“No, sir,” said Dexter decisively, “I don’t want to caddy any more.” Then, after a pause: “I’m too old.” Jones made it worth his while, because every other - caddy in the club lost one ball a hole for him - regularly . Jones - himself and not his ghost - came up to Dexter with tears in his eyes and said that Dexter was the - best caddy in the club, and wouldn’t he decide not to quit if Mr. Mortimer Jones.Īnd one day it came to pass that Mr. Among those who watched him in open-mouthed wonder was Mr. Mortimer Jones, he strolled frigidly into the lounge of the Sherry Island Golf Club - or perhaps, surrounded by an admiring crowd, he gave an exhibition of fancy diving from the spring-board of the club raft. . . Again, stepping from a Pierce-Arrow automobile, like Mr. Hedrick in a marvellous match played a hundred times over the fairways of his imagination, a match each detail of which he changed about untiringly - sometimes he won with almost laughable ease, sometimes he came up magnificently from behind. He became a golf champion and defeated Mr. October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fleeting brilliant impressions of the summer at Sherry Island were ready grist to his mill. Fall made him clinch his hands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to himself, and make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary audiences and armies. Without elation, without an interval of moist glory, the cold was gone.ĭexter knew that there was something dismal about this Northern spring, just as he knew there was something gorgeous about the fall. The snow ran down into Black Bear Lake scarcely tarrying for the early golfers to brave the season with red and black balls. When he crossed the hills the wind blew cold as misery, and if the sun was out he tramped with his eyes squinted up against the hard dimensionless glare. It was dreary, too, that on the tees where the gay colors fluttered in summer there were now only the desolate sand-boxes knee-deep in crusted ice. At these times the country gave him a feeling of profound melancholy - it offended him that the links should lie in enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged sparrows for the long season. In the fall when the days became crisp and gray, and the long Minnesota winter shut down like the white lid of a box, Dexter’s skis moved over the snow that hid the fairways of the golf course. Some of the caddies were poor as sin and lived in one-room houses with a neurasthenic cow in the front yard, but Dexter Green’s father owned the second best grocery-store in Black Bear - the best one was “The Hub,” patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island - and Dexter caddied only for pocket-money. →LYFREEDOM.COM ←← CLICK HERE← Winter Dreams
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