Brora Wald.
“Bellefonte, Pa, March 14th, 1930.
RELIANCE
Not to the swift, the race;
Not to the strong, the fight;
Not to the righteous, perfect grace;
Not to the wise, the light.
But often faltering feet
Comes surest to the goal;
And they who walk in darkness meet
The sunrise of the soul.
A thousand times by night
The Syrian hosts have died;
A thousand times the vanquished right
Hath risen glorified.
The truth the wise men sought
Was spoken by a child;
The alabaster box was brought
In trembling hands defiled.
Not from my torch, the gleam,
But from the stars above;
Not from my heart life’s crystal stream
But from the depths of love.
SO MUCH DEPENDS
ON THE APPROACH
It was going to be another hot
day, probably, but the morning that
had just begun was still cool and
fresh and sweet. It had rained in
the night, and the sun wasn’t high
enough yet to have dried out the
Renclair course. Except for Steve
Cruger only the birds, busy with
their own affairs, seemed to be
about; that suited him to perfection.
He hadn't seen the Renclair links,
until this week late in June, for six
gloomy and depressing years: he
hadn’t, for that matter, played any
golf in those six years, either. With
any luck he would, now, for a month
or two; he didn’t see why he shouldn’t
come out like this every morning be-
fore breakfast. Unless the habits of
Renclair folk had changed a good
deal in six years, he’d have no com-
pany.
He'd been worried, a few minutes
before; he'd thought a flash of yellow
against the green background of the
woods that bordered the eighth fair-
way came from a girl's skirt or
sweater. He hadn't seen it again,
though; probably he’d been mistak-
en. He hoped so.
He drove from the sixth tee; two
hundred and forty yards, straight
out; very nice. All carry, practical-
ly; there was no roll worth speaking
of on the soaked turf. Still, had you
been curious about his game, that
drive would not have told you much;
the veriest dub poles a good
drive occasionally.
Steve's second shot, though, would
have told you everything, He walk-
ed up to his ball, dropped his bag;
sighted the line of the shot; swung
back, shoulder high; took turf clean-
ly and dropped the ball dead to the
pin. Only a real golfer can approach
So. He smiled as he holed this tiny
putt; for the first time in six years
he had played a hole perfectly. He
had some reason to be pleased.
He was frowning, though, as he
stood on the seventh tee. Not be-
cause of the accumulated horrors of
that short hole, which had ruined so
many promising medal rounds. He
wasn’t afraid of it, for one thing; for
another, nothing hung upon his score.
No. What bothered him was an
old white Dutch-colonial house and
an old-fashioned garden full of holly-
hocks, of ‘tall blue delphinium, of
roses just coming into full bloom,
that straggled down to the corner
where the course turned sharply to
the left.
Steve Cruger, you see, had been
born in that house. More than two
hundred years before, a Cruger had
cleared the land on which it stood
and built the house, and Steve was
the first Cruger since that time, in
the direct line, who had not owned
land and house.
It was through no folly or fault of
his own, to be sure, that Steve had
to see it now in the hands of stran-
gers; it had gone, with all else to
which he had believed himself heir, in
the smash that had killed his father.
Yet that didn’t lessen the bitterness
the sight of it brought into his eyes.
He shook his head doggedly after
a moment; dropped his ball; drove
the green cleanly, hole high, leaving
himself a- tricky twelve-foot putt.
This time, however, he didn’t smile
as he holed out for his two; a birdie
here, he knew, was always pretty
much a matter of luck. He replac-
ed the flag, picked up his bag, turn-
ed toward the eighth tee, and stop-
ped dead.
He hadn't been mistaken about
that flash of yellow. There was a
girl. She was sitting on the bench
beside the sand box on the tee, hands
clasped about her silken knees,
laughing at him, full of mischief and
of mirth. She was ridiculous, incon-
gruous, for she wore a yellow even-
ing gown and gold slippers that the
wet grass had stained, and yet, even
in that costume at that hour, she
was very lovely.
