The Torby Tragedy
Marmaduke Tells Another Golfing Reminiscence
A. C. Allenson
Who wrote “The Astronomer and the Star,” “Drop Behind and Lose Two,” etc.
"BEASTLY old dear, really, you know!” And Marmaduke, having surveyed the Hunt Cup that stood on the big sideboard of the golf club, unscrewed his face, let his monocle drop to his chest, and cocked his feet up on the window sill. He spoke not at all unkindly, but rather with good-natured indulgence.
“As an umbrella stand in the hall of a munitions millionaire it might have a career of magnificent usefulness. In the guise of a chased cup it ought to make that dear old top, Benvenuto Cellini, turn in his grave.”
The crowd had gone home. There were but three members left in the club house and the shades of night were falling fast. Marmaduke’s other name was Jackson,
but that has nothing to do with this story. His business in life was to play golf. He was supposed to be interested in the fluctuations of stocks and bonds, things like those, and, as they fluctuated just as they wanted to whether he was present or absent, it did not matter a great deal where he was.
“You know how fond one gets of homely things,” he continued. “Some girls, for instance, female cousins, and that kind of people. They are not beautiful and therefore are good, plain and substantial, so to speak. They are sure to make wonderful wives for certain poor, lucky chaps and, when they have gone off, you miss them most frightfully. It was like that with the hunt cup. We gave the hunts a trifle of plate for a steeplechase and they
retorted with the cup. The secretary, or some equally casual chappie, gets out a bill—hundred or so—chucks it at the silversmith, bidding him do his worst, and the Johnny obeys orders. Three times you’ve got to win that cup to lead it home. Now what kind of a home must it be that would want it?”
You would imagine that any Canadian wife would stand firmly on her rights against any husband who sought to smuggle it into her house. Yet Torby coveted it. He actually grabbed two of its dear old legs and, if it had not been for Judson, he would have had her aboard his lugger before anybody would have realized the peril. It was Judson, just one week before the competition, who roused us to a sense of the situation in
which the dear oid thing stood and w> realized then how we’d miss its fat, ugly old mug when it was gone beyond recall.
“But Judson, dear old son !” we protested,
“How can we save it?
A scratch competition and old Torby a scratch man, streets ahead of the next best!
Short of a gun, an axe, or a timely act of God depriving Torby of life or limb, how is it to be done?”
“It can be done,” declared Judson.
“And, speaking with due modesty, I think I am the lad to do it.
Golf is experimental P y s c h o 1 o g y. It is thought, efficient thought, put into terms of shots and strokes, as the shooter or stroker, so to speak, expresses them with driver, niblick or what not, or causes them to be expressed.” I may not quote Judson precisely for he is rather baffling when he becomes psychological, but that’s near enough to get his drift. “You wait and see,” he told us.
That was much clearer so we let it go at that without any further exhausting study. Really, you know, Judson is one of these extraordinary blighters no fellow can possibly account for— a bit like a damp squib or a balky firecracker. You touch it up and it fizzes a bit; you think it is going to give a show, and you are infernally pipped when it Bolsheviks and declines to fizz any any more. Then, when you think nothing s doing, it rushes off with a whish and a bang that is positively nerve shattering. Judson is the sort of chappie who would open the unfed tiger’s cage at the Zoo, walk in and offer him a buttered muffin, utterly indifferent as to whether it was the beast’s wheatless or beefless day. He’d bring it off too—not the tiger, or the muffin—but the trick. If you or I tried ??.c^ ,a thing the tiger would have our blinking parapets, as dear old Bairnsfather would say. But Judson is a baffling blighter.
Well there was Torby—you are newcomers and as Torby has left the club j°P t know him— and there was the cup. I told you he was a scratch golfer, and a corking good scratch too. One of those bloodless, soulless, wooden Indian machine golfers—drive, brassey or some kind of iron a put or so, and the tinkle in the tin. Never up to this time had he lost his temper, never said what he wouldn’t wish his mother to hear fall from his lips, never snapped a club shaft in irritation, or ground a tooth off its setting—just a swing at the ball, drive, brassey or some kind of iron, a putt or so, and plop, as I intimated before. If I had my way I would seduce every such golfer in the
dark to the back of the club house and whittle him to small curly shavings with a dull, rusty knife.
