“Ah, here it is,” interrupted Fowler, parting the grass. He evaluated the situation, then chose an iron. Wheeling peered toward the distant green.
“You’ve got a shot at it, but it won’t be easy. Take it from me. I’ve played this course.”
“I know. Maybe I should give up trying logic and reason. Oh, you mean the pin. That too. Funny, it’s the damnedest thing, but I got a letter the other day from a chap I haven’t seen in twenty-five years. Went to school with him. Full of the usual reminiscences, what’s happened to mutual acquaintances, what hasn’t happened to mutual acquaintances, how the world’s changed and how it should have and how we had nothing to do with it in spite of all our dreams.
“You know, at one time my greatest ambition was to become a resort hotel magnate? Another Conrad Hilton? Until I got too interested in the land I was supposed to blister with high-rises and planted swimming pools.
“Well, there was this postscript—cute little story about some kid he didn’t even know. Should have just smiled and forgotten it, but the darned thing kept me up half the night, sitting and thinking, till Majorie killed the light. Silly stuff, but—”
107
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE …
He hefted the club, stepped up to the ball.
“If it’s something you think can get you past Pet-terson, I’d like to hear it,”
Fowler paused, looked back over his shoulder. “See? No reason, no logic, and I finally got you interested. Come to the committee meeting tomorrow.” He put his head down and took a vicious swipe at the ball.