NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Page 11

  ‘“Why—was the wind heavy?”

  ‘“Absolutely ghastly!” Orton’s voice held conviction. “It wasn’t bad at all till we started on the new bit—then, by the Lord, we hit it! I was playing with Gregg, and, as you know, we’re neither of us weak specimens—but by George, it fairly made us rock on our pins. ‘Stand steady for a drive’—don’t be funny! I was driving like a drunken sailor, and as for Gregg—he lost his temper and swore like a trooper after losing his fourth ball either in the sea or in that damned rank grass . . . and as for that fifteenth green? Tell me, man, what got Anderson when he made it? For I swear I never in the whole of my life struck a green that looked so flat and was so infernally difficult to get on to!”

  ‘A faint and nasty prickling sensation was creeping about the base of Binner’s scalp as he listened. . . . Cursing himself for a stupid nervy owl, he steadied his voice with difficulty as he asked a question:

  ‘“Why the—the fifteenth?”

  ‘“Damned if I can tell! You know—the one perched up on a sort of plateau, with a damned great dip just beyond to a sandy hollow . . . the sea’s not more than a few feet away, and the hollow runs down to a little beach where there’s a battered wreck of an old boat of sorts.”

  ‘The cold feeling was growing—and the last words gave Binner a nasty shock. He regarded stocky, sensible Jack Orton with a stare of frank fright.

  ‘“A boat? Are you sure?” He knew—who better than he?—that with the old man’s disappearance his boat had also vanished, and that certainly yesterday, walking round the course for a final survey, the little beach below the fifteenth green had been innocent of anything but the swags and wrathes of stranded weed that always lay there. Realising that this trend of thought was making him singularly and unpleasantly nervous, he spoke at random.

  ‘“Well, anyway—can’t be anything important.”

  ‘Orton stared at him.

  ‘“Important? Who said it was? Of course it isn’t—only mentioned it to show the place. Well, will you believe it? It’s a short drive—only an iron, I should say—straight from the tee to the green, and as easy as pie to look at—a drive and then a decent putt, though I see it’s down as bogey three. Well, I overdrove the first time—went wide into the sea. Gregg followed—missed his ball, clean as a whistle—a gust struck him just as he swung at it, and you never saw a man so mad! I laughed like a fool—had to, it was so damned comic. . . . Old Gregg, with his handicap, playin’ like that! His next swipe landed off to the right—into a sunken burn it proved. Lost ball! We got so mad we decided to play another each—and this time I landed on the green, a well-pitched shot . . . and the damned ball seemed to run uphill—you know how the green tilts up the farther side?—though it was barely rolling at all when it fell—and went over into the far bunker. Gregg’s second—no, his third really, of course—was too flat, and skidded along, stopping this side the green among a stiff bunch of grass—never saw old Gregg play such a vile shot in my life. He took his niblick and played out—well, as far as I could see—but would that ball stay on the green? Not a bit of it, though it was lifted high and fell like a stone—the damn thing rolled like mine and went over the far side and vanished!

  ‘“Well, by this time you can imagine we were both of us pretty angry, and began to play wild—and though by sheer insistence finally I did get the damn ball into the hole, my score was nine shots all told and Gregg’s eleven—and he chucked it! There must be some darn clever placing about that green—or else we were just unlucky and both went to pieces; but I don’t think so. I heard several of the other fellows coming up and saying much the same thing.”

  ‘Going round later among the thirsty crowd at the bar, Binner heard the same thing, with slightly different versions . . . what was the matter with the fifteenth green? It was too steep—not fairly placed, the bunker wasn’t sporting, the distance was deceptive. . . . After a week or two the thing became a sort of joke with the members, and one heard it regularly: “Hullo, old man? And what’s the fifteenth done with you today?”

  ‘Again, the boat was a curiously elusive quantity—while certain members said they had seen the mysterious boat, others declared it non-existent—yet others again mentioned merely a dark thing on the waters. . . . “It might be a boat, or a chunk of weed, or an old net.” . . . For several reasons Binner avoided making a special journey to see, and deliberately put behind him a certain memory that nagged at him unpleasantly—the memory of that curious phrase of Sir Harry’s concerning a “dark thing out of the sea . . . all dripping. . . .”

  ‘Then, Lansing himself rang up. Cheery and full of energy, just back from the Solent. He was all agog for their promised match, and with an oddly sinking heart Binner fixed a date as far ahead as he could decently suggest. . . . The week before found him day by day growing more and more nervous, fight it as he would, and it was only by the exercise of the grimmest determination that he refrained from ringing Lansing up at the last moment and inventing some excuse. For that Something would happen—that all this time Something had been gathering force and malevolence and energy sufficient for it to happen—was borne in upon him with a dreadful conviction that all his matter-of-factness did nothing effectually to combat!

  ‘They had fixed the match for four o’ clock—it was a gorgeous day, and after the recent blustering unkind weather the links seemed to puff in the spring sun and stretch themselves luxuriously as the two started out.

  ‘Lansing was in great form and after a hole or two Binner felt his own spirits rising, till he felt slightly ashamed of his womanish nerves. It seemed, as he looked at his partner’s bronzed solidity, absolutely absurd to have entertained all these recent fears and tremors about his safety . . . probably these yarns about the fifteenth green were pure coincidence, and he was merely allowing his nerves to get the better of his commonsense. After all, the promontory did catch every breath of wind going, and that green stood high—and it had been a singularly stormy spring—and as for the boat yarn, what easier than for a scrap of wreckage to drift there, remain for a few days and drift away again?

  ‘Certainly today was the balmiest, most wonderful weather. . . . Vaguely cheered and comforted, Binner stepped out smartly beside his partner and for the first half of the game all went well. The two were well matched and the score was all square as they descended the sharp slope that led from the old part of the links to the new, and Binner did not notice, absorbed in the game, that the sun at that moment seemed to withdraw himself behind a cloud, and a sudden little wind, bitter and stinging, sprang up and played about their ears like a malicious whispering threat. It was Sir Harry, as a matter of fact, who commented on the change in the weather as he drove from the tenth tee.

  ‘“Turned cold all of a sudden, hasn’t it? Funny—would have sworn it had set in fine for all day—looks like a storm now, every bit. Got him!” He hit a fine ball straight down the fairway, then his brow darkened—at the very end of the soaring journey the ball turned, and pitching full tilt into a dip, vanished. His brow darkened, puzzled.

  ‘“Well, I’m blowed!” He examined his driver discontentedly—the sandy patch, clean in the centre, showed how well and truly the ball had been hit. “That’s funny—I’d have taken a fiver I hit it square, caddie!”

  ‘The caddie nodded, as he answered.

  ‘“You ’it it a’right, sir. But you won’t never ’it a strite ball on this yer part of the links.”

  ‘Sir Harry stared, as well he might.

  ‘“What are you talking about, eh?”

  ‘The caddie held doggedly to his point.

  ““’true, sir—ain’t it, Bill?” His colleague nodded stolidly as he went on, “’S the wind or somep’n, sir—all the other gents swear like blazes w’en they gets down on this bit—they can’t never ’it strite they say, and the balls they loses—well!”

  ‘“Well!” commented Sir Harry jovially as they strode on. “That must be good for you lads, eh? Suppose you come out and gather them
up afterwards?”

  ‘The two boys exchanged glances.

  ‘“No, sir.” The first caddie’s voice was unwontedly subdued, and the tone arrested Lansing’s attention. He waited for Binner’s second shot and then continued questioning.

  ‘“Why not? You boys are generally pretty keen on collecting balls.”

  ‘“Not ’ere, sir!” The answer was emphatic. His curiosity definitely aroused, Lansing turned to survey with more attention the ragged little object that tramped at his side.

  ‘“Not here, eh? Why? Too far?”

  ‘“No, sir! Not that, sir.”

  ‘Binner found himself listening with a sort of strained eager attention, thanking his stars that his ball and Sir Harry’s lay near together, so that he could hear the boy’s answer. . . .

  ‘“We—we don’t never come down ’ere alone, sir. Don’t like it, like . . .”

  ‘“Don’t like it—what rot!” Lansing smote from the twelfth tee with vigour, and continued his catechism, now definitely interested. “Why don’t you like it?”

  ‘The boys exchanged uncomfortable glances, and did not answer; they had withdrawn suddenly into their shells, and not all the pumping in the world would get anything out of them now but vague murmurs and red-cheeked silences.

  ‘Baffled curiosity adding to his irritation over the unconscionably bad golf he was playing, Sir Harry was rapidly losing his temper and becoming surly. Binner, meantime, was suffering from a horrible sort of growing secret excitement—he knew now—something was going to happen, and he knew equally certainly that he was utterly powerless to prevent it! He could neither invent any reasonable excuse that might prevent Lansing approaching the fifteenth green, nor take any measure of any sort against the Unknown that lay, he knew, in wait for them. . . . With a mounting dread that yet companioned a dreadful sort of excited recklessness he played on silently, never noticing his own bad play, but in a curiously detached way watching Lansing getting more and more enraged and puzzled, play ball after ball into utterly unplayable places, miss his putts, blunder over his approaches like an utter tyro—or, more horribly, like a man in the grip of something utterly inevitable, inexorable.

  ‘As he stood on the little raised-up square of turf that was the fifteenth tee he could see the green, but not the beach below it—with a shaky sort of dread he wondered whether the boat was there, and was glad he could not see . . . somehow now all his dread seemed to centre round that boat—if it was a boat, indeed! He swung—the ball fell short, deep into a belt of whin that protected the hither side of the green. Stepping after him, Lansing waggled his club determinedly, his mouth set in a grim line. The rising wind whistled and sang about Binner’s ears as he stood watching, his leather coat collar turned up . . . heavens, how cold and gloomy it had grown, and how the wind howled! Above it he heard Lansing’s half-shouted remark.

  ‘“Mind yourself—I don’t know what the devil’s come over my play, but this time I’m going on to the green smack-bang, or I’ll never play again!”

  ‘He had a glorious style, the swing of the born golfer, loose, easy, sure. Opening his huge shoulders, he let out at the ball in a perfect shot—it soared high, and falling almost vertically, landed on the green . . . and as Orton had said, rolled slowly, almost idly, uphill to the far edge—and tipped gently over! Frankly losing his temper, Lansing stamped, and swore violently.

  ‘“Blast! I heard there was something odd about this green—badly made or something, I swear. That ball dropped almost dead . . . and you saw what happened! Right over in the dip . . . hell!”

  ‘He strode away growling. Involuntarily, Binner opened his mouth to shout to him, but shut it, speechless—what could he say? . . . what was it he dreaded, what was it that was bringing out the cold sweat of terror round his wrists, his forehead, making his very knees shake? ... Mechanically he followed his caddie after his own ball, but his eyes never left his friend, walking towards the Fifteenth Green—the Fifteenth Green that lay waiting for him, as it had waited for him so long! With a sick feeling of certainty he saw as he mounted the ridge, that the Boat was there too—nosing the shore idly, moving slowly in the grey sullen tide, a curious dragging heap of what looked like nets trailing from its stem into the deeper water beyond . . . yes, the Boat was there! It would be there . . . of course . . . How dull and gloomy it seemed to be growing, and how the wind whipped the bending seagrass, and howled among the crouching bushes! To Binner’s fevered fancy, now, they seemed like hunched figures grouping together in the hollows, on the frowning ridges, peering, nudging, whispering to each other to look as Harry Lansing, all unconscious, strode swiftly onwards towards his fate.

  ‘Beside Binner the two caddies trotted along together, whispering too, their frightened eyes avoiding his—blind, helpless, they were all caught up together into this great Web that was being woven, and could stir no hand nor foot to avert things . . . in a dream he caught snatches of the boys’ muttered talking, scared, incoherent. . . .

  ‘“. . . Seen it again larst night, Alf did . . . crawlin’ up from the sea all wet, ugh!—black and shiny in the moonlight . . . like nothin’ on earth. Somep’n like a man, but it ain’t a man . . . wouldn’t come dahn ’ere a’ nights for noffink, I wouldn’t. And now Lansing had reached the Green!

