IF I have, by any chance, announced earlier in this narrative¹ that the valley of the Donau is the garden spot of the world, I must now ask you to excuse the ebullience² of spirit that prompted the declaration. The Warm Springs Valley of Virginia is infinitely³ more attractive to me, and I make haste to rectify⁴ any erroneous impression I may have given, while under the spell of something my natural modesty⁵ forbids me to describe.  
If you happen not to know the Warm Springs Valley, permit me to say that you are missing a great deal. It is a garden spot and—but why discourse⁶ upon a subject that is so aptly handled by the gentlemen who supply railway folders⁸ with descriptive material and who will tell you in so many words that God's noblest work was done in the green hills and vales of fair Virginia? Any railway folder⁷ will acquaint you with all this and save me a great deal of time and trouble, besides giving you a sensible and adequate idea of how to get there and where to stop when you reach your journey's end, together with the price of Pullman tickets and the nature of the ailments⁹ you are supposed to have if you take the waters. It is only necessary for me to say that it is a garden spot and that you don't have to change cars if you take the right train out of New York City, a condition which does not obtain if you happen to approach from the opposite direction.
 
I arrived there early one bright November morning, three days after landing in New York. You will be rendered unhappy, I fear, by the announcement that I left Mr. Poopendyke behind. He preferred to visit an aunt at New Rochelle and I felt that he deserved a vacation. Britton, of course, accompanied me. He is indispensable, and, so far as I know, hasn't the faintest notion of what a vacation means unless he considers employment with me in some such light. At any rate he has never mentioned a relation in need of a visit from him.
 
Before leaving New York I had a rather unpleasant encounter with my publishers. It was in the nature of a luncheon¹⁰ at which I was led to believe that they still expected me to supply them with the manuscript of a novel at a very early date. They seemed considerably¹¹ put out when I blandly¹² informed them that I had got no farther along than the second chapter.
 
"We have been counting on this book of yours for January publication," said they.
 
I tried to explain that the muse¹³ had abandoned me in a most heartless fashion.
 
"But the public demands a story from you," said they. "What have you been doing all summer?"
 
"Romancing," said I.
 
I don't know just how it came about, but the suggestion was made that I put into narrative form the lively history of my sojourn¹⁴ on the banks of the Danube, trusting implicitly¹⁵ to the imagination yet leaving nothing to it.
 
"But it's all such blithering rot," said I.
 
"So much the better," said they triumphantly¹⁶—even eagerly.
 
"I do not suppose that you, as publishers, can appreciate the fact that an author may have a soul above skittles," said I indignantly. "I cannot, I will not write a line about myself, gentlemen. Not that I consider the subject sacred but—"
 
"Wait!" cried the junior member, his face aglow¹⁷. "We appreciate the delicacy¹⁸ of—er—your feelings, Mr. Smart, but I have an idea,—a splendid idea. It solves the whole question. Your secretary is a most competent, capable young man and a genius after a fashion. I propose that he write the story. We'll pay him a lump sum for the work, put your name on the cover, and there you are. All you will have to do is to edit his material. How's that?"
 
And so it came to pass that I took myself off that evening for Hot Springs, secure in the thought that Poopendyke would attend to my literary estate far more capably than I could do it myself, and that my labours later on would be pleasantly devoted¹⁹ to the lazy task of editing, revising and deleting a tale already told....
 
If you are lucky enough to obtain rooms in the Homestead, looking out over the golf course, with the wonderful November colourings in the hills and gaps beyond; over the casino, the tennis courts and the lower levels of the fashionable playground, you may well say to yourself that all the world is bright and sweet and full of hope. From my windows I could see far down the historic valley in the direction of Warm Springs, a hazy²⁰ blue panorama²¹ wrapped in the air of an Indian summer and redolent with the incense²² of autumn.
 
Britton reminded me that it was a grand morning for golf, and I was at once reminded that Britton is an excellent chap whose opinions are always worth considering. So I started for the links, stopping first at the office on my way out, ostensibly to complain about the absence of window-screens but in reality to glance over the register in quest of certain signatures.
 
A brisk, oldish little man came up beside me and rather testily²³ inquired why the deuce there were no matches in his room; also why the hot water was cold so much longer than usual that morning. He was not much of a man to look at, but I could not fail to note the obsequious²⁴ manner in which the two clerks behind the desk looked at him. You couldn't possibly have discovered anything in their manner to remind you of hotel clerks you may have come to know in your travels. A half dozen boxes of matches were passed out to him in the twinkling of an eye, and I shudder²⁵ to think what might have happened if there had been a hot water faucet²⁶ handy, they were so eager to please.
 