Put a prize up at the club cup, a salver, or even a dinky spoon of the orange-wrapper variety and Torby’s eyes would gleam and glitter. After that he’d sit down, fold up his glasses and grin derisively round at us. The kind of chappie, don’t you know, who makes you fondle your niblick, and leads you to cherish the thought that it would be just as good putting things into bunkers as getting ’em out. He was rottenly unpopular other ways too. Such soul as he had was that of a monopolist. If a pretty girl came to the club, he’d snoop round till he got an introduction, and the first thing you’d know he’d be teaching her grips and things like that, and jollying her into believing that in a dozen or two private lessons he’d make her good as Mrs. Gavin.
He knew golf all the way out and home again, and literally bullied the club about it. You couldn’t open your mouth to say a word about the game, but he’d correct or contradict you. Caddies were driven to the verge of riot by him. One day they’d have to stand behind him, out of sight when he was making his stroke, the next he’d have ’em in full view so that he could be quite sure they weren’t grimacmg at him. It led to horrible trouble.
For instance one day his putts began to do stunts. They’d wobble off the line or start hurdling in a most extraordinary way. It was green pins the caddies were sticking in the line of his putts shoving ’em into the ground before he could get up to see what was up.
WELLa couple of days before the ' ’ hunt cup was to be played for, Judson conies into the smoking room. From his frivolous manner you would not think there was such a thing as trouble or sorrow in the world. There was the cup on the sideboard where you see it now— dear old thing. I don’t think there was a chappie present—and the room was full —whose heart did not ache to see its dear old fat face looking down on the mob sorrowfully. Really, don’t you know, it seemed to be saying:
“Can’t any of you blighters save me?”
It jangled up your nerves and heart strings just to look at it, and we were like a lot of mourners at a funeral to whom the unexpected news has been broken that their names are not mentioned in the will.
Judson said something heartlessly cheery—poker or drinks or matching nickles—I forget. Anyway it was brutal and footling. There was no response. Then he drifted up to the cup, picked her
up and had a real good, affectionate look
“I hate to do it,” he said.
We thought that probably he intended to abduct her or possibly to destroy her. His heart was in the right place even if it did operate rummily at times.
“Hate to do what?” somebody asked
“Win it,” he replied. “My wife’s artistic and everything has to be just so with her in the house. If I do agree to win it this year—and then twice more—can I leave it here?”
Then old Mr. Snibbs, the Baptist minister, chipped in. He felt it his duty and we honored him for it.
“Judson,” he remarked, “there are times when levity becomes pretty near an outrage ”
“What levity?” asked Judson.
“About the cup,” replied Mr. Snibbs, severely.
“Levity,” sniffed Judson, “there’s as much levity about that cup as about our cook, and she tips the beam at two twenty.”
“He means you are too darned funny on an occasion that's not a bit funny,” said old Goffey, the lawyer.
“Why, who’s dead? Can’t be old Torby, you look too glum. Break it to me, one or more of you, gently now,” Juddy begged.
“It’s about the cup,” said somebody sadly. “Torby’s got two legs of it, and this will be three and off she goes—-he wins it outright.”
“But he isn’t going to win it,” answered Judson. “What price are you figuring chances at?”
“I’m not greedy. Make your own price. Ten, twenty, thirty,” said Stollard, the broker.
“Twenty’s good enough for me,” answered Judson. “Ten dollars’ worth, please. The baby needs boots. I’ve just ten more. Any more unbelievers round?”
And he got accommodated of course.
“Now go home and sign the pledge,” somebody advised him. “Marmaduke, you see him home, and be sure to put him inside the door.”
I HAPPEN to live near his place. On the way home I tried to reason with him, but it was no good. All I could get out of him were variations on the psychology string—subjective and objective, the will to power, and such tommyrot. There were two kinds of golfers, he said, mere ball swatters and those who studied the human equation.
He drooled on in that way quite a bit. It was like a page selected at random out of any up to date dictionary—entities, self-consciousness, and other kinds of
consciousness, telepathic influence, things like that —till my bean swam.
“Torby’s got his vulnerable spot, his Achilles’ heel,” he went on. “It is against this point we have to direct our forces. Watch pyschology get his goat, horns, whiskers, and all.” That was all I could get out of him. Not a scrap of encouragement in it to induce me to pick up any of the crazy bets that were flying round. I delivered him at the door, practically into his wife’s hands, and was very particular to commend him to her earnest care. A sweetly charming little woman, Mrs. Judson, though clearly under the influence of her husband’s delusions.
