The Christmas Goose.

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 72, 18 December 1928, Page 13 (Supplement)

The Christmas Goose.

A STORY FOR GOLFERS

Which Goes to Prove that you Cannot Always Talk an Opponent Out of a Game.

T was Simpkins who proposed the thing. Simpkins is the secretary of our local golf club, and it’s part of his job, of course, to propose things. The fact that five out of six things he proposes are turned down hasn’t anything to do

with the present story. What Simpkins said was this: Let a have a Christmas handicap and play for a goose.” . . „ It was a bright, frosty day when he said it—that sort of day you feel you could eat an ox if it were well roasted and the cheers that went up must have been heard a good mile away. “‘Let "it "be” a ’fat one,”. commented Hopwood. Hopwood weighs nearly 18st:‘, but still eats four square meals a day. The catering committee always charge him ss. for the 2s. 6d. lunch because he sends his plate back three times for everything. Simpkins beamed. “Hayward, the farmer, who supplies us with eggs and butter, tells me he has a goose which has beaten all records for weight. He is willing to reserve it for us if ” “Send him a wire to that effect, Mr. Secretary,” put in Swainson. Swainson is a struggling solicitor with a large family. When he comes to the club he lunches off bread—and—cheese and a pint of beer. He says he cannot

afford anything better. It is surprising what the thought of a little food will do 1 a body of men. When it was definitely decided to follow out Simpkins’s suggestion and hold the Christmas handicap—the biggest goose ever reared in the district to be the prize—the chance that the different members were considered to have became the principal topic of conversation. Hopwood, who had a booming voice that fitted his huge body, could talk of nothing else. “I shan’t trouble to order the usual turkey,” he said. That didn’t make him any more popular than he was already, let me tell you. The trouble with Hopwood was that he talked too much. As Harper once said, “Hopwood was the most exhausting conversationalist he had ever met.” Strictly speaking, Hopwood, however, wasn’t a conversationalist at all. A conversationalist generally allows another man to put in a word. Hopwood never gave you that chance. He was a monologuist. Also, he was the luckiest man in the club. In spite of his great bulk and ungainly golfing style, Hopwood wanted a terrible lot of beating, let me tell you. Because he was so stout Hopwood’s tee-shots were really nothing better than push-strokes—the man cannot possibly take a full swing—but all the same he gets a fair distance and is never off the line. There is always a special golfing Providence watching over Hopwood—-or so it would seem. The same kindly fate which prevents drunken sailors from breaking their necks and blind men being ‘run over when crossing Piccadilly Circus, keeps Hopwood’s ball from going out of bounds or getting into the rough. And the flukes the man gets! Of course, Hopwood doesn’t call them flukes; when he gets a more than usually glaring bit of luck he turns to his opponent and remarks sapiently: “That’s what making a careful study of this game does, you see!” What with his luck and his incessant talking —but, oh, I must make that last statement quite clear before we get any further. I have already mentioned that friend Hopwood is a steady talker in private life. But his efforts in the clubrooms are nothing compared to his vocal work on the links. Years ago Hopwood became imbued with the idea that he could take at least six strokes off his handicap—he plays to a steady ten—if he kept up an incessant chatter whilst going round. That day he beat Hoc. Murdoch, a scratch man, by four and three. After that he never looked back. Ever afterwards those he couldn't beat with his clubs he whacked with his tongue. Perhaps it was because every other member of the club would cheerfully have given a fiver out of his own pocket to prevent Hopwood winning that Christmas goose, that the handicap committee held a special meeting just about now with the result that three strokes were knocked off Hopwood’s handicap. When he heard about it he tore what remained of his hair and raved. “It’s a plot to keep that Christmas goose from me,” he declared —“nothing but a plot!” Well, no doubt it was that all right—but we simply had to do something. Hopwood was just the sort of man who, after winning the goose, would come round to the club on Boxing Day and describe how succulent and tasty every mouthful was.... The week before Christmas was set apart for the most popular event that the club had ever arranged. On the first morning of the event a stranger could have been seen sitting in a corner of the clubroom. He was a fadedlooking individual with a yellowish complexion and a sad expression. “He's my wife’s uncle,” explained Simpkins; “he’s staying with us over Christmas. Been abroad a lot, y’know, and got a touch of the sun. Anyway, he never talks—just sits there like an owl. Poor old chap, but quite harmless. He’s heard about this Christmas

I handicap of ours, and says he would ! 6 that—what’s that?” roared Hopwood, who was standing by; “we can’t have visitors butting in. This is : purely a members’ thing.” Simpkins fished out a little red book. “Under By-law -A," he said, “provision is made for visitors entering any competition arranged by the committee providing they are properly introduced by a member and play under their handicap.” “What is his handicap?” blared Hopwood. A gale of laughter prevented Simpkins from replying. “Good Lord, you aren’t afraid of a man who looks as though he hasn’t got sufficient strength to get out of a bunker, are you?” cried Jannaway. But there was no shame about Hopwood. Going over to the corner, he stared at the stranger and then boomed: “What’s your handicap, eh?” While the rest of us were saying that the fellow’s manners were deplorable and that he ought to be ashamed of himself, Simpkins’s uncle by marriage rose from his chair and deliberately turned his back on the questioner. “Nice, chatty sort of fellow, that relative of yours!” snorted Hopwood; “all I hope is that I meet him in the final. I’ll knock his head off!” “You mean you’ll talk his head off!” rejoined Jannaway. 11.

