an uncanny long approach putt from the very edge of the green ran down for Corrie, leaving his antagonist no chance at all. In a few minutes the even game had turned into a procession. With three down and five to play the match appeared to be as good as over. Jordan and Mary were in extreme gloom. Stokes chaffed MacDougall about the bet.
“Guess it’s my lucky day,” he said with a laugh.
“The game’s not finished till the winning stroke goes down,” replied the Scot.
“Rotten luck at this stage of the game,” conceded Stokes.
“So long as your man keeps his courage up, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” replied MacDougall. “I remember Johnny Ball being the wrong side of Dormy Five, and winning all five in a row, and then the decider for good measure.”
THERE was a water hazard at the fourteenth. Corrie, with better local knowledge, played short, and to the right. Beatson went neck or nothing for the green beyond, a glorious long ball. It seemed to be clearing the obstacle, and then a gust of wind caught it, beat it down, and it fell with an ominous splash into the pond. And there it floated, a tantalizing white speck on the water. Playing the odd, Corrie reached the green. Beatson under ground rules was entitled to drop behind and lose a stroke. He stood a moment on the edge of the pond considering, then selected a short-faced, stubby kind of niblick-mashie and waded into the pond, amid the uproarious shouts of the mob who loved sporting chances. MacDougall appeared to be in an ecstacy, and stood rubing his hands.
“Just what Freddy Tait did at Prestwick in ’99,” he said.
There was a splash and a jet of water shot forward, concealing the ball for the
moment. Then it was seen pitching near the green and running toward the pin.
The recovery put Corrie off his game. He tried to run down a long one, and missed, Beatson getting back a hole. The fifteenth was a short one, necessitating a mashie pitch over sandy waste on to a fast, sloping green. Bob pitched perfectly, just clearing the sand, and running on with a spiral cut motion that pulled it up near the flag. Corrie was clearly anxious, and overpitched. The ball struck the hard, fast green, and bounded away fifty
One up and three to play. Anybody’s game still. By careful play Corrie managed to snatch a half at the sixteenth. The seventeenth was the hardest hole to win back on the whole course, being an easy three. Both drives were good. Then Corrie showed the white feather. Instead of taking his mashie and pitching over a bit of rough, he tried to run through with the putter. The ball hopped hither and thither among the little hummocks and stopped short of the green.
“Duffer’s golf,” grunted MacDougall.
BEATSON went to his mashie, curved a dainty little chip over the rough, and sailed up sweetly to the very edge of the hole. Corrie tried to run down, but failed wretchedly. All square and one to go.
t: The last hole was the hardest of the links. There was a high hummocky hill to be negotiated, covered with thick bramble and fern. Beyond this was a grassy plateau, thirty yards or so wide, affording an excellent lie for an approach shot to the green. Both men reached the spot safely with irons. There was left a hundred-yard shot to a green with a fast, -tricky, sloping face.
Playing the odd, Corrie got there, and ■Stuck on the edge of the rough. Beatson ■pitched up a shot that dropped on the trim of the green and stopped on the upper edge of it. Corrie played timorously, leaving himself a long putt He hung a long time over the stroke. The ball travelled past the hole and then flukily trickled back and dropped in. Bob had a twelve-foot putt for the hole and match, or he might play for a half and safety. He chose the big risk, and gave his ball a chance. Straight for the cup it ran. It never looked like missing, and dropped into the tin with a decision that seemed to be the reward of plucky, decided play.
ƒ I ' HE club house was crowded. Pro' * bably that accounted for the fact that Mr. Jordan was not able to find his daughter after the tumult had died down somewhat. Daughters are difficult that way very often. Then by an odd coincidence he found that young Beatson was missing. It might be modesty on the victor’s part, but Jordan doubted. He hopped happily into his Jane. It had been a perfectly corking day. He was five hundred to the good. Corrie looked fearfully glum, as if he had been cruelly robbed of his property. Beatson was, after all, a regu lar kind of lad, even a bit more than that —game as a pebble and not a dab of yellow in him. It was an awful pity he did nothing in an earning capacity but paint. There was no chance for him in Carsdale. If the folks there wanted to stick their pictures on the walls in gilt frames, they sent a photograph to an “enlarger” and he did his worst Then they hung the atrocity over the antimacassar in the par-
Continued, from page 87
lor, a perpetual penance to their offspring. It was an awful pity that all Bob’s punch and pep would be wasted on spotty cows and sporty ladies. He knew there were pictures that sold for thousands and even hundreds of thousands, but the artist had to be dead a few centuries before his market boomed, which was an inconvenient kind of arrangement, and of no value whatever in an argument with butcher, baker, or candlestick-maker. Still, he’d keep his word. Bob should paint Mary’s portrait. If it wasn’t too bad, he might take Mrs. Jordan next, and, if the worst came to the worst — by Jehoshaphat! no one should say he skulked —he’d climb the altar of sacrifice himself, and be painted.