“Liar!” she said.. ‘Pig!
me you didn’t play golf!”
“I hadn't for six years, when you
asked me,” he protested. “This is
only the third time I've been out. I
wanted to see if I could still hit a
ball.”
“I'll say you can!” she said. “I've
been watching. I saw someone—we
were coming back from a dance at
Crooked Brook. I thought it was
you. The boy friend was all for hav-
ing me change and go for a swim,
but I wouldn’t. And I sneaked across
when he’d gone, and caught you in
the act.”
“Yes,” said Steve, scowling a lit-
tle. He scowled too much, this young
man; it was a habit with him.
“You're so dumb,” the girl com-
plained. “Why didn’t you ask me to
get you a guest card? I could, you
know. They'd have loved to black-
ball us, but they didn’t dare.”
“Good Lord!” Steve's scowl! deep-
ened, “Did you suppose—? T've be-
longed here all my life. Ikept up a
non-resident membership when I—I
went away.” He laughed shortly.
“Hanged if I know why!”
You told
“Fate!” she said, making her
voice
deep and throaty. “So you could
play with me this afternoon, after
I've had some sleep. You know
you're going to, now.”
“I'd rather not, Miss Wilder—"
She turned her back on him, elabor-
ately. “All right—Joan!” he said.
Then, flatly: “I don’t want to.”
“Spurned again!” she said cheer-
fully. “If it were only a line you'd
be marvelous, Steve. You mean it,
though, hang you! I've been throw-
ing myself at you for months, and
I'm all black and blue from bounc-
ing back. I did think when I got
you out here—”
“Chuck it, Joan, won't you?” he
said. “Look here, you know why I
can’t play around with you and your
crowd. I'm onlya clerk in your fath-
er’'s office, even if he does have me
live with you because it's handier for
him.”
“That's so silly!” she said. “I don’t
see why you can’t be human. Oh,
well, go ahead and drive. I suppose
you'll let me walk around with you
and watch you?”
He was a little flushed as he drove.
An odd picture they made. The boy
—he was little more, for all the lines
six years had etched in his face—in
linen knickers and loose white shirt;
the girl in an evening dress that
clung to her slim golden legs, her
wrap slipping from her tawny shoul-
ders.
She was exquisitely made: tall and
slender, with long, graceful hands;
with hair touched with a faint hint
of chestnut; with blue eyes full of
smouldering fires. There was some-
thing untamed, undisciplined, about
her; something about the way she
looked at Steve Cruger as he went
on soberly about his golf that might
have made a man a little older, a
little wiser, thoughtful to the point of
caution.
They didn’t talk much, and when
they did, it was about the game. Un-
til he turned from the fifteenth green
mot toward the next tee, but to a
gate in a stone wall.
“Oh, Steve, play it out!” said Joan.
“You only need even fours now to
break seventy—and that’s the course
record, isn't it?”
“Is it still?” he said, and smiled.
“It used to be. I made it.” He stop-
ped short and flushed. “I haven't
time. I've an hour's work to do to
get a report ready for your father
that he wanted done when he got
back from this trip he’s been on.”
He held the gate open for her. “Com-
ing ?” he asked.
She bit her lip, and they walked
across the lawn together to the big
stone house the Wilders had taken
for that summer. Birds of passage,
they were, for all John Wilders’ mil-
lions; that was something Steve
couldn’t understand. But there were
people, of course, who never put out
roots.
Joan's eyes were mocking him as
she turned toward her room at the
head of the stairs. “Goodnight, sweet
prince!” she said. “That's in ‘Ham-
let.” Better look it up!”
He, grinned when she had gone, and
went up to his own quarters to bathe
and change.
You had better learn, as briefly as
may be, how Steve Cruger came to
be in that house. You are not, you
see, to harbor any illusions about
him. That sullen look of his needs
explaining; it testified to something
that was wrong with him. And yet,
as most people look at things, there
was nothing wrong; he cut a wholly
admirable figure; he was a young
man to be looked upon as a pattern,
a model, a very paragon.
