Free The Sporting Club by Thomas McGuane Page A

made himself a whiskey and water, then gathered his letters from the office and answered each of them, clipping the answers to the originals and enclosing them in a manila envelope to return to Mary Beth for typing and sending. When he had done this, he had the illusion of a place in the outside world once more, a world untouched by the mania of boredom.
    It turned cold during the night. In the morning he went out and was splitting kindling when Janey came. She wore a heavy blue sweater and narrowed her shoulders in the chill. She struck her hands together and shivered. Quinn said, “Is it that cold?”
    â€œIt is to me. I’m not chopping wood.” Quinn wondered what she wanted; she came from his house. He put up the axe.
    â€œHow are you?” he asked.
    â€œ I’m fine. What about you? Vernor said you got … plugged.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow terrible that must be. Can we go in? I’m cold. Or would you mind?”
    â€œI would mind.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œI don’t want to inspire Vernor to some new feat of aggression.”
    â€œYes? Well, he’ll be along soon.”
    â€œSay it isn’t so.”
    She ignored his sarcasm.
    â€œYou smashed that French pistol—” she said.
    â€œSure did.”
    â€œIt was worth a lot, you know.”
    â€œIt was worth a lot to me smashed.”
    â€œI suppose. But it was a pair, you know, hundreds of years old. Can I go in and you stay outside?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause to Vernor it will be indisputable evidence that I have just seduced you and have run out to clear my head.”
    â€œYou know, he’s not a lunatic.”
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    She didn’t answer. Her pretty face became pretty in another way and she was now indifferent again and splendidly vacant. Only her energy betrayed the impression. “You surely get a two-bit spring in Michigan,” she said distantly, “not that I intend to see another.”
    A moment later, Quinn blurted in unreasonable disconnection, “You realize, don’t you, that I know you’re not married?” But Stanton came before she could reply. He clowned up the path, improvising a little dance of pathos and hopeful apology. “The throat?”
    â€œSore.”
    â€œNext time we’ll use milder loads and a little cheaper grade of pistol.”
    â€œYou will discover that that was the last time I’ll be going for the dueling.”
    â€œYou think so?” The apologetic tone was gone. “Well, okay. Number two in the batting box is the matter of Olson. How do you advise?” Now he was actually turning the knife.
    â€œI advise you to drop it.”
    â€œWe’re beyond that now. Reality comes to bear. The turning of wheels. Fortescue came by my place. He says I hit on an ideal time to let Olson go. Summertime is strictly housekeeping around here. We can get a temporary until we find someone to do Olson’s job.”
    â€œYou won’t find anybody who will do it as well as he can.”
    â€œWell, there again, we may have hit on a plan. You know how honest and thoroughgoing he is—” Quinn agreed. “Well, I hit on the idea of letting him suggest or even hire his successor. I mean, that strikes me as honorable.”
    â€œWhy don’t you try this for honor: why don’t you go discuss this plan with him before you make another move?”
    â€œWe’re talking about an employee, old pal.”
    â€œI know who we’re talking about.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll do it. But let me pick the moment.”
    When they were gone, Quinn started on an angry cross-country hike to the west. He had to have a neutral corner. Shortly after he left the old club boundaries, he was out of the woods, on newer acquisition, cleared ground. This was the first of the farms now owned by the Centennial Club and represented the steady