Pickings, thrilled at the possibility of another
miracle, sliced badly.
"This is one of the most truly delightful holes of a picturesque
course," said Booverman, taking out an approaching cleek for his second
shot. "Nothing is more artistic than the tiny little patch of
putting-green under the shaggy branches of the willows. The receptive
graveyard to the right gives a certain pathos to it, a splendid, quiet
note in contrast to the feeling of the swift, hungry river to the left,
which will now receive and carry from my outstretched hand this little
white floater that will float away from me. No matter; I say again the
fourth green is a thing of ravishing beauty."
This second shot, low and long, rolled up in the same unvarying line.
"On the green," said Pickings.
"Short," said Booverman, who found, to his satisfaction, that he was
right by a yard.
"Take your time," said Pickings, biting his nails.
"Rats! I'll play it for a five," said Booverman.
His approach ran up on the line, caught the rim of the cup, hesitated,
and passed on a couple of feet.
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