In
front, one hundred and twenty yards away, is a formidable bunker,
running up to which is a tract of long grass, which two or three times a
year is barbered by a charitable enterprise. The seventh hole itself
lies two hundred and sixty yards away in a hollow guarded by a sunken
ditch, a sure three or--a sure six.
Booverman was still too indignant at the trick fate had played him on
the last green to yield to any other emotion. He forgot that a dozen
good scores had ended abruptly in the swale to the right. He was only
irritated. He plumped down his ball, