SANDY, MICK AND HARRY.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XLIII, Issue 2347, 27 October 1921, Page 3

SANDY, MICK AND HARRY.

A BOWLING STORY.

(By E. W. II.)

The recent wet weather has called to mind a very exciting story that came under my notice during my travels shortly after last Easter. It happened that I was a guest at an hotel in a small town not so many miles away, and the fact of there being mushrooms on the menu prompted a bowling acquaintance of mine to ask me if I would care to hear a story of the greatest bowling contest ever held in this Island. I mentioned the fact that I had already ordered fish from the menu, but he assured me that this was no angler’s yarn, but facts which would be treasured in a certain Irish family as history ranking in importance with the Battle of Waterloo.

Being an enthusiastic bowler, and a good listener, I consented to suffer the story, making a mental nota that my friend seemed positively burning with inward glee as he recalled the details of the great contest. However, I give the story verbatim: —

Well, it was like this. I happened to be in the bar parlour one afternoon, when in strolled three comrades, all knights of the green, and apparently out for a jolly time. Harry said to his comrades; “What’s yours, boys?” and the filled glasses before them was the signal for loud discussion as to the merits of a recent tournament.

“Oi’m thinkin’,” said Mick, “that there’s no end to some people’s luck (3n the rink. Oi have in moind the blamed way in which Sandy’s bowls ran conthrary to all the known laws of the green when he beat me in the foinal for that Cup.’ ’

“Tlmat, be danged!” replied Sandy. “It’s me national game, and anyway, I could beat ye twa games oot o’ three at any time, with both feet on the, mat!”

Harry, scenting sport, beckoned to the barman with the sign to “fill ’em up again,” and shrewdly chimed in with, “Bowls is a very uncertain game, but with ordinary luck I could beat either of you myself.” “Spare the crows!” retorted Mick. “You’re too long in the arrums to make a bowler, and your timperamint is against yer. Tiraperamint is everything in bowls. , I remimber once when ij was playing against Sandy ”

“Against me!” said Sandy, carefully sorting the scrapings from his pipe. “Don’t get braggin' aboot any o’ your doin’s with me. I recoiled many’s the time I’ve beat you at tlie-draw, or run the jack for. a handful. Your bowls is like your temperament—you often lose your llead!. Who’s shouting this time?” “It stroikes me,” said Mick, “that your head’s not over long, and your timperamint has got the wrong bias. From Sligo to Corrk—an’ Oi’ve played the best of me nation—there’s not anither man that could beat me at the dhraw.”

“If it’s drawing corks you’re speaking of,” said Harry, “I’m ready to concede that point; but that’s only a side line in bowls. The point is that in twenty-one heads up, I will back myself to beat you both—and that by a fair margin. I’ve seen England’s champions at the game, from Carruthers to Irvine Watson, and I don’t think (hey have anything on me, I suggest that, as we have nothing better to do, we take a stroll to the green and settle the question.”

“Right!” said Mick. “I’ll no he goin’ to the green with but three whiskies,” said Sandy. “It’s agin the laws o’ the game in Scotland to play on an empty stomach! North o’ the Tweed bowls is a man’s game, an’ a man who only takes three whiskies is no man at a’.”

“Where’s yer timperamint come in with yer whisky an’ all? Bowls for me before breakfast, or before supper —an’ I rely on me Irish judgment.” “Well,” said Harry, “we’ll have whisky and bowls —bowls and whisky. Wrap np a bottle, Mr barman.”

At this stage the party adjourned to the green, the argument continuing until the green was reached. “We’ve no o’er much time,” observed Sandy. “The lieht is getting verra poor at this time o’ the year. Maybe anither thimblefull will no do a mon any harrm.” “Great St. George!” retorted Mick. “The light is good considerin’. It’s not for me to be complainin’; the dark suits me verry well.”

Amidst a jangle of argument, the rink was selected, and all preparations made. -Positions, for the first head were drawn, which placed Mick first, then Harry and Sandy. “Oi’ll show you what a son of Erin can do on the pinks,” bragged Mick, as he placed a beauty beside the jack. “The Irish timperamint is at its best where skill is requoired.” “Oh! shut up, and give the next man a chance,” said Harry, takingthe mat, and placing his bowl wide jjof the mark.

Sandy, with scrupulous care, examined his bowl, and made a mental calculation as to whether the_ mat had been shifted. His bowl overran the jack by a yard. Mick drew another good one, and by the time three bowls apiece were up, Sandy had all the back bowls, with Harry running close to Mick. “Now let us see you run the jack for four,” said Harry, with a twinkle in his eye. “The green’s a wee bit holdin,” cautiously remarked the Scot. “But maybe anither nip would no do any harm.”

“Holdm’P snorted Mick. “The

bogs o’ Brockerty would not stop me from gettin’ such a shot! Runnin’ the jack’s me second nature. I could do it in the darrk!”

After a good try for the jack, the trio adjourned for a nip, with frequent repetitions during the course of the game. At the twentieth head the scores stood: Mick 18, Sandy 18, Harry 12. By this j.ime darkness had set in, and the autumn dew had formed freely on the green. The party were very well primed with their frequent adjournments, and the even scores of' Mick and Sandy led to much rivalry and excitement. Harry, having scored on the twentieth head', was of the opinion that either Sandy or Mick should proceed to the other end of the rink and hold a match over the jack, as he fancied he could see two jacks on the green. Mick loudly protested that such a thing was against the rules, and that if a man couldn’t stand good whisky without seeing two jacks that was his funeral,.and anyhow, Harry hadn’t a chance.

Sandy cannily admitted that he had only one match, and he might want -that when he got home, to light the gas. _ • The head proceeded noisily, Mick upholding his claim to being able to draw in the dark by placing his last ball right against “kitty,” and signalled his success by a species of war dance and loud yelling. The Scot sarcastically remarked that Mick’s eyesight was impaired by good whisky, and that Mick’s bowl had knocked the jack to the left, leaving Sandy about two up, and with his next bowl he reckoned he could make it three.

“Knocked the jack, me oye!” shouted Mick. “I’ll bet all the spuds in Old Oireland I’m one up on yer, .yer spalpeen! I’m slap bang against kitty, an’ it’ll take all yer Scottish timperamint to beat that me bahoy! Whisky, or no whisky, i’s Oireland for iver, and be damned to yer!”

Sandy mustered all his skill, and with great judgment drew for the jack on the left of the head, racing after his bowl in high spirits as he saw it making for the white object for which he had aimed.

“You’re undone, Mick, my laddie!” he shouted. “I’ve drawn as beautiful a shot as ever you saw. 'Scotland for ever! Bring out the pipes, the game is mine by three!” “The devil!” said Mick. “You’re a mile off. You’re cross-eyed, man. The jack’s in the middle of the rink!”

' By this time Harry was at the head, careering around in great excitement. “The game’s yours, Mick, by the hand of fate! Sandy’s a good draw, but his jack is a . mushroom!”