“Who do you think you are, anyway, Hallett?" T. J. barked. His face was fiery
Mad About Golf “jmnE
A Short Story
Thomas J. Butter wick of the Crestwood
Country Club, looked like an aged bull
dog who’d just received bad news. The
annual outing of the salaried employees of the
Butterwick Chemical Works was underway,
and. as usual, the feature event was a golf
match. T. J. felt the blind draw had been
unreasonably unkind to him ; and he was not
a man who gave in gracefully.
He stared sourly at his partner, Dr. Chester
Hallett, a slim young research chemist with
a laboratory pallor, who’d recently joined the
company. ‘‘Bet you his hobby is collecting
fancy porcelain,” T. J. growled in a bitter
6
The boss said the game was business
but his daughter played it for love
aside to his beautiful daughter. Jacqueline.
"He’s cute looking,” Jackie said. Evidently
her mind and Hallett’s ran in similar chan
nels; for the young man was staring at her
as if he found her as interesting as anything
he’d ever looked at in a test tube.
T. J. saw the look and spoke up; he didn’t
intend Jackie to become involved with any
hired hand below the status of a vice-presi
dent. "Played much golf, Hallett?” he grunted.
"Not recently.”
"Bomb and blast!” T. J. said. On the side
lines he’d seen his sales manager, Sam
Crowder, grinning like a hyena. Crowder, the
lucky bum, had drawn as his partner a chin
less, pimply mail clerk who’d breeze around
the course in eighty-five. "Keep your head
down," T. J. said to Hallett. “And don’t
move around when I'm hitting.” he added.
T. J. took a hitch in his belt, stepped for
ward, and went into the act that for twenty
years had drawn an enthusiastic gallery on
the club veranda. He glared malignantly at
the ball, stood wrapped in grim thought, then
slowly raised the clubhead. Once again he
halted, and the spectators could sense the
terrific concentration in that massive execu
tive dome exposed to the sunlight.
Finally, just as the audience began to sus
pect that T. J. had become petrified, the
clubhead descended with a jerk. The ball
popped into the air and came down squarely
on the fairway, about one hundred and fifty
yards out.
T. J. grunted with satisfaction, then stepped
back as Hallett nonchalantly addressed his
ball. There was a faint whistling sound, and
T. J., popeyed, watched the white sphere
soar through the blue sky and bound across
the fairway some two hundred and fifty yards
out. Before he could untangle his tongue, the
TW- 5-18**7