“I want him to beat Mr. Torby,” she said, with that ridiculous confidence some delightful women have in their quite ordinary husbands. “But I shall positively decline to harbor that absurd silver horsemanger in my house.”
The idea that her husband was as likely to win the cup as to be elected President of the Chinese Republic never entered her dear little loyal mind. Wives—some of them—are the most curiously obsessed souls. One cannot but be touched by the pathos of their confidence. Little Mrs. Judson on other matters was quite sensible.
THAT night Judson did what was for him a rather extraordinary thing. He appeared at the club in town. Ordinarily he was acutely domesticated. Rather amazing, you know. Invite him to a session at poker, or a frivol with the duck pins, or a small joust at billiards, and he would have a story of engagements to play horse with a kid or two, or else that he wanted to keep Mrs. Judson company. Odd sort of blighter. One might have thought he wasn’t married and merely attentive to the lady of his affections. This night, however, he dropped in. Torby was there, and in his usual dictatorial mood. He was Trotskying about the stand one should adopt for a light iron shot, eighty yards or so from the pin, and whether you should take turf or not with the shot. I forget how the argument ran but if Torby said you should, Judson said you shouldn’t, or vice versa. When Torby quoted authority on the point, Judson came back on the other side with what sounded like a lawyer’s brief in a corporation case. It was part of Juddy’s subtle game. One could see that with half an eye. Hitherto whenever Torby had opened his mouth on golf before there was deathly silence, save for his bleat; and everybody now positively gasped at Judson’s frightful hardihood. It was like a shaveling just called to the Bar contradicting the Chief Justice of the Court of Appeals.
Clearly it agitated Torby most frightfully, and the more he dogmatized about things, the severer became Judson’s con-
tradictions. Finally Juddy recommended to Torby’s earnest perusal a ten cent handbook for golfing beginners. Artful blighter, Judson. It was quite obvious he was going after Torby’s morale—and getting it too. Why, the old oracle’s hand shook so much that he could hardly make a passable shot at pool all the evening. He tried to be cockily amiable—sort of effort to recover morale before party broke up.
“We start on the cup contest to-morrow, I believe,” he said to Judson. “Only four entries, I hear.”
“Yes, awfully tough for you, old chappie,” rejoins Juddy. “Sorry to have to do the slip between cup and lip business. But sport is sport.”
“You fancy your chances?” grinned Torby.
“Without immodesty, yes,” answered Judson. “Waterloo will not be in it. As a technical manipulator of certain implements used to urge or propel a golf ball across the links you are possibly my superior. As a golfing psychologist I think I have you licked all the ways there are from the ace. On the objectivity of the game you are pretty fair, but deficient on its subjectivity. Suppose, for instance, I possessed great hypotic power and while you were under its influence, imposed upon you my conviction that you were the rottenest golfer that ever cut a divot and forgot to replace it, would you not make a holy show of yourself on the links? Why, dear boy, you’d be absolutely nauseous. Is there any reason why you can’t play as sound a game in a pair of grey trousers and blue sweater on Wednesdays as on Mondays?
The unpsychological bounder would say no reason whatever. The links are the same, the
ball and you are practically the same, he would tell you, but you know better. And yet you know this. There is a subtle power, mental, spiritual, or what not, that positively forbids you to be other than potteringly incapable with a goose-neck putter on a Saturday. One can’t explain the why and wherefore of these things, but there you are, and a Norfolk jacket to you on a Monday means golfing damnation. And you know it.”
“Rats !” snapped Torby, but it was plain to see he wasn’t a bit comfortable.
“That’s the mere Philistine attitude,” answered Judson. “Anyway it is a contest not of clubs and things so much as one of mind and will, and the psych. And I have the will to victory. If you want to know the scientific basis for it all turn up
But old Torby had done a strategic slink. Casually I reconsidered my attitude to the speculative issue, and managed to pick up a trifling flutter or so at the tempting rates quoted. Any bet is reasonable at a price. Torby might die, lose a limb, or Providence might intervene. You know Lloyd’s and Johnnies of that type will take you on at anything, at a price, bet you while you are in the cradle about the wives and children you will have, and the number of each. Really sporting chappies, don’t you know.
