Aolib.comFragment of Photochrom print of the front of Neuschwanstein Castle, Bavaria, Germany (ca. 1897)

32 Caliber »


By Donald McGibeny

Fiction

32 Caliber

by

Donald McGibeny

Frontispiece by

HUGH MACKEY

INDIANAPOLIS

THE BOBBS—MERRILL COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1920

THE BOBBS—MERRILL COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I BRING JIM HERE
II TWO MEN AND A WOMAN
III I COULD KILL HIM
IV THE WORST HAPPENS
V ACCIDENT OR MURDER
VI A CLUE AND A VERDICT
VII I TURN DETECTIVE
VIII IT LOOKS BAD FOR HELEN
IX LOOK OUT, JIM
X I ACCUSE ZALNITCH
XI A DOUBLE INDICTMENT
XII WHO AM I
XIII WE PLAN THE DEFENSE
XIV BULLET PROOF
XV THE ANSWER
XVI THE MECHANICIAN
XVII RED CAPITULATES
XVIII I LISTEN TO MY FOREBEARS

32 CALIBER

CHAPTER ONE

BRING JIM HERE

I was in the locker—room of the country—club, getting dressed after the best afternoon of golf I had ever had. I had just beaten Paisley “one—up” in eighteen holes of the hardest kind of sledding.

If you knew Paisley you’d understand just why I was so glad to beat him. He is a most insufferably conceited ass about his golf, for a man who plays as badly as he does; in addition to which he usually beats me. It’s not that Paisley plays a better game, but he has a way of making me pull my drive or over—approach just by his confounded manner of looking at me when I am getting ready to play.

We usually trot along about even until we come to the seventh hole–in fact, I’m usually ahead at the seventh–and then conversation does me in. You see, the seventh hole can be played two ways. There’s a small clay bank that abuts the green and you can either play around or over it to the hole, which lies directly behind. The real golfers play over with a good mashie shot that lands them dead on the green, but dubs, like Paisley, play around with two easy mid—iron shots. When we get to the place where the choice must be made, Paisley suggests that I go around, which makes me grip my mashie firmly, recall all the things I have read in the little book about how to play a mashie shot, and let drive with all my force, which usually lands me somewhere near the top of the clay bank, where it would take a mountain goat to play the next shot. After that, Paisley and I exchange a few hectic observations and my temperature and score mount to the highest known altitude.

Of course, every now and then, I forget my stance and Paisley long enough to send the ball in a beautiful parabola right on to the green, and when I do–oh, brother!–the things I say to Paisley put him in such a frame of mind that I could play the rest of the course with a paddle and a basket—ball and still beat him. This particular afternoon he had tried to play the seventh hole as it should be played, and though we had both foozled, I had won the hole and romped triumphantly home with the side of pig.

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