He hadn’t been sullen as a boy. He
had grown up as the sons of most
well-to-do men with position and
family background do grow up. There
had been nothing singular about him
except his golf, which had been good
enough to lead the experts to hail
him as a coming Bobby Jones. As
most normal youngsters do, he had
one or two deathless passions, and
got over them,
Then, when he was nineteen, there
was a flurry on the Stock Exchange
one day. The papers said it repre-
sented a healthy correction, in that
it tended to eliminate some weak
speculative accounts. Quite so. One
of them happened to be that of
Steve's father, who had been trying
to see what could be done about ad-
justing an inherited income to the
shrunken purchasing power of the
dollar since the war. That flurry not
only eliminated Mr. Cruger’s account,
and his income, but Mr. Cruger as
well; his heart had not been good for
some years.
Lawyers and other well-meaning
people tried to make Steve see that
he had no responsibility for the debts
that were left after the house and
everything else that remained had
been sold. Luckily for him, they
pointed out, he had the income of
the trust fund his mother had left
him; enough, with economy, to en-
able him to go through college.
That was when he began to scowl
as a fixed habit. He wanted to use
the principal of the trust fund to pay
off the debts at once; the law,
though, forbade that. So he got
himself a job in a bank, budgeted his
living expenses, and settled down to
paying off his father’s obligations out
of his income and his salary.
Very creditable, you will say. Of
course. And all the success stories
agree that it is by just such acts of
self-denial that men lay the founda-
tions of future greatness. Probably.
But it depends upon the man,
Sacrifice is a tricky thing. Some-
times it turns people into martyrs.
Some men make sacrifices, as Steve
did, as a matter of duty, and then
they nurse their pride and begin to
enjoy a rankling sense of the injus-
tice of life.
Steve’s bad times had been over
for a year and more. The debts were
all paid. He had come into his in-
heritance; the bonds a trust com-
pany had held were in his own safe-
deposit box, and he had some thous-
ands of dollars in the bank. All this
had happened the sooner because of
John Wilder. Wilder, a depositor in
the bank in which Steve had got his
first job, had been attracted by Steve.
Wilder was an operator in the
market. He offered ve a job, and
Steve, who had a natural talent for
getting at the facts that lay behind | him, but gave no other sign of recog-
statistics, soon had become his right-
hand ‘mgn. The only thing Steve
really: didn’t like about the job was
that after a while Wilder. had trans-
ferred him from the office -to his
home; he wanted Steve within reach
at odd hours.
Most young men in Steve's case
would have been well pleased, and
So was he, in a way. But the habit
of thinking of himself as a martyr
persisted.
And—there was Joan. He could be
stiff and distant with her, but it
wasn’t always easy. He wasn’t blind
to her loveliness; sometimes she
tempted him almost beyond endur-
ance. Yet he distrusted her deeply;
feared her power to hurt him, He
didn't want to be hurt.
He had no chance with her, he
knew; he was a fool to let himself
even so much as think of loving her.
But he needn’t be so great a fool as
ever to lay himself open to what she
could do to him if she knew the
truth.
An hour or so after breakfast
Wilder came into the room where
Steve worked. A small dried-up
man, this Wilder; only his eyes were
like Joan's; blue, with smoldering
fires and with cold mockery in them,
too. Her beauty, her slender grace,
must have come from her mother.
“Good morning, sir,” said Steve.
“Here's that report.” He handed ov-
er a sheaf of pages, bristling with
figures. Wilder went through them
silently. :
“Good!” he said, when he had fin-
ished. “Very good. You might get
after the stuff about that Kastner- !
Brent motors merger now. And’—
the blue eyes were cold as ice now—
“TI happened to look out of my win-
dow early this morning. You're not
here for the sort of thing I saw. That
clear ?”