YIIELL, to get back to the Hunt Cup. ’’ Torby just smashed and macerated his opponent in the first round. One of his soulless, bloodless games, you knowdrive, brassey or some kind of iron, a putt
or so—plop and so on to the next tee, da capo. You shuddered at the inhuman ruthlessness of the thing. Judson’s game was nothing short of scandalous, but it was refreshingly human. He cracked a couple of shafts over his knee that had turned pacifist at critical stages and said a few things in the heat of the moment that he regretted in calmer mood. As for the game itself, of course a nose win is just as good as twenty lengths; and he staggered home winner on the last green.
“Nip and tuck,” said the cheery blighter, as if both had been playing par golf. “Casualties—Hopkins (he was the other chap) two shafts, one driver head, four balls; myself, two shafts and three balls. Ripping fine, stimulating game.”
TF anybody had ever told you, when you first met Torby, that he had kinks and curlycues in his spiritual composition, you wouldn’t have believed it. He seemed to possess the sentiment and superstition of a stick of hickory. Of course most great men have kinks. They wouldn’t be great if they didn’t. There was Sir Isaac Newton who fancied sometimes he was a teapot, and had to be restrained, often with difficulty, from putting himself on the hob to simmer. Brainy blighter, of course, and all that—law of gravitation and so forth—but there was the kink. Then there was that grumpy old josser, Dr. Johnson, who had to touch all the posts he passed on his way down Fleet street, or the day was a gloomer. There are writers who must have one pen, and I know a poet who positively can’t rhyme two lines unless he has on a pair of trousers that a ragman would despise. Judson could explain it all to you—inner consciousness, subjectivity, soul harmonies— things like those. Well, Torby had his kink. Everybody knew about it but just thought him a bally ass—and really it was loaded up with the quaintest,
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weirdest superstition. As a regular thing he golfed three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and he had a distinctive costume for each day just as Judson had intimated in their argument. Mondays he wore a blue sweater with grey trousers; Wednesdays, knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket; Saturdays, white flannel trousers and red coat. Then he had kinks about clubs. For instance, he always used a goose-neck putter on Mondays, but on Saturday he held it to be suicidal to do a tap on the greens with anything but wood.
He had other kinks of lucky and unlucky kinks, red haired women, cross eyed men and whether he saw crows singly or in pairs on his way to the links.
Before he started out on a game he would inventory himself with the most frightful care. If it were Monday he would say:
“Blue sweater, grey trousers, brown boots and three knots in the laces, lucky stone in left pocket, penny in the right. Clubs all right; goose-neck putter. Excellent. Off we go.”
WELL, round comes the fateful Saturday. The tie was to be played off at two-thirty, nobody would have been interested in the slaughter but for the sorrow of having Torby win, and the amazing cockiness of Judson. As it was, quite a mob foregathered. There was a suspicion that Judson had been putting up a bluff, and would quit when fighting time came. On the other hand there was the money he had put up. However, at two fifteen there he was in the smoking room, all panoplied for the fray, and imbibing sustenance from a tall glass quite naturally.
“Look at the dear old fat face smiling on me,” he exclaimed regarding the cup, affectionately. And ’pon my word, the old girl did seem to have an extra power grin on her.
It was twenty-five minutes past when Torby came in rather flusterous. His car had been bumped into by a taxi.
“Hurt, old chap?” enquired Judson, affably.
“Not a particle,” snapped Torby. The blighter thought there was something sinister in the question.
“Glad to hear it,” said Judson, “I don’t want to lick a cripple.
“I may be ten minutes or so late. You don’t object?” asked Torby.
“Not a bit,” replied Judson. “Take your own time. I am like Drake with the Armada coming. Time to drink my drop and pin the Spaniard to the mat after-
“Torby seems a bit on edge,” somebody observed. And the old buck did appear ruffled somewhat.
“Bumped into by a cross-eyed taxi driver, passenger a red-haired woman.” said Carstairs who had come with Torby.
npEN minutes went by, then fifteen, but no Torby appeared. He seemed to be making swift and extensive preparations, judging from the racket going on in the dressing room. Things were flying round, doors banging and ejaculations crackling.
“George! Hi, there, George!” we heard him bawl. Old George plunged through to the rescue, a white-toothed grin on his Senegambian countenance. There was a hasty argument between the two, then
George reappeared, with a wider grin in position.
“Any gem’mun know what has happened Mr. Torby’s white flannin pants?” he asked. “He dun lost ’em.”
