"A four, anyway," said Pickings, with relief.
"I should have had a three," said Booverman, doggedly. "Any one else
would have had a three, straight on the cup. You'd have had a three,
Picky; you know you would."
Pickings did not answer. He was slowly going to pieces, forgetting the
invincible stoicism that is the pride of the true golfer.
"I say, take your time, old chap," he said, his voice no longer under
control. "Go slow! go slow!"
"Picky, for the first four years I played this course," said
Booverman, angrily, "I never got better than a six on this simple
three-hundred-and-fifty-yard hole. I lost my ball five times out of
seven. There is something irresistibly alluring to me in the mosquito
patches to my right. I think it is the fond hope that when I lose this
nice new ball I may step inadvertently on one of its hundred brothers,
which I may then bring home and give decent burial."
Pickings, who felt a mad and ungolfish desire to entreat him to caution,
walked away to fight down his emotion.
"Well?" he said, after the click of the club had sounded.
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