The rank injustice of it made
Steve flush hotly. As if he—! The
girl had pursued him, thrown herself
at him, as she herself had said jest-
ingly. But:
“Quite clear, sir,” was all he said.
“Good. Don’t want to have to
speak of it again, In fact, I won't.
That clear, too?”
“Perfectly.”
John Wilder went off about his
own affairs. Steve rose from his
desk twice to find his employer and
throw up his job. But habit is
strong.
Steve was still at work, calmer and
even inclined to be amused, when the
door opened and Joan came in. She
wore one of those sleeveless, short
dresses that girls wear nowadays for
golf and tennis.
“Hello, grouch!” she said. “Come
on. I want to shoot some golf.”
“Go ahead. The telephone’s in or-
der, and you've got plenty of boy
friends.”
“I'm asking you.”
“Can't, I'm too busy.”
She came over and pulled herself
up on the desk. Calmly she picked
up the sheet of paper that lay be-
fore him. She saw a picture—not
very good—of a dog, and some de-
signs for a monogram.
“You're the rottenest liar!” . she
said pleasantly. “What are you
afraid of?” .
“You, if you must know,” he said.
“Then you'd better come. A net-
tle never stings if you grab it hard
enough.”
“Or if you don’t touch it at all!”
“Steve, please.”
“Oh, Joan, don’t! I tell you I
can't!” He got up, and she slid
down from the desk and stood facing
him. “Why won't you let me alone?”
She laughed at him. She was very
close. And suddenly something in
him snapped, and he caught her to
him and kissed her. Then, with a
groan, he let her go. She was still
laughing.
“Yes?” she said. “And then?”
“You got what you were asking
for!” he said harshly. “I hope you're
satisfied!”
“What do you mean?”
‘were blazing,
Her eyes
his shoulders. “You wanted to find
out if you could—oh, you know!
Well, you could—and you did. That's
all, isn't it?”
“You—oh, you beast!” she
“You cad!”
said.
Probably neither of them knew |
that she’d left the door open. Neither
of them had heard John Wilder come |
in.
“Thought I'd made
this morning,” he said to Steve.
“Berry knows about trains. He'll
bring you a check. That's all.”
Steve paid no attention to him.
His eyes were on Joan. But she on-
ly shrugged and moved away. He
sighed. There was nothing, after all,
for him to say if she chose to be si-
lent.
“Very well,” he said, and left the
room.
myself clear,
er’s confidential secretary, found him
in his room packing up. “Sorry,
Cruger,” he said. “Don’t know what's
up—don’t want to. I've a check for
a thousand for you. I ordered a car
to take you to the four-fifty-five.
That all right?”
Steve took the check.
“Thanks,” he said. Slowly, dispas-
sionately, he tore it into fragments.
Then he laughed. “That's the first
luxury I’ve indulged in for six years,”
he said. “The funny thing is that I
can afford to blow in a thousand. I
shan’t want the car, thanks. I can
afford a cab, too.”
You can dam a stream and create
a placid pool, or, if you prefer, with
your dam you can so divert its
course that instead of tumbling tur-
bulently down among rocks it will
cut a new, smooth course for itself
through soft, level meadow ground.
But always, if a break comes in the
dam, the stream will go back to its
old channel.
Steves’ cab didn’t take him to the
station, but to the club. By good
luck he found a vacant room, shot
a seventy-one before dinner, and was
welcomed in the grill that night like
a prodigal come home. - He did go to
town in the morning in the club car,
as the guest of a man who had been
his father’s friend. John Wilder, sit-
ting behind his paper, scowled at
“You know!” he said. He shrugged |
nition. - -
«It wasn't in search of a new job
that Steve went to town. The dam
had .gone out with a vengeance.” In
a sense those six" years were as if
they had never been.
He went to his bank first and open-
ed his safe-deposit box, and taking
certain bonds, went upstairs and
gave them to the proper man, after
whicn they ceased to be his, and his
checking account was increased by a
deposit of something - more than
twenty-two thousand dollars. Then
he went downtown to see Jerry
Tracy, of Tracy and Wardman. This
time the last six years, and especial-
ly the last two, counted a good deal.