“Thank heaven,” said old Coffey. “Those trousers have been a blight on the links these five years to my knowledge.”
You know the kind of jokes a rude concourse of men would naturally make on such a topic, but the general sentiment was joy. The trousers had been washed and washed till they looked positively indecent, so shrunk were they.
In the midst of the general jubilation in burst Torby, in a most frightful tear. He was garbed merely in trousers and undershirt, and his is not the kind of form that exhibits to advantage in the altogether or semiso.
“Ready, Torby?” asked old Juddy placidly. And that observation seemed to make the old chap still warmer.
“I want my trousers,” he said, shaking a passionate finger at the disrespectful mob, and toward Juddy in particular.
“That’s all right, but you’ve got ’em on, you absent-minded old dear,” responded Juddy, soothingly. “But you won’t have them on soon, if you gesticulate so freely with both hands.”
“My white flannel trousers!” yelled Torby, “It’s a plot.”
“Those damned Germans again,” said Judson. “Nothing’s sacred to the blight-
Just then the house steward came in, hearing the hubbub.
“Your white flannel trousers, Mr. Torby?” he enquired. “The laundry man came for them. He promised to have them back to-day. They may be here
“My Saturday trousers?” yelled Torby. “How dare you give my property to any laundryman who demands it?”
“Piffle,” said the secretary. “Jim always gives out our laundry when it’s called for. Now hustle along, Torby, old chap. Two-thirty was the time for the match, and Judson’s been waiting threequarters of an hour to be pulped. Pull up your braces and sally forth and slay
VTOW who would think there could be any possible spiritual relation between Torby’s game of golf and a pair of old flannel trousers? Judson explained it all to Mr. Snibbs as they waited.
“Psychology touches all human relations,” he said. “It has made Torby a positive worm, as you observe, and between the two of us, if you want a nice little addition to your stained-glass window fund, I can slip anything you want on at twenty to one, and nobody any the wiser. Well, I suppose it wouldn’t do, but really it’s a pipe. Torby’s morale is absolute rags.”
But there was another shift of the situation. Back came Torby again.
“Would you mind waiting till half-past three?” he asked Judson. “I have sent a man over to the laundry. He will be back by that time and the daylight is good till after six.”
What could dear old Juddy do? The wind went quite a bit out of his sails, but he agreed. The secretary and members kicked about it though.
Sure enough, inside the time, the messenger came back with the trousers. They had been rescued from a pile thrown aside for the Monday wash. Really they
were rotten things for a man to make a fuss about, but Torby was in the seventh heaven of delight. In five minutes he was on the tee with his morale fully restored.
THE game began. With Torby it was the old soulless, bloodless game, you know—drive, brassey or some kind of iron, a putt or so, and plop. He was three up at the end of the third but a fluke putt or so fell to the lot of Judson, and with some bad luck that fell to Torby, they came to the turn with the favorite three ahead.
Judson was doing better than anybody had ever seen him do but he hadn’t the glimmer of a show. What was good for him was rotten for Torby. Then at the tenth, Juddy actually got a hole back. It was worse than robbery. He took a ferocious wipe at the ball with his brassey. It was a blind hole. Over the ridge the beauty sailed, whacked up against the pin in the course of her careering, and dropped into the can. A two at a par four hole! Frightful fluke! It jarred Torby down to his very toes. Then, before he had recuperated, another funny thing happened.
THE players were waiting on the eleventh tee for a bunch of ladies, who were apparently holding a suffrage meeting on the green, to sing the doxology. Trotter, the Episcopal curate, drifted up. He had not been present in the club room when the trousers contretemps was going on. A chirpy, affable sort, dear old Trotter, a bit of a riot among the old maids, and a frightful glad-hander. Now, he and Torby were built on much the same lines, a bit scrawny, and birdlike about the legs. He was playing in full canonicals, dog collar, closed-faced vest, and so forth. His eyes rested on Torby’s trousers, enquiringly at first, then smilingly.
“Ha! ha!” he cackled joyously. “Pardon me, my dear Mr. Torby, but I believe you are wearing my trousers.”
“The devil I am!” exclaimed Torby, quite discourteously.
“No harm,” said Trotter, conciliatorily. “But as a matter of fact I feel sure they are mine. I sent mine to the laundry the other day, and a pair was returned, newly washed, to my locker to-day. I did not examine them carefully, but evidently a mistake was made. Yours did not get to the laundry by any chance—though of course they must have done?”