  ‘Binner, halting by his own ball, deep buried in a tussock of grass, reached mechanically for a club as his friend turned and shouted to him, striding over the smooth surface of the green towards the drop into the deep bunker beyond. “. . . easy . . . can see it now . . . beat you here! . . .” came faintly back to him on the buffeting wind, and Harry Lansing dropped out of sight over the edge. Binner, with a curiously fatalistic feeling that now—now it was over—what did it matter what he did?—bent over his ball; but at that moment quite suddenly and horribly Lansing’s caddie, struggling after him against the wind, began to scream, wildly, dreadfully, and throwing his clubs down, dropped upon the turf, his face in his hands.

  ‘The humanness of the sound, despite its horror, awoke Binner to action from his curious stupor of acquiescence . . . and he ran, ran like a hare to the crouched boy, cowering and shivering . . . but the lad waved him wildly on, screaming incoherencies.

  ‘“I saw It! I saw It . . . It’s got ’im . . .” The words died away as Binner rushed on to the green, crossed it and stared blankly down into the deep hollow the further side . . . and it was empty! Empty as the blank sea, the sighing air—the idle club lay beside the white gleaming ball, clear against the sandy bottom, but of the fat cheerful player there was no trace—nor, since then, has Harry Lansing ever been heard of more!’

  We drew in our breaths and exchanged glances. Hellier, absorbed, spoke first of all of us. He loved to know the details, to finish off his knowledge as it were.

  ‘It . . . the Thing the caddie screamed about! What was it?’

  Ponting lifted his shoulders and shook his head.

  ‘How can I say?’ His voice was sober. ‘I—that is to say, Binner . . . Binner was too busy running to his friend’s help to glance towards the sea and that sinister Boat that lolled up and down in the tide. Besides, he might not have seen whatever the caddie did see. I’m inclined to think the boy was an unconscious psychic . . . anyway, all Binner could get out of him between his crying and shivering was that Something . . . Something wet and dark and trailing that seemed to have been crouched among the nets—or maybe pulled itself into the Boat by the nets, he could never say. . . . But the lad had the definite momentary impression that as Lansing dropped Something trailed itself, sinuously and swiftly, horribly swiftly, out of the Boat and up the sand, and disappeared behind the Green into the fatal bunker behind it . . . and that’s all! The Boat worked loose that night and was never seen again—if it ever was a Boat at all. . . . Sometimes I’m inclined to think it was only a sort of Screen for Whatever came out of the sea to wreak vengeance on the old man’s behalf. I don’t know . . . we shall never know now. But I resigned from the Club—that finished me a
s far as Rentford was concerned.’

  Amidst our impressed silence Ponting—otherwise Binner—stood up to go. By the door he turned, however, and, surveying the meditative roomful, added the last postscript to his yarn.

  ‘I heard afterwards, by the way, that the people that cleared out the old man’s stuff—he never appeared to claim anything, so it was ultimately sold—found a lot of curious old books on various rather unpleasant sorts of black magic, and some curious instruments, with an ebony wand and some peculiarly nasty dried things—and they said the floor of the hut was all marked with chalk in various funny lines and diagrams. The man that kept the things had awful dreams and his wife got scared, so they burnt them . . . if we’d got them here now I rather think one might have found out things about the old man that would have startled us a bit, eh? Goodnight, Saunderson, and thanks awfully. Goodnight, you fellows.’

  June

  The Priest’s Story

  How Pan came to Little Ingleton

  Dear old Father Pring had been a regular member of the Round Table ever since that happy January night when I joined it, but it had never dawned on me that he was anything of a story-teller—knowing the custom at Saunderson’s, I yet imagined vaguely that the gentle old priest was, like the deep chairs, the cosy-shaded lamp, the hospitable red-tiled hearth, merely a pleasant part of the charming mise en scène, a ‘stage-prop’ rather than one of the actors. I thought too soon, though. It was a perfect June night, Midsummer Night, and the windows thrown open upon a purple star-splashed sky, while from the far-below streets the hum of London rose like the faint boom and thunder of a distant sea. I was sitting with whimsical, charming Dan Vesey, in the wide window-embrasure looking out over the black peaked roofs, a jagged Cubist silhouette against the marvellous sky, when Father Pring joined us; staring out across the roofs to where in the distance, low down behind the line of black, a few streaks and slivers of livid green and gold showed the last ragged traces of the sinking sun, the old man sighed a little, then smiled as I raised questioning eyes to his.