Evening Star Newspaper, February 2, 1930, Page 96

THE SUNDAY -STAR, WASHINGTON, D. .C, FEBRUARY 2, 1930. » Golf Makes Lo Goof; Mixing Business With Recreation Upsets Even the Pickle Industry— And This'l;;" Particular Scheme Had a Flareback Which Sent the e Narrator Back to Packing Clubs Instead of Pickles. it was Old Man Probst and the mess he and I got in that sent me back here packing sticks for rheu- matic old fossils at a buck a round when two months ago I was the best pickle packer in the Probst Pickle Works. You see as a pickle packer I wasn't supposed to be interested in any bits of firm b?smess except pay day. We pickle packers didn't even break into the comipany’s routine business or ghe newspapers until one of us fell into a tub ©of brine and passed to the happy pickle hunt- fng ground. But my work bench was right smack up against Old Man Probst's private bflfice and the old gent had been an auctioneer before he had to get into the pickle business to save the boy who had taken over the factory in lieu of a bad gambling debt. You know, bne of those rubber checks that sometimes bounce right back at you, and so I had a ring-side seat to most of the firm's executive ns. One morning I heard a lot of talk coming from the office. “That darn old pickle-faced Swartz and his pang of cut-throats are taking all our Coney #sland business away from us,” he yells, bang- his fist down on the table and jarring a off into the lap of Probst, jr., who listener. He had to stay and listen The other six members of board of governors had departed when the double chin began to get red and and down as the result of the gur- ling going on under it. THE boy laughed. I don’t know, but I im- t agine he was laughing at his father calling Bwartz pickle-faced. Probst, sr., himself has i EAH, Tm back caddying again, and bushel of cucumbers and they’d do squads right tnd jump into the bottle all pickled, packed ready for the trade. “If we don't do something soon, we might as Well close up the joint,” the old man howled. “Why not sell out to Swartz?” the boy asked, $peaking out of turn and getting a batch of papers containing the profit and loss state- ment for the last six months slammed in his “Well, that’s even better than losing all Wwe’ve got,” he added as he gathered up the profit and loss. “All we've got! All we've got! What in $he world have we got? Just a lot of homeless cumbers we’re paying men to put in barrels then can’t sell. Boy, we're just about gone #f we can’t stop this fellow Swartz some way.” “Why not do away with him?” calmly sug- the boy. ,.e:;le: Man Probst sat down. ) ow on top of everything else, you would up murder, I suppose,” weekly said Probst, {3 “No, I don't mean murder. I mean get him Put of the business by some hook or crook.” i+ “Well, how you going to do that?” he yelled, he picked up a niblick which was sticking to the argument that I got to dovetailing the warts on the pickles together, and any one knows that’s all wrong. You are d to et them in, wart against wart, leaving plenty of open spaces, which, filled with a weak so- fution of vinegar and wafer, cuts down the humber of pickles needed to fill a barrel about $0 per cent. I got so interested in the office argument I slipped two pickles too close together Beain. Pete, the quiet little pickle packer at my #ide, noticed it. ¢ “‘Better watch your work,” he said. “Aw, golf makes 'em goofy,” I yelled, sort ®f losing my temper. Now, that wasn’t much of a remark. Nothe §ng very unusual. I had been caddying every Bunday afternoon, and I knew my golfers, but sried. .. “What's the answer? Where is the way out?” | “Why, golf,” answered the boy. ‘W*Now what in tarmnation has golf got to do with the pickle business, much less that old Swartz? Why, he doesn’t even play ‘That’s just it. He doesn't play it,” said wn.!.,fl\erevuthehd'sldetontheuble squirming, with the old man and me looking it over. “All right, I'll admit the idea has some merit, thyougdn.tolethlmtophygolfl" “You leave that to me,” proudly chirped the lad. “From the way you talk, this golf is a terrible thing for business. You forget that we both play it,” mused Probst, sr. “You're wrong again, Father. I play it, but as far as the naked eye can determine, you « don’t even come close to playing golf.” “I had a 99 last month,” boasted the man. “Yes, you spent all week practicing for that 99, too, and lost three pickle contracts to Swartz doing it. See how the thing works. All we got to do is to get him out there on the greens and keep you away and we're sitting pretty,” reminded the boy. The next morning I'm passing the Swartz Pickle Works on my way to work and I ran smack into young Probst. “I'm just going to work for Swartz,” he says, and then seeing that I look like the ether was about to take effect, he continues, “Yes, I'm going to work for Swartz, that is, if I can get the job. He's advertising for a sales manager this morning.” “Well, and then what?” I asked. “Well, I'm going to work for Swarts with the idea in mind of getting him to play golf,” he replied. “Huh, taking my idea?” “What do you mean, your idea??” he asks, acting kinda numb-like, “Why, it was my idea from the start. It was that pet remark of mine, golf makes 'em goofy,’ that startled you working along this line, wasn't it>” ““Oh, I don’t know!” he states. “Well, I'll give you credit for knowing a good idea when it runs up and speaks to you, but how are you—"" ‘ “Aw, send me the questioneer by general de- livery, will you? There goes the whistle and I've got to get to work,” he throws back over his