It wasn’t in Steve's mind to turn to
his own account any knowledge he
had gained in time paid for by John
Wilder; any specific knowledge, that
is. But so far as he could see, there
was no good reason why he should
not profit by the general things he
had learned. Jerry, listening to what
Steve told him he wanted done, whis-
ed.
“A hair of the dog that bit you
isn’t a good prescription downtown,
Steve,” he said. “We'll execute your
order—sure. We make our living out
of commissions. But if you want
something really good—and safe—"
“I don’t,” said Steve. “I want five
hundred shares of Minchin A. You
ought to get them for around thir-
ty-one. Ten thousand enough mar-
gin?”
“Oh, plenty—sure!” said Jerry.
“H'mm. You're with John Wilder,
aren't you?”
“Not any more.
show of my own.’ ’
Steve’s day in town was nearly ov-
er then. Not quite, though. Steve had
a wish to drive out to Renclair; he'd
always hated trains, anyway.
Now the market, for weeks, had
been a falling one—which means,
among other things, that a number
of costly foreign cars, bought during
boom days, might be had for a song,
if you knew where to do your sing-
ing. Steve did. He spent an amus-
ing hour bargaining, and drove away
finally in a low-hung, close-coupled
Rivorsi. It was a little shabby as to
paint but its motor purred sweetly.
.Now, for the first time in six years,
Steve Cruger began to live. He play-
ed golf to his heart’s content. Un-
This is a little
he roamed half-forgotten
the Rivorsi. Often some
sat beside him, but
was alone.
roads in
slim girl
quite as often he
in homes he had missed more than
he had ever let himself quite realize;
joined gay, impromptu parties that
went rushing into town to dinner and
a theater and to dance afterward
until it was time to drive home
through the morning mist.
All the time Minchim A climbed
steadily. Not sensationally at all, at
first, but steadily. At thirty-eight
Steve bought five hundred shares
more, with his profit on the first five
hundred shares . for. margin; picked
up another thousand at forty-three.
Still, point by point, Minchim climb-
ed; Steve bought twenty-five hundred
shares more the day the tape showed
a sale at fifty.
Then the fireworks began; ten days
later Minchim A was quoted at sev-
enty, and Steve's paper profits were
more than a hundred thousand. Jer-
ry urged caution; Steve only grin-
ned and bought fifteen hundred
shares.
But now he did give a selling or-
der. “Start letting go at ninety,” he
said. “That’ll be about all, this trip.”
“I hope you know what you're do-
ing!” said Jerry.
“So do I,” said Steve. “We'll soon
know.”
A dozen times, perhaps, during this
interlude, Steve had seen Joan Wild-
er. On the links once or twice; at a
dance at the club; in town. She nod-
her eyes were quietly scornful. John
Wilder, though, he hadn’t s€en since
that morning on the train.
On the day he drove out from
town after bringing his holdings of
Minchim A up to six thousand shares
he found a message waiting for him
at the club; he was to call up Mr.
Wilder. Berry talked to him: would
he come around after dinner?
“Why not?” said Steve, amused,
Though he saw nothing of Joan
she seemed, somehow, to pervade the
house. The faint sweet scent of her
perfume hovered in the air.
“Came, did you?” Wilder grunted.
“Think you're raising Cain with Min-
{ chim, eh?”
| “Oh, in a small way, of course!”
said Steve.
“Got some pickings here before
A few minutes later, Berry, Wild- |
you left, did you?”
i “No!”
| “Don’t waste time lying. You knew
| I was
| stoc
planning an operation in that
{ Kk. ”
“You're wrong. You never turned
me loose on it.”
“No matter. You could have
. found out, letters, papers about. You
‘had access to them.”
“Suppose you go to the devil!”
said Steve quietly, getting up. “This
is the first I've known of your being
i interested. I figured out what was
‘due to happen to Minchim by myself.