He was sorry to have missed Bob, for he had meant to take him home to dinner. He drove in at the back gate of his home, put the car into the garage, and entered the house by the kitchen door. He went into the dining room. The windows were open leading to the veranda. Outside stood Mary and Bob in very earnest conversation. Just as Jordan was about to cough discreetly and retire tunefully, he heard Bob giving certain opinions on automobiles. He had bo compunction whatever about listening.
The young cub was actually pulling the Joyful Jane to bits. It was a wonderful success, Bob was admitting, had a ripping good engine, stood up to its work man fashion, but, from the artistic point of view, was rather appalling. It was rural, bucolic, Carsdaley. Jordan listened, aghast at the presumption, as the two talked of streamline, shape, style, color, finish, until he could stand it no longer. He stepped through the window, and Bob rose politely from his chair to greet him.
“I must be off,” he said. “I just stepped in for a minute.”
“I hunted high and low for you at the club to ask you to dinner,” explained Jordan. “We’d like you to stay. Never mind about dressing. We are plain folks.”
Mary looked demurely grateful, and went indoors to help her mother with the preparations.
“Well, it has been a great day,” said Mr. Jordan, dropping into a chair. “I’m just tickled to death you trimmed Corrie, and trimmed him at his best. He’s been cock of the walk too long. But, I say, what’s that I heard you saying about mv car?”
“You don’t mean that you heard me?” asked Bob. “It must have sounded awfully rotten form, from your guest, too.”
“Never mind about that,” said Jordan. “The public is a pretty fair judge of cars, and I’ve sold a tidy bunch of thousands of them.”
“Yes, it’s a good car, in parts,” replied Bob. “The pity is that it ought to be such a lot better. The engineering part is all right, but when you come to the artistic part, it falls down badly.”
“A thousand’s the price,” said Jordan. “No more, no less.”
“I think the improvement would cost no more,” answered Bob. “Ugliness is more expensive than beauty. In an ama-
teurish sort of way I have thought a lot about car styles and appearance.” And he launched forth into a learned dissertation about automobiles that made Jordan open his eyes. The kid knew something besides painting and golf.
“The idea,” continued Bob, “is to make the beauty of the body match the quality of the mechanism. In one way anything satisfies the general public that is shiny and splashy, and will carry its load, but if I have the right idea of your notions, I don’t think that will satisfy you. You want to turn out a car that will be the soundest and most artistic that can be put on the market for the money. That’s the Jordan idea.”
“You bet it is,” answered Tom. “Look here, Bob, why don’t you sketch your idea for me. I am not so bound up with my own notions as to reject better ones, and I buv brains when I can find them.”
“Exactly,” said Bob. taking out a pocket sketch book and turning its pages till he came to a sketch of the Joyful Jane, but a more joyful one than Jordan had ever dreamed. In comparison with its grace and beauty, Jordan’s car looked like an express wagon engined.
“But the cost of it!” exclaimed Tom. Í
“It ought not to cost a dollar more than the present car,” replied Bob. “There is no more material used. It means practb* cally the same outlay but put to artistid purpose.” And he gave a little lecture on the line of beauty as applied to cars, decorative art, harmonies of color, eyecharming, heart-cheering. There it was, on paper, a thing of beautv, and a joy, if not for ever, at least as long as a car ought to be a joy from the manufacturer’s standpoint.
“It’s a peach,” admitted Jordan. “Are you very busy, Bob?”
“Not too busy,” replied the othelf gravely.
“Too busy to take up this artistic sida as a business proposition?”
“I don’t think so,” answered Beatson, “I’ve got my way to make.”
“Consulting designer’s job would nof interfere with your art?” enquired Mr¿ Jordan.
“Not a bit. The end of all art is to be practical. That is the outcome of its idealism,” orated Boh. “Besides when a man thinks of getting married, he has to keen his eye on the main chance.”
“Married, eh!” said Jordan.
“Not yet, of course,” explained Bob. “I’ve got to make something for a wife to live on. I was coming over some evening to have a little talk with you, Mr. Jordan, about some plans Mary and I have it
“Come to dinner, please!” said Mary, peeping out at the window. Jordan looked from Beatson to her. A very artistic color scheme arranged itself on hei pretty face. Then he turned to look aí Bob again.
“We’ll have a talk about the plans Marj and you have been framing after dinner,’ he said. “It has been a great day, son, i mighty great day. Come in, and mak yourself at home.” And he pinched Mary’i pink cheek.
In England well-to-do people are standing in line for their food supplies, and they, at least, are learning that the talk of famine is not a story devised to frighten children that, as Lord Rhondda has said, the food wanted by mankind does not exist. The word shortage is not strong enough; the world is up against a nasty thing known to India famine.