shoulders as he walks across the street and into the door marked “Employes Only.” Gee, the boy was working fast and Old Man Probst would fall in a faint if he had seen his boy walking into his rival’s plant. I was walk- ing along wondering if the Old Man knew any- thing about the plan; how the boy was going to get the Swartz firm interested in golf and other things when a big car drove up to the curb and a gruff voice barked at me, but just at the time the 8 o'clock whistle at the plant cut the morning air and I started to run for the factory. I slipped a look over the shoulder and then g:;nn the four-wheeled brakes. It was the ! “Excuse me, I was hurrying to work, Mr. Probst,” I said, apologetic-like, “Good idea, but tell me what the kid's up to now?” “He’s going to work for Swartz,” I said, get- By Verne Wickham. ting my feet strung around headed for the factory in case he Went hysterical. “Ho, ho, ha, well, that'll solve my problem. Next time you see him tell him not to bother about that fool idea of his of getting Swartz to take up the game of golf. He's handicapped enough already,” and he drove on, not even offering to give a poor workingman a ride. NE Sunday afternoon about six weeks after the boy went to work for Swartz, I was packing for a foursome of women at Brookside. I heard a lot of cussing coming from the trap over by 12. The pretty snub-nose wren heard it and looked at me. I saw what she wanted right away. “Would you please step over there and tell that ignoramus there are ladies on the course?” she chirped, swelling up and missing her shot completely. “Too bad decent people can’t enjoy Sunday afternoon golf without being insulted by a lot of heathens.” So I busted through the trees that hid us from the golfer who was exercising his vocal handicap. “Say, mister, there’s ladies on the course,” I yelled at the old fellow bending over a ball in the trap trying to shove a yellow tee under it “Well, write Hoover about it, will ya?” he yells, throwing his driver at me. “Get out and tell the sweet young things to go back to Sunday school.” I ducked behind a tree and after waiting a minute to see if the rest of the set was follow- ing the driver I took a look at the belligerent old boy in the trap—it was Herman Swartz! I hurried back over the hill and back to the boiling women just as Bob Probst came over the hill to see what had happened to Swartz. The boy's idea was working and I must have been smiling a little when I joined up with my foursome. “Wipe that silly grin off your face, young man,” chirped the old wren with the loud golf hose. “You may retire to the clubhouse, boy,” said one of the others, I dropped the sticks and headed for the club- house. Bob Probst saw me and gave me the high sign, so I trotted.down to where he and Swartz were putting. “Want to pack for us? They didn't have any caddies when Mr. Swarts and I started,” he said, and so I grabbed the sticks. The old fellow was having a terrible time. He was just at that he had cracked 100 “Say, mister, there’s ladiesonthe course!” I hollered at the old fellow in the trap and ducke ed behind a tree, shot. He looked to me like he was about ready to give up the game for good. Bob had a ter- rible time getting him to finish the round. In fact, it was powerful medicine Bob used . . . he slipped me a sniffer of it on the seventeenth. The head of the Swartz Pickle Corporation had struggled along 'in desperation all that round. I could see symptoms of the old man breaking sticks and quitting, but just as luck would have it, he got away a fine drive on 18. He slipped as he was swinging at the ball, skidded his club along, the ground and hit the ball square. Got about 150 yards and right down the middle. He topped his mashie and it rolled on to the green. He got down in two putts for a par four and right there he caught the golf germ right. “See,” says the boy, quick to take advantage of the break. “You can play this game as well as any one. Why, I've seen men who have been playing for years that couldn’t get a par on this hole.” Swartz made a date with Larry, the club professional, for the next morning, and from that par four on 18 on he had just one thing on his mind—golf! Two weeks later young Probst drove up to the Probst Pickle Works in a nifty yellow roadster with Swartz pickle signs all over it. Walking in on his father by surprise it was no wonder that it took the old man several minutes to get over the boy’s opening remark, which was, “Dad, I want you and Mr. Swartz to have a game of golf with me at the club tomorrow.” “WHAT? Play golf with that cut-throat? I should say not!” “I know it sounds funny, but he’s not such a bad sort and I think you two should get together. I've been thinking it over and there isn't enough pickle business here for two face tories. Now, the two factories, if combined, could get in the national market and—" “Shut up. If this is all you've got out of working for that big bum then you better come on back here. No, I will not play golf with him or any of his family,” the Old Man thundered. “Oh, well,” said the boy, rising to leave, “if that's the way you feel about it, O. K. but I'm getting rather tired of hearing Swartz talk so much. He's talking big talk now about how he'd like to get you out on the golf course. He says he could beat the stuffing out of you at golf, tiddle-de-winks or pickle making, and——" “Did he say that?” “Only this morning.” “All right, you arrange the game. Any time Continue on Nineteenth Page “So there you are!” he howls and makes a grab for me. I ducked under the fence.