To the left was a procession of trees, while beyond, on the
course, for those who drove a long ball, a giant willow had fallen the
year before in order to add a new perplexity and foster the enthusiasm
for luxury that was beginning among the caddies.
"I have a feeling," said Booverman, as though puzzled but not duped by
what had happened--"I have a strange feeling that I'm not going to get
into trouble here. That would be too obvious. It's at the seventh or
eighth holes that something is lurking around for me. Well, I won't
waste time."
He slapped down his ball, took a full swing, and carried the far-off
bank with a low, shooting drive that continued bounding on.
"That ought to roll forever," said Pickings, red with excitement.
"The course is fast--dry as a rock," said Booverman, deprecatingly.
Pickings put three balls precisely into the bubbling water, and drew
alongside on his eighth shot. Booverman's drive had skimmed over the
dried plain for a fair two hundred and seventy-five yards. His second
shot, a full brassy, rolled directly on the green.
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