"Well," said Booverman, without joy, "that ball is lying about two
hundred and forty yards straight up the course, and by this time it has
come quietly to a little cozy home in a nice, deep hoof track, just as I
found it yesterday afternoon. Then I will have the exquisite pleasure of
taking my niblick, and whanging it out for the loss of a stroke. That'll
infuriate me, and I'll slice or pull. The best thing to do, I suppose,
would be to play for a conservative six."
When, after four butchered shots, Pickings had advanced to where
Booverman had driven, the ball lay in clear position just beyond the
bumps and rills that ordinarily welcome a long shot. Booverman played a
perfect mashy, which dropped clear on the green, and ran down a moderate
put for a three.
They then crossed the road and arrived by a planked walk at a dirt mound
in the midst of a swamp. Before them the cozy marsh lay stagnant ahead
and then sloped to the right in the figure of a boomerang, making for
those who fancied a slice a delightful little carry of one hundred and
fifty yards.
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