Judge, 1915-07-10 · page 8 of 28
Judge — July 10, 1915 — page 8: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page satirizes early 20th-century golf culture and masculine competition. The narrative follows a young man playing golf against the gruff, cynical Old Markham, with "the prettiest girl" as audience and prize. The satire targets several subjects: Old Markham represents bitter divorced men (he pays alimony to his ex-wife), whose jaded worldview contrasts with the youth's romantic idealism. The golf match itself mocks how men perform masculinity for female attention—the youth plays poorly because he's distracted by the girl, while Markham dominates through emotional detachment. The caption "The dressed-up one—it's tough to be neutral!" (visible in illustration) suggests the satire's core: the girl observing these masculine displays with apparent neutrality, though the story implies she ultimately rewards the lovelorn youth despite his inferior play. Judge uses this romantic-athletic scenario to satirize male insecurity and the performative nature of courtship among the leisure class.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“Don't die!’’ said the prettiest girl crisply but not harshly. “*Don't die for me—putt!’" . . . . . . . . . Old Markham was grinning a crooked grin. ‘‘Golf ain't quite chess,’’ he sneered. ‘‘No hurry, of course—but you're away."* The youth flushed wrathfully and snatched his putter from the bag. The roses bloomed in the prettiest girl’s cheeks. “Ever the etiquette of golf!’’ she murmured. Old Markham heard. Also he noted the indignant fire in the glance she gave him. Very pretty, indeed, was she at that instant. The youth was more convinced than ever of the profound truth of his great discovery; but Markham merely glowered. After all, she personified charms which, yielded to, spelled alimony. For thirty years the released Mrs. Markham had been drawing her al- lowance with merciless regularity. You wouldn't ask a lien- burdened toiler to admire the artistic printing of the latest style mortgage blank; therefore, kindly make allowance for Markham. His long jaw thrust forward. ‘‘Huh! Golf's a man’s game— or ought to be."’ Then he turned to the youth. ‘‘Cup’s yonder— if you hadn't noticed. Bang away for it!’’ “*And for me!"’ breathed the prettiest girl. . . . . . . . . . There are fifty-seven theories of putting. Fifty insist that the putter keep his eye on the ball; seven direct him steadfastly to observe the cup. None esteems eager, if intermittent, contempla- tion of the gallery. But every great discoverer can rise superior to con- vention. The youth’s club swung. His ball shot forward. It passed the cup, at speed and perhaps a bagatelle of a yard to the right. “Well, never up, never in, any- way!"' cried the prettiest girl. With solemnity befitting the rite, Markham performed the orthodox pendulum swing. “You're still away,’’ quoth he, with quite uncalled-for sarcasm; for his ball had halted within three inches of the cup. The youth crossed the green. He bent over his ball; he clutched the shaft of his club feverishly; he sent up a plea to fickle but sometimes miraculously kindly Fortune. What was a twenty-foot putt if one had luck with him? And how could Fortune fail to bestow luck upon one who fought for the fairest of her sex? The very, very prettiest girl—look at her now! And he took the advice he was giving the goddess of chance. He looked at the prettiest girl just as the hovering club shot forward. The edge of the blade engaged the close-cropped turf. There was a saddening gash in the velve y green. Likewise there was a dismally faint tap of steel on gutta-percha. The ball dribbled not quite two feet. Oh, but it was awful! They'd half-mast the flags at St. An- drew's for an abject foozle like that! Old Markham, even, was jarred; and regardless of the etiquette of the game, sent his ball into the cup with a backhanded stroke. “Eight up!"’ he growled. ‘‘Couldn’t expect anything else, though. And I can’t stop to see you play it out, if you want to. Man, you'll never be a golfer till you learn to concentrate. And putting’s the final test of whether your mind’s on the ball or on some—some infernal foolishness."’ . . . . . . . . . Unhappily the youth picked up his ball; miserably he stared at the jerkily retreating figure of the grim Markham. He dared not look at the prettiest girl. He could not hear her light step on the turf, but a sixth sense warned him that she was coming to him. Then her hand touched his arm. With an effort he turned to her, and, behold! Wonder of all merciful wonders, she was beaming upon him fondly, delightfully, and, above all, proudly! “*Why, why!’’ he gasped. ‘‘I play for you, and I make a spec- tacle of myself, and—and you don’t seem to care a rap!"" “Oh, but I do; I care immensely!’’ she protested. ‘‘What The dressed-up one—It's tough to be neutral! comichooks.cehm