Judge — August 5, 1916 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Mr. Bunny—Don't worry, my why A TRAVELOGUE noticeably. Silly, of course, to sit around and rack one’s brain for an excuse for playing golf, when everybody that was anybody was so enthusiastic about it. I wasn't on trial for golf-playing, was I, as though I had committed a crime of some sort? Certainly they didn’t expect a man to apologize for liking the game, like some poor sinner addicted to morphine or klep- tomania! There were plenty of reasons why I played golf—reams and reams of them. It wasn’t as though I was paying an election bet or doing some absurd stunt in a fraternity initiation. Nobody compelled me to play golf. I played be- cause I wanted to, drat it! “Because I want to.” . . . Still, that dear. ee eer la We've found names for half of them since Monday, and there's no reason we shouldn't finish the job by the end of the week. wouldn’t be exactly illuminating, or cour- teous, I suppose, as a signed interview. Why the deuce should a free-born Amer- ican golfer be called upon to dissect and analyze his feelings and sons like a cross-section of an alicnist’s hypothetic: question at an insanity hearing, an: how? The proposition wearied me im- mensely. The sporting editor’s query lay on my desk for five days, unanswered. I couldn’t seem to figure out a succinct, courteous (and entirely veracious) an- swer without resorting to the bromides —and I wouldn't do that. In the meantime I began to wonder if old Jaggersby, who is something of an outspoken wretch, didn’t hit upon a real answer—an answer, albeit, that I couldn't well use. “L've got to take up golf, George,” he confided to me regretfully. ‘I’ve got to get into the game as a matter of conver- sational self-defense. I've fought ‘em for five years, but they're getting me. In the dining-room at the club it’s 300-yard drives and 30-foot putts. On the smoker going home it’s 36 for nine holes or 7-up and the deuce to pay. At the office it’ a $13 mashie or a new ball that carries like a torpedo against the wind. You can’t escape it anywher I'm helpless, George—impotent, de- I can't retaliate. I can’t ar- gue. I don’t even know where to laugh at a caddie story, or when to dispute an extraordinary li “I'm isolated, George. I’m lonesome. I’m an alien in my own land, a stranger in my own club, I can’t stand it any longer. I must acquire a vocabulary! I must exercise my vocal organs! I must cultivate an imagination! “Tell me where to buy the tools and a lexicon, George; I don’t care what they cost. Imust converse golfishly or move to Thibet—and all my interests are here!” I told him—and thanked him (inter- nally) for light on a long vexed subject. Then I wrote a succinct, courteous and properly restrained answer to the sporting editor’s inquiry: “It’s @ great game; it takes you out in the open air.” CW Sister—Now quit your cryin’, Jimmie. know very well we couldn't afford to keep him! What would we feed him ? Jimmie—1—I—it wouldn't ¢-c-cost_ much! You get a lot of peanuts for a nickel! You comicbooks.com