"Shall we play through?" said Pickings, with formal preciseness. He
teed his ball, took exactly eight full practice swings, and drove one
hundred and fifty yards as usual directly in the middle of the course.
"Well, it's straight; that's all can be said for it," he said, as he
would say at the next seventeen tees.
Booverman rarely employed that slogan. That straight and narrow path was
not in his religious practice. He drove a long ball, and he drove a
great many that did not return in his bag. He glanced resentfully to the
right, where Judge Weatherup was straddling the fence, and to the left,
where Yancy was annoying the bullfrogs.
"Darn them!" he said to himself. "Of course now I'll follow suit."
But whether or not the malignant force of suggestion was neutralized by
the attraction in opposite directions, his drive went straight and far,
a beautiful two hundred and forty yards.
"Tine shot, Mr. Booverman," said Frank, the professional, nodding his
head, "free and easy, plenty of follow-through."
"You're on your drive to-day," said Pickings, cheerfully.
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