12 Sports Aces, January 1943 — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

SAND SHY | 89 +8 Or Orr Ose Qtr r-Oee@rr errr OrrOrrOreGrrGeeGerOrrbrehs+OenGre dr Orr Orr Berger Gre OerBet Drs Orr Orr or Gen Ges Orr Pere en Ber er Penh a Deo Gee Ae Soren hin Gans Gee @reGerGerOr + « During the early rounds the hole has been in the front end of the green where the turf is good, but now it’s back on the angle where the committee has always had trouble keeping the grass because the soil is too hard. I guess Rogers didn’t know about that part because he takes my advice and shoots for the pin, The shot is @ pip, but it won’t hold on that hard green. Instead of taking its backspin it bounces a couple of times and trickles across into a trap. “Too bad, boss,” I say sympathetically. “But I guess it’s kinda lucky for me, seein’ as how I’ve got some dough on Mr. Childers. Your usual four shots in the desert will just about save me some let- tuce.” . E STOPS dead for a minute and ’'m afraid maybe he’s going to take a poke at me. There’s a wild light in his eyes like crazy inventors have in stories, so I shove a niblick at him and back out of range. Maybe it wasn’t real smart of me to mention the bet, but I wanted to needle him for some of the mean treat- ment he’d been giving me. Childers’ caddie starts for the flag, but Rogers stops him. ‘Never mind, son,” he says. “Let my charming youth do the honors. I prefer to have his faithful serv- jees and inspiration near at hand.” Childers grins. “Okay with me. Re- member the rule about a ball hitting the eaddie.” Rogers smiles—a real ornery smile. “I remember,” he says, dropping down into the pit. “It means loss of the hole, I be- hieve—loss of the match, in this case—but a minor matter when all is considered,” It sounds to me like his silly-whatsit disease has caught up with him, but I take the pin anyway. Almost as soon as I do there’s a cloud of sand exploding out of the trap and for a moment I can’t see what has happened. Then there’s a little thud and the ball trickles right down to the cup. Rogers climbs out of the trap, looks at the ball and looks at me. Then he says, “Damn!” A mighty peculiar remark for a bloke who has just pulled a nifty shot. Childers’ putt is too feeble and he leaves himself almost a stymie. It seems to rattle him and he misses again, leaving Rogers to sink a six-incher for the hole and match. He does it while I feel kinda sick and walk off the green. I fling the bag down on the clubhouse _-gteps and am just bending down to see how bad I’ve nicked his brassie on the conerete when Rogers comes along. “‘Here’s your sticks,” I tell him, trying hard to be nice and forget the way he has been treating me. “We won the old jug, I guess. Say, did you ever hear about how Harry Cooper slipped his boy such a wad of change when they won that big—”’ Rogers pins me with that glassy eye again. Then he hands me the exact buck- ten that’s the regular caddie fee. Not even a lousy nickel tip! “Ts that all I get?” I ask. “It is—while the state has such nar- row-minded laws about murder and the like,” he growls. “Now get out of my sight before I—” After thinking it over from a safe dis- tance I’m danged if I don’t believe the crazy nut was tryin’ to sock me when he blasted that ball out of the trap. Maybe I’d better find myself a different kind of a ° job. You run against teo many screwballs and mean people in this racket. COMIC OOOKS (C@