Golfers Magazine Vol. 28—No. 3
the strain told. Travers was hardly able to stand as he grasped his conqueror’s hand for the congratulations of a gentleman; the lines on his face made it look old and a smile would not come though he tried for it. Then Jellie was caught up in triumph on the shoulders of Tom Innes and Monty Fraser and, followed by the cheering, happy, worn-out throng of spectators, they started for the club house. Huntington, running along to relieve Fraser or Innes should they tire, shouted in Jellie’s ear:
“Evans beat Gardner, but he’ll be pie for you tomorrow! We knew you could do it, Jellie, old man! Wow! Old Jellie! Wow-ee!”
They jollified for an hour at the club house, then tore their hero from the arms of the admiring throng and bustled him into an automobile. It was nearing dusk when they reached Grassview.
“Now,” said Huntington, “we'll have a good dinner and then take Jellie up and put him to bed. He still has Evans to beat, though if he plays as he did today that'll be easy enough. Only one more, Jellie, old man, and for God’s sake get some sleep. You look pretty bad. Tomorrow at this time you'll be amateur golf champion of the United States.”
So after dinner they escorted him to his room and left him there, with a last reminder that they would leave at half-past seven in the morning for Baltusrol and the final victory.
The first thing Mr. Jellie did when they had gone was to lock the door. Then he walked to the window and raised it and stood looking out on the night. Unseeingly for a long time he gazed at the stars—perhaps Sirius was among them. Then he turned from the window and went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. In the glare of the electric light the appearance of his face was enough to warrant the solicitous advice of his friends. It was sunken and haggard, and pale as death. His hands fumbled nervously with the white counterpane. The grim light of mingled fear and despair was in his eyes.
“Eighty-eight,” he said aloud involuntarily, as a thought forced itself into speech.
He got up and went to his desk and began scribbling mechanically on a sheet of paper, like a man in a trance. He covered the sheet on both sides, doing over and over again the sum:
14
30
31
13
88
He reached over and tore a sheet off his desk calendar, disclosing to view the date of the morrow: “Saturday, August 13.” In the blank space left above the date for memoranda there was a large cross scratched in red ink. He sat and gazed at it for a long time, while the minutes stretched into hours, with the hopeless eye of a man doomed. The night grew cold, and all sounds about the club house ceased, and still he sat gazing at that date on his calendar.
Long after the clock in the hall below had struck one, he pulled himself out of his chair and walked over to the mantel, where reposed a bronze urn bearing an engraved inscription. Mechanically he read its words, over and over again. A gleam of hope appeared in his eye, but swiftly died out, to give way to an expression of increased despair.
“Nibbie,” he groaned, stretching out his hands to the urn, “O, Nibbie, why didn’t I kill you just one day later?”
He tottered across the room and threw himself face down on the bed. At dawn he arose and dashed cold water over his face. There was a new air of determination about him now, the air of a man resolved to know the worst; his movements were abrupt and decisive, as though he were pressed for time. He took his bag of clubs and quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind him. All was still in the club house. He tip-toed stealthily down the stairs, through the halls and over the piazza to the lawn.
The East’s first delicate blush appeared on the horizon as he reached