“They did, but not by any chance,” hissed Torby most strafingly. “Rather they went by larcenous conspiracy. They should have come back, but didn’t, so I sent for them and got them back unwashed.”
“Then if I were a betting man, I’d bet a nickel you’ve got mine on and yours are in my locker washed,” said Trotter. “I seem to recognize the stain on the left knee. There was also a patch on the other leg.”
“There’s a patch on mine too, snapped Torby.
“Well, no harm, Mr. Torby,” smiled Trotter. “But I am thoroughly convinced.”
“Mr. Trotter’s right, Sir,” chipped in Torby’s caddy. “Them don’t look a bit like your old white pants.”
The youth meant well, but Torby did not regard the matter in the right light. He had his cherished wooden putter in his hand. The shock of the holing of Judson s brassey shot had caused him to retain it absently. He turned round in a pet and made a swipe at the boy with the club, and
bang! it went against the sand box, the head chipping neatly in two.
Juddy was chivalrously silent, but a look of triumph appeared in his eyes. After that he fairly let himself go. You know how it is, a good golfer will try to putt with the best club genius can invent, and wreck the stroke, then some chappie who never saw a golf course will have a smack at it with the handle of his umbrella and down she goes.
Judson could explain it all to you psychologically. The drive to the eleventh was a tricky mashie pitch, over a yawning chasm—rock and sand about eighty yards across. Overhit, and you were in the most frightful trouble. Under hit and Davy Jones for yours. It wanted a crisp, clean lift with a bit of cut to drag her up. Juddy went for it. Up and over she sailed, pitched on the far side and drifted up to the hole as if controlled by a string.
Torby had been popping shots over there for years, dropping ’em near the hole with no more run on them than on a poached egg. But this time it wras ghastly. He shot a rocketer, straight up and down like a yard of pump water. Plunk! down she goes into the abyss, and Torby has to give up the hole.
Judson played the twelfth rottenly, but Torby was worse and the match was squared. The next two they halved. Had the holes been grave-wide old Torby could not have run anything down with that goose-necked putter he had to use after all. On Mondays he could work sheer miracles with it.
He was so utterly scuppered that if anybody had just breathed the word “trousers” he would have died on the course. But Judson was a sport. I asked him afterwards why he didn’t murmur the word and thus administer the coup de grace.
“That would not have been psychological,” he explained. “Trotter administered the dose, and argument would have been a psychological emetic. After the moral yeast has been mixed with the mental flour, monkeying with it would be unpsychological. You have to let it do its fine work by itself.”
rT'HE match ended at the seventeenth, two and one, with Juddy top dog. Poor old Torby took it frightfully hard. In fact he has never played on these links since. Moved his membership over to Moorstone.
But that was not quite the end of the tragedy. Torby was all dressed up to go home after the battle, very pipped and sulky, when suddenly, frightfully dramatically really, in floated Trotter.
“Ha! ha!” hé gurgled. “Rather absurd, really, don’t you know, Mr. Torby, but I have discovered that the laundered trousers are really mine. I did not recognize them washed. Those that you were wearing were most probably yours after all. There is a little flannel pad at the back of the waistband of mine. An Aunt of mine inserted it to ward off chills and possible attacks of lumbago. May I show it to you? Then there is the name of my tailor on the buttons, and-”
But Torby went off in much the manner one suspects that a floating mine pops. He was frightfully discourteous in his comments on Trotter and Trotter’s aunt. There was talk of bringing the matter up at a Governors’ meeting, but dear old Trotter is a most forgiving kind of blighter—coals of fire, and so forth. Then Judson helped out, though his explanation was rather involved. He spoke of subjective and objective, entities, and subliminal processes, consciousness of various kinds, and phenomena, and thus and so, till the Governors’ dear old beans swam. This much, however, stood out quite clearly, that psychological influences, operating through or by means of a pair of white flannel trousers had eliminated Torby and saved the Hunt Cup. And with this dual triumph everybody was quite content to let matters remain in statu quo.
The only point never cleared, even psychologically, was, who sent Torby’s trousers to the laundry? Suspicion naturally floated around randomly. There was a caddie, whom Torby always underpaid, and who had shifted his allegiance to Judson—frightfully bright kid—and next week he was wearing a new suit of clothes.