The soundest saying that is, is the one about many a true word being spoken in jest. As it happened, it was Hopwood’s fate to meet Mr. Arthur Wells—that was the sad-faced stranger’s name—in the final for the Christmas goose. But I am before my story. It was arranged that not more than ten couples should participate in the qualifying round. Hopwood got into the last ten all right, no fear of that, but to the general surprise Simpkins’s uncle by marriage also struggled through. When Hopwood heard the news he went straightaway in search of the club secretary. “Look here,” he blared, “what is the handicap of this precious uncle of yours?” Simpkins struggled clear of the enveloping grasp. “I understand that it used to be 8— that is, when he played. Of course, ho ' hasn’t handled a club for years.” Hopwood sniffed. ' “Eugh! Well, all I can say is, judg- j ing from what Sam Hollins has told ! us, he’s come back to form in a remark- : able fashion—after all these years! : Do you know he did the long fourth in < 3 to-day?” J “Must have been a fluke,” commented Simpkins; “don’t let it worry you, ] Hoppy. As a matter of fact, this handi- < cap is a certainty for Jim Harvey. < From what I can hear you haven’t a 1 chance, Hoppy—you’re short with your iron shots and weak on the greens.” “Fudge!” snapped the other, and went off in a huff. Even if he hadn’t handled any clubs for a good many years, the sad-faced Arthur Wells played sufficiently good golf to get into the final. There, as I have already stated, he met Hopwood. “Now we shall see some fun!” declared Jannaway. “The question is whether Simpkins’s respectable relative will be able to stand the conversational strain.” Simpkins, who strolled up in time to overhear the remark, smiled. “Hoppy, possibly, will get a surprise in that direction,” he said. The final was played on Christmas Eve. At 2.30 in the afternoon the approach to the first tee was crowded. Looking like an overweight Napoleon. Hopwood frowned at his opponent, who came twittering up to take the honour. While he was getting his feet into the proper position, Hopwood touched him on the arm. “You’re my opponent, and I’m going to do my damndest to beat you,” he said; “but all the same I should like to give you a tip just before you drive. . . . Oh, very well,” as Arthur Wells, brushing the hand off his arm, uncoiled a very workmanlike drive and swatted the ball a good 200 yards straight down the course. Someone chuckled. It gave the rest of us entire satisfaction to see that there was one golf-player in the world on whom Hopwood’s “advice” had no effect. The first four holes were halved. If the club’s greatest teacher was determined to assail his opponent with speech, Wells was obviously equally determined not to let the torrent of talk affect his game. Whenever Hopwood approached, he waved him away. The beginning of the end was seen at the long seventh. At this stage of the game the position was this : Whilst Hopwood still talked incessantly at his opponent, Simpkins, on behalf of his uncle by marriage, lost no opportunity of “chipping” Hopwood. The only difference was that, whilst Wells’s game remained undisturbed by Hopwood’s torrent of words, Hopwood just about this time began to show unmistakable signs of becoming nervously irritated. Thus, he pulled his brassie shot into the rough at the seventh, and, although

he put his fourth on the green, the sadfaced gentleman from the tropics was there in 3, and, with a wonderful putt of 20ft., got a far 4. “Lovely!” declared Hopwood; “I’ll bet you a sovereign that you wouldn’t get that putt down again—no, not once in a thousand years!” “That once was enough, Hoppy,” replied Simpkins; “how do you fancy yourself now? What’s the betting?” “I’ll lay you a level fiver I win!” was the instant reply to this challenge. “Done!” Simpkins went off chuckling.

He chuckled a good many more times ..efore the end of the match. Hopwood halved 3, but he could not win another hole. The end came at the seventeenth when he overran the green with his approach, was too strong with his return, and then took three putts to his opponent’s two. “Well, of all the abominable luck!” he shouted, in the very ear of the winner.

Simpkins touched him on the arm. “You’re wasting your breath — you have been wasting it all the afternoon,” he said. “I haven’t told you before, but my uncle is stone deaf!” “Deaf!” roared the loser. “As a post,” replied Simpkins. “Let this be a lesson to you, my lad!”

The Christmas goose was a splendid success. I ought to know, because I was Invited to the feast. Glass in hand, I proposed a brief toast. “To the Christmas Handicap,” I said. “Coupling with it the name of Harry Hopwood — I mean the Christmas Goose,” supplemented Simpkins.