"Mr. Brewster gone out yet?" demanded this important guest, pocketing all of the matches. (I could see at once that he was a very rich man.) "Did he leave any message for me? He didn't? He was to let me know whether he could play golf with—eh? Playing with Logan, eh? Well, of all the—He knows I will not play with Logan. See if Mr. Scott is in his room. Tell him I'd like to take him on for eighteen holes this morning."
 
He crossed to the news-counter and glanced over the papers while a dusky bell-boy shot off in quest of Mr. Scott.
 
"They all hate to play with the old geezer," said one of the clerks,—a young one, you may be sure,—lowering his voice and his eyebrows²⁷ at the same time. "He's the rottenest player in the world."
 
"Who is he?" I inquired, mildly interested.
 
"Jasper Titus," was the reply. "The real old Jasper himself."
 
Before I could recover from my surprise, the object of my curiosity approached the desk, his watch in his hand.
 
"Well, what does he say?" he demanded.
 
"The—the boy isn't back yet, Mr. Titus," said one of the clerks, involuntarily pounding the call-bell in his nervousness.
 
"Lazy, shiftless niggers, the whole tribe of them," was Mr. Titus's caustic²⁸ comment.
 
At that instant the boy, quite out of breath, came thumping²⁹ down the stairs.
 
"Mr. Scott's got rheumatiz, Mr. Titus. He begs to be excused—"
 
"Buncombe!" snapped Mr. Titus. "He's afraid to play me. Well, this means no game for me. A beautiful day like this and—"
 
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Titus," said I, stepping forward. "If you don't mind taking on a stranger, I will be happy to go around with you. My name is Smart. I think you must have heard of me through the Countess and your—"
 
"Great Scott! Smart? Are—are you the author, James Byron Smart? The—the man who—" He checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the hand and, as he wrung³⁰ it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the men behind the desk.
 
"I am John Bellamy Smart," said I, a little miffed.
 
His shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. The crustiness left it as if by magic. His countenance³¹ radiated joy.
 
"I owe you a debt of gratitude³², Mr. Smart, that can never be lifted. My daughter has told me everything. You must have put up with a fearful lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. I know her well. She's spoiled and she's got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems different nowadays. There is a change in her, by George."
 
"She's had her lesson," said I. "Besides I didn't find she had a bad temper."
 
"And say, I want to tell you something else before I forget it: I fully³³ appreciate your views on international marriage. Allie told me everything you had to say about it. You must have rubbed it in! But I think it did her good. She'll never marry another foreigner if I can help it, if she never marries. Well, well, I am glad to see you, and to shake your hand. I—I wish I could really tell you how I feel toward you, my boy, but I—I don't seem to have the power to express myself. If I—"
 
I tried to convince him that the pleasure had been all mine, and then inquired for Mrs. Titus and the Countess.
 
"They're both here, but the good Lord only knows where. Mrs. Titus goes driving every morning. Roads are fine if you can stick to them. Aline said something last night about riding over to Fassifern this forenoon with Amberdale and young Skelly. Let's see, it's half-past ten. Yes, they've gone by this time. Why didn't you write or telegraph Aline? She'll be as mad as a wet hen when she finds you've come without letting her know." "I thought I should like to take her by surprise," I mumbled³⁴ uncomfortably.
 
"And my son Jasper—why, he will explode when he hears you're here. He's gone over to Covington to see a girl off on the train for Louisville. You've never seen such a boy. He is always going to Covington with some girl to see that she gets the right train home, But why are we wasting time here when we might be doing a few holes before lunch? I'll take you on. Of course, you understand I'm a wretched player, but I've got one virtue³⁵: I never talk about my game and I never tell funny stories while my opponent is addressing the ball. I'm an old duffer at the game, but I've got more sense than most duffers."
 
We sauntered down to the club house where he insisted on buying me a dozen golf balls and engaging a caddy for me by the week. Up to the moment we stepped up to the first tee he talked incessantly³⁶ of Aline and Rosemary, but the instant the game was on he settled into the grim reserve that characterises the man who takes any enterprise seriously, be it work or play.
 
I shall not discuss our game, further than to say that he played in atrociously bad form but with a purpose that let me, to some degree, into the secret of his success in life. If I do say it myself, I am a fairly good player. My driving is consistently long. It may not be difficult for even you who do not go in for golf to appreciate the superior patience of a man whose tee shots are rarely short of two hundred and twenty yards when he is obliged to amble³⁷ along doing nothing while his opponent is striving to cover the same distance in three or four shots, not counting the misses. But I was patient, agreeably patient, not to say tolerant............