As it happens I don’t lie, and I don’t
read other people’s letters. I supposed |
you wanted to see me on business.
Good night.”
“Wait. I'm giving you a chance.
Close out your line by noon tomor-
row. I've certain plans for that
stock—but I can change them. Un-
less you get out I'll start selling.
You can figure out what that would
mean. That's all.”
“All right,” said Steve.
“Going to close out?” Wilder ask-
ed.
“That’s my business. I dare say
you can find out.”
“Yes. IT can. All right. You've
had your warning.”
“Thanks. Good night.”
Steve went out. On the terrace in
the moonlight he came face to face
with Joan—Joan lovelier than he had
ever seen her in a shining silver
dress.
“Joan,” he said.
“Yes?” she sald, after a moment.
“There's a tournament day after
der the warm summer skies at night ;
He picked up old friendships; dined
ded to him always, cool and remote; |
tomorrow—mixed . foursomes. Will
you play with me?”
She looked at him. “Yes,” she said.
“Thanks. Shall I drive over for
you?” °;
“If you like,” she said indifferent-
ly.
“All right. I'll be here at half past
pine. Thirty-six holes—morning and
afternoon. I'll make the entry.”
That was all. As he drove home
he wondered why he had asked her,
why she had said yes, Then he
laughed.
He might well have gone back to
scowling that night, but he didn’t. He
could heed John Wilder's warning,
sell in the morning and bank some-
thing like a hundred and fifteen thou.
sand dollars—a fair profit, in all con-
science, on an original stake of ten
thousand.
If he didn’t sell John Wilder might
be able to smash him, wipe him out;
he would, if he could. But Steve
didn’t think he could.
He had told Jerry to sell at nine-
ty; he liked this gambling chance of
adding another eighty thousand dol-
lars to his capital. Two hundred
thousand wouldn't make him rich, as
people like the Wilders reckoned
riches, but it meant, for Steve, the
sort of life he wanted to live. He
went to sleep only about half an
hour after his usual time.
He played golf in the morning;
‘loafed around, though, after lunch-
eon. Tracy called him at a quarter
to two.
“I don’t like the look of the mar-
ket, Steve,” he said. “Someone's
selling short—heavily. There's a ru-
mor that it’s Wilder. Minchim’s off
five points.” :
“O. K.,” said Steve, “Don’t worry
yet, Jerry. What's my danger line ?”
“About fifty, I should say—with
this last fifteen hundred to carry.”
{| “All right. Let's see what hap-
pens.” ’
Minchim A closed at sixty-three.
But at that time Steve was deeply
concerned with more pressing trou-
bles, being at the bottom of a yawn-
ing sand pit. That was a Thurs-
day in August.
! On Friday morning after break-
fast Steve drove over for Joan. She
was on the terrace waiting for him.
John Wilder sat smoking a cigar. He
nodded to Steve, but had nothing to
say. Joan climbed into the Rivorsi,
and they went off.
“Nice car,” she
know the breed.”
| “Only about five of them over
here, Want to drive it?”
“No, thanks. I might smash us
up. And I could care for this cup
, we're going to win.”
I “All right, Know how it works
out? Aggregate handicaps—aggre-
i gate scores, too—not best ball.”
{ “Meaning I'll have to pull my
| weight. T'll try not to disgrace you,
| Steve.”
“You won't. Medal play this morn-
ing; two leading couples go on at
match play this afternoon. What's
| your handicap?”
“Six.”
“That's what we get, then; I'm at
scratch. We'll have to beat the Croz-
ders, I should say. They’ll have two
i strokes on us to start with.”
| Tracy caught him on the telephone
| just before they started. He was
i worried. - Minchim A had opened at
{ sixty; had sold off three points more
in the first half-hour’s trading. “It
looks like Wilder, all right,” Tracy
said gloomily,
“Oh, it is!” said Steve, and laugh-
ed. “Carry on, Jerry.”
