PUTTING OUT
There was nothing in that clear, calm day, with its blue sky and its flooding sunshine, to suggest in the slightest degree the awful tragedy so close at hand - that tragedy which so puzzled the authorities and which came so close to wrecking the happiness of several innocent people.
The waters of the inlet sparkled like silver, and over those waters poised the osprey, his rapidly moving wings and fan-spread tail suspending him almost stationary in one spot, while, with eager and far- seeing eyes, he peered into the depths below.The bird was a dark blotch against the perfect blue sky for several seconds, and then, suddenly folding his pinions and closing his tail, he darted downward like a bomb dropped from an aeroplane.
There was a splash in the water, a shower of sparkling drops as the osprey arose, a fish vainly struggling in its talons, and from a dusty gray roadster, which had halted along the highway while the occupant watched the hawk, there came an exclamation of satisfaction.
"Did you see that, Harry?" called the occupant of the gray car to a slightly built, bronzed companion in a machine of vivid yellow, christened by some who had ridden in it the "Spanish Omelet." "Did you see that kill? As clean as a hound's tooth, and not a lost motion of a feather.Some sport-that fish-hawk! Gad!""Yes, it was a neat bit of work, Gerry.But rather out of keeping with the day.""Out of keeping? What do you mean?"
"Well, out of tune, if you like that better.It's altogether too perfect a day for a killing of any sort, seems to me.""Oh, you're getting sentimental all at once, aren't you, Harry?" asked Captain Gerry Poland, with just the trace of a covert sneer in his voice."I suppose you wouldn't have even a fish-hawk get a much needed meal on a bright, sunshiny day, when, if ever, he must have a whale of an appetite.You'd have him wait until it was dark and gloomy and rainy,with a north-east wind blowing, and all that sort of thing.Now for me, a kill is a kill, no matter what the weather.""The better the day the worse the deed, I suppose," and Harry Bartlett smiled as he leaned forward preparatory to throwing the switch of his machine's self-starter, for both automobiles had come to a stop to watch the osprey.
"Oh, well, I don't know that the day has anything to do with it," said the captain - a courtesy title, bestowed because he was president of the Maraposa Yacht Club."I was just interested in the clean way the beggar dived after that fish.Flounder, wasn't it?""Yes, though usually the birds are glad enough to get a moss-bunker.Well, the fish will soon be a dead one, I suppose.""Yes, food for the little ospreys, I imagine.Well, it's a good death to die - serving some useful purpose, even if it's only to be eaten.Gad! I didn't expect to get on such a gruesome subject when we started out.By the way, speaking of killings, I expect to make a neat one to-day on this cup-winners' match.""How? I didn't know there was much betting.""Oh, but there is; and I've picked up some tidy odds against our friend Carwell.I'm taking his end, and I think he's going to win.""Better be careful, Gerry.Golf is an uncertain game, especially when there's a match on among the old boys like Horace Carwell and the crowd of past-performers and cup-winners he trails along with.He's just as likely to pull or slice as the veriest novice, and once he starts to slide he's a goner.No reserve comeback, you know.""Oh, I've not so sure about that.He'll be all right if he'll let the champagne alone before he starts to play.I'm banking on him.At the same time I haven't bet all my money.I've a ten spot left that says I can beat you to the clubhouse, even if one of my cylinders has been missing the last two miles.How about it?""You're on !" said Harry Bartlett shortly.
There was a throb from each machine as the electric motors started the engines, and then they shot down the wide road in clouds of dust - the sinister gray car and the more showy yellow - while above them, drivingits talons deeper into the sides of the fish it had caught, the osprey circled off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on the edge of the forest.
And on the white of the flounder appeared bright red spots of blood, some of which dripped to the ground as the cruel talons closed until they met inside.
It was only a little tragedy, such as went on every day in the inlet and adjacent ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, as he drove on with ever-increasing speed in an endeavor to gain a length on his opponent, could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfect blue of the sky, in which there was not a cloud.Was it prophetic?
Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls, matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs and pockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurrying here and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes, and of diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at the Maraposa Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and Harry Bartlett were racing their cars toward it.
It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on it were to be played several matches, not the least in importance being that of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes in hotly contested contests on the home links.
In spite of the fact that on this day there were to be played several matches, in which visiting and local champions were to try their skill against one another, to the delight of a large gallery, interest centered in the cup-winners' battle.For it was rumored, and not without semblance of truth, that large sums of money would change hands on the result.
