Argosy All-Story Weekly, June 13, 1925 — page 152: what you’re looking at

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

624 ‘Who is the young lady?” Mr, Mon- frent inquired. “Don’t you know?” countered. ‘“ How in thunder should I know?” Mrs. Gerhard smiled quizzically, but she did not replv. The girl had breasted the steps and was approaching them. ‘My niece,” she said simply, by way of introduction. Mr. Monfrent bowed and was conscious of a charming voice and an equally charm- ing smile. It was not until he was half way to the locker room that he wondered what the niece’s name was. Mrs. Gerhard had forgotten to mention it. Mrs. Gerhard V. Goinc to the thirteenth, Mr. Monfrent and Arthur were four down. The match was a four-ball foursome. The gallery, hastening to the next tee, buzzed with comment about the younger man’s game. He was badly off form. “Tough for the old boy,’ commented one irreverent youth. ‘“ Shooting pretty close to par for the first time in his life, and Artie blows up on him.” For Mr. Monfrent the short walk through the woodland path to the uphill thirteenth was a walk in shadows deeper than those cast by the lacy roofing of ieaves. His son paused to dip a drink from the softly bubbling spring just off the path. “Pull yourself together, boy,’ Mr. Monfrent pleaded in a whisper, stooping beside him. ‘If there’s anything wrong, forget about it.” Arthur dashed the water away. ‘Nothing wrong, dad. The other way round,” he said, taking advantage of the opening offered. ‘‘ I wasn’t going to tell you till the match was over, but—”’ “ What?” ‘“T was married last night. wich.” Mr. Monfrent’s face twisted with a dozen conflicting emotions, before he said: “I can even stand that shock, if you'll just pull yourself together and let’s trim that jeering old pirate and his jeering offspring.” Arthur was last off the tee. As his drive In Green- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, blazed a white arc far up the hillside to the edge of the plateau-like green, the gallery burst into a murmur of amazement. It was a shot worthy of Hagen at his best; a slashing, whizzing drive. He was on in two for an easy putt. The boy was back in form. From that point on there seemed nothing to the match but the younger Monfrent, although his father, playing with stern steadiness, at least equaled Jerry Phillips’s score, if he did not better it. They were all square on the eighteenth, having halved the sixteenth. Tt was Arthur’s honor. For the short hole he chose to use his mashie. The ball sailed high in the air and settled, with what seemed to Mr. Monfrent an audible plunk, in a sand pit to the right. Joe Phillips, following, dropped his drive over the near edge of the green. It stopped rolling about ten feet from the flag. Not by any means an impossible putt. Mr. Monfrent approached the task before him with grim determination. The mashie, for all his Southern practice, was still a bit of a bugbear. But he set his teeth and contrived a creditable effort. The white globe struck the sand trap to the left, rolled to its crest and then, after hesitating for what seemed an eternity, flopped onto the green. On the very edge, a good eighteen feet from the pin-——but on! Jerry Phillips’s drive left him short. His mashie pitch got on nicely, however, not four feet off. He was good for a three, unless Providence intervened. Joe might go down in two. Matters looked dark for the Monfrents. Arthur took the niblick his caddie proffered and weighed the shot carefully. Then, quickly, but without undue haste, he brought the clubhead through its short act. The ball rose from the trap on the crest of a wave of sand, thudded fully on the green and rolled placidly to the very edge of the cup, where it stopped. Jerry Phillips reached over and pushed it away, conceding the three. “You're away,” he said cheerfully to Mr. Monfrent. The latter made a mental survey of the situation. Joe Phillips was sure of a three 9A comiclbooks