"If he makes a four here," said Pickings to himself, "he'll be playing
five under four--no, by thunder! seven under four!" Suddenly he stopped,
overwhelmed. "Why, he's actually around threes--two under three now.
Heavens! if he ever suspects it, he'll go into a thousand pieces."
As a result, he missed his own ball completely, and then topped it for a
bare fifty yards.
"I've never seen you play so badly," said Booverman in a grumbling tone.
"You'll end up by throwing me off."
When they arrived at the green, Booverman's ball lay about thirty feet
from the flag.
"It's a four, a sure four," said Pickings under his breath.
Suddenly Booverman burst into an exclamation.
"Picky, come here. Look--look at that!"
The tone was furious. Pickings approached.
"Do you see that?" said Booverman, pointing to a freshly laid circle of
sod ten inches from his ball. "That, my boy, was where the cup was
yesterday. If they hadn't moved the flag two hours ago, I'd have had a
three. Now, what do you think of that for rotten luck?"
"Lay it dead," said Pickings, anxiously, shaking his head
sympathetically.
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