Booverman's face as he walked to the fourth tee was as joyless as a
London fog. He placed his ball carelessly, selected his driver, and
turned on the fidgety Pickings with the gloomy solemnity of a father
about to indulge in corporal punishment.
"Once in sixty thousand times, Picky. Do you realize what a start like
this--three twos--would mean to a professional like Frank or even an
amateur that hadn't offended every busy little fate and fury in the
whole hoodooing business? Why, the blooming record would be knocked into
the middle of next week."
"You'll do it," said Pickings in a loud whisper. "Play carefully."
Booverman glanced down the four-hundred-yard straightaway and murmured
to himself:
"I wonder, little ball, whither will you fly?
I wonder, little ball, have I bid you good-by?
Will it be 'mid the prairies in the regions to the west?
Will it be in the marshes where the pollywogs nest?
Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"
[Illustration: "Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"]
He pronounced the last word with a settled conviction, and drove another
long, straight drive.
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