Steve blew himself to a dazzling
70 for the morning round; Joan's
sound 85 gave them a medal score
of 149, allowing for her handicap.
Tom Crozier turned in a workman-
like 75; his wife had an 86; their
joint handicap was 8, so that they
were second to Steve and Joan with
an aggregate net score of 153.
{ “They'll keep us busy,” said Steve.
“They're both good at match play.”
He and Joan were standing by the
{score board. A boy came up to
Steve with a sheaf of telephone mes-
sage slips; he glanced at them and
smiled as he stuffed them in his
pocket.
“What's Minchim A now?” asked
Joan, a glint in her blue eyes.
“Fifty-four—or it was fifteen min-
j utes ago,” said Steve. He grinned at
i her. “So you know, do you?”
She nodded. ‘TI always said you
were dumb. Steve, why did you try
to buck Father? It can’t be done.
Not on a shoe string, an 3
“I'm not bucking him,” said Steve.
“He thinks you found out some-
thing before you left him. He's fur-
ious.”
|" “He thinks so? Do you, Joan?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
“You told me I was a cad.”
“So you were. But you're not a
sneak.”
“I see,” said Steve.
{about a spot of lunch?”
They walked over to the porch.
{ John Wilder was sitting at a table.
| “Ho! said Steve, and looked at
| Joan. “Does the plot thicken?”
{ “I never saw him so furious as he
i was when I told him I was going to
| play with you,” said Joan.
| “Going to have lunch with me—or
| with him ?”
| “With you. Laugh that off!”
| “Oh, I'm holding out enough to
i pay my house account—if it comes
to that!” said Steve. “Go as faras
i you like.”
| They lunched under John Wilder's
| baleful blue eyes. Just before it was
time to start Tracy called again.
said. “I don’t
i
{
“Well, how
' “Hell's popping,” he said. “She
slid down to fifty-one. Then some
real buying started, and she went
back to fifty-five —slipping back to
| fifty-three again-—moving back and
‘forth now so fast you can’t keep
track.”
! “Ah!” said Steve. “Wish I could
buy another thousand or so. Get
| aboard if you've got any spare
' change, Jerry.”
| “You're nuts!” said Jerry. “Listen,
{stay near the wire till the close.
I'll have to be able to get hold of
ou.”
¥ “Not a chance! I'm playing a
match. Listen yourself. Either
she'll crack wide open and you'll
{have to sell me out, or she'll climb
fast. Either way, there’s nothing
I can do. Exeept—if she hits sev-
enty, buy another thousand. Get
that?” :
He hung up . and turned. to = see
Wilder's small dried-up figure be-
fore him, : ;
“Afternoon, sir,” he said. “Still
getting information any way you
can? You're welcome.”
‘I'm waiting to use the tele-
phone,” said Wilder impassively.
“You can listen, if you like. I'm
going to tell my brokers to sell an-
other ten thousand shares of Min.
chim A at the market.”
“Ye-es?” said Steve. “I'll take
your word for it, sir. Joan and I
have to get started. Better follow
us around; she plays a nice game.
And—it’s impertinent for me tg
offer you advice, sir, but I'd be care-
ful about going short.”
Wilder went into the booth, say-
ing nothing. Steve went back to
join Joan; found the Croziers at
their table. The four of them went
out to the first tee. It was not
. quite half past one.
Betty Crozier took the honor and
drove first. A nice ball; Joan sliced
badly. She and Steve lost the hole,
in spite of Steve's par four tc
Crozier's five; Joan took seven tc
Betty's excellent five. One down.
The dropped another hole wher
Joan missed a short putt on the
fourth; their first handicap stroke
on the long fifth, cost them a third
A fair-sized gallery followed them
at the seventh tee it was augment.
ed by John Wilder, watching, prob.
ably, the first golf match he hac
ever seen.
