"Now watch my little friend the apple-tree," said Booverman. "I'm going
to play for it, because, if I slice, I lose my ball, and that knocks my
whole game higher than a kite." He added between his teeth: "All I ask
is to get around to the eighth hole before I lose my ball. I know I'll
lose it there."
Due to the fact that his two on the first brought him not the slightest
thrill of nervous joy, he made a perfect shot, the ball carrying the
green straight and true.
"This is your day all right," said Pickings, stepping to the tee.
"Oh, there's never been anything the matter with my irons," said
Booverman, darkly. "Just wait till we strike the fourth and fifth
holes."
When they climbed the hill, Booverman's ball lay within three feet of
the cup, which he easily putted out.
"Two down," said Pickings, inaudibly. "By George! what a glorious
start!"
"Once in sixty thousand times," said Booverman to himself. The third
hole lay two hundred and five yards below, backed by the road and
trapped by ditches, where at that moment Pollock, true to his traditions
as a war correspondent, was laboring in the trenches, to the
unrestrained delight of Wessels, who had passed beyond.
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