Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, November 19, 1892

Excerpt

THE MAN WHO WOULD.

II.—THE MAN WHO WOULD PLAY GOLF.

Bulger was no cricketer, no tennis-player, no sportsman, in fact. But his Doctor recommended exercise and fresh air. "And I'm thinking, Sir," he added, "that you cannot do better than just take yourself down to St. Andrews, and put yourself under Tom Morris." "Is he a great Scotch physician?" asked Bulger; "I don't seem to have heard of him." "The Head of the Faculty, Sir," said the medical man—"the Head of the Faculty in those parts."

Bulger packed his effects, and, in process of time, he arrived at Leuchars. Here he observed some venerable towers within a short walk, and fancied that he would presently arrive at St. Andrews. In this he was reckoning without the railway system—he was compelled to wait at Leuchars for no inconsiderable time, which he occupied in extracting statistics about the consumption of whiskey from the young lady who ministered to travellers. The revelations now communicated, convinced Bulger that either Dr. Morris was not on the lines of Sir Andrew Clark, or, as an alternative, that his counsels were not listened to by travellers on that line.

Arriving in the dusk, Bulger went to his inn, and next morning inquired as to the address of the Head of the Faculty. "I dinna ken," said an elderly person, to whom he appealed, "that the Professors had made Tom a Doctor, though it's a sair and sad oversicht, and a disgrace to the country, that they hae'na done sae lang syne. But I jalouse that your Doctor was jist making a gowk o' ye." "What!" said Bulger. "Jist playin' a plisky on ye, and he meant that Tom wad pit ye in the way o' becoming a player. Mon, ye're a bull-neckit, bow-leggit chiel', and ye'd shape fine for a Gowfer! Here's Tom." And, with this brief introduction, the old man strolled away.

Bulger now found himself in the presence of Mr. Morris, whose courtesy soon put him on a footing of friendliness and confidence. He purchased, by his Mentor's advice, a driver, a cleek, a putter, a brassey, an iron, a niblick, and a mashy. Armed with these implements, which were "carried by an orphan boy," and, under the guidance of the Head of the Faculty himself, Bulger set forth on his first round. His first two strokes were dealt on the yielding air; his third carried no inconsiderable parcel of real property to some distance; but his fourth hit the ball, and drove it across the road. "As gude as a better," quoth the orphan boy, and bade Bulger propel the tiny sphere in the direction of a neighbouring rivulet. Into this affluent of the main, Bulger finally hit the ball; but an adroit lad of nine stamped it into the mud, while pretending to look for it, and Bulger had to put down another. When he got within putting range, he hit his ball careering back and forward over the hole, and, "Eh, man," quoth the orphan boy, "if ye could only drive as you put!"

In some fifteen strokes he accomplished his task of holing out; and now, weary and desponding (for he had fancied Golf to be an easy game), he would have desisted for the day....