Steve glanced at him before
(it was his turn to drive. Crozie
was on the green; Betty just shor
but in’ a playable lie; Joan was trap
ped. A messenger came up to Wild
er, who took the slip of paper he
held out, and smiled evily. Stevi
dropped his ball; using a mashi
niblick, he laid it dead to the pin
He was sure of his two; It ga
them the hole, for Joan got out o
her trouble nicely to get her four
and Crozier missed his fifteen-foot
er and took a par three.
| “I've got the shivers. I'm sorry!
Joan said, as they walked to th
eighth tee. “Father looks like :
ghoul. I wonder what—"
“Forget the market,” said Steve
, “Play more off your left foot, an
slow down your back swing. You
' honor.”
| A boy came up to Steve as th
four of them left the tee. Wilde
watched him, smiling. Steve wave
him off.
“The man said it was a very im
portant message, Mr, Cruger,
' said the boy.
| “He was mistaken, son,” sai
| Steve. “Keep it till I get back t
‘the clubhouse. Guess you're away
i Betty. Let's see what you can d
with your brassie.”
Steve was the last to play hi
{second shot. The Croziers each ha
safe five. Joan, though, had messe
‘up her second. Rather grimly, Stev
i considered lie and distance.
i . Ordinarily he would have playe
|safe with an iron; his drive ha
| been superb. Now, however, he too
{a spoon, and with a stroke tha
{ was beyond ordinary praise, reache
| the green, hole high, leaving hin
jself a ten-foot putt for an eag]
| three. Applause broke out behind an
jaround him; Wilder smiled sourly.
{ Steve sank his putt; it served t
{halve the hole, for Joan went ui
| terly to pieces and needed seven.
! nr terribly ashamed,” she ai
1 4 ’'S
Father, I think, and—ol
Steve, how could you be so dumb-
always—always ?”
{ The ninth was halved, too; Joa
land Steve turned for home still tw
down and lost the tenth, on whic
{the Croziers received the second «
| their handicap strokes. Nor wel
heir prospects bright, for the lon
‘half of the course was before the:
and Joan’s long game was ti
weakest part of her golf.
Again and again, now, messag:
came to John Wilder. He read ther
his eyes inscrutable, tore up ti
slips and let the wind carry the:
iaway. Steve was human; new
{ think he wasn’t. He would hay
given much to know what nev
those scraps of paper bore. Jos
| rallied, did better. But the burde
lay on Steve.
He was playing like a champic
now; fighting like one. = At tI
thirteenth, the dog leg, he saw
chance and seized it: He drove la
and snatched a stroke by shootin
deliberately over the trees th
masked the fairway as it turne
His eagle three won the hole; |
and Joan were two down, with fi
to play.
On the next hole a bad bow
sent his ball into the rough; he 1
jected the iron his caddie held ot
risked a spoon and reached t
green from a tangle of long gra:
His four was good; but Joan's sin
ing of a twenty-foot putt won t
hole. One down—four to play!
The fifteenth and sixteenth we
halved. Joan still had the honor
the seveenth; tears were in h
eyes as her sliced drive was carri
out of bounds. Her second w
good, but she lay three; bad bu
ness, on that shot hole, Steve, wh
he drove, pressed deliberately. The
was half a gasp, half a cheer,
his ball rolled on and on, after
tremendous carry, until it trick]
halfway across the green—th:
hundred and thirty yards away.
“Hey!” said Crozier. ‘“ Have
heart!”
Steve sank his putt; anott
eagle. Joan got her five; the Crozi
each had a four. The match w
squared, going to the home hole.
“Three o'clock!” said Joan, a
caught her breath. She looked
her father, but there was no re:
ing his face.
So the four of them stood on f{
eighteenth tee, with the green
hundred yards away, and the wh
clubhouse with its gay awnings °
hind it. Four good drives; thet
girls’ close together; Steve's thi
yards, perhaps, beyond Tom’s. Be
Crozier outdid herself with her br
sie, but would need wood ag?
Joan was short. Tom sent of
screamer; Steve's brassie left I
(Continued on page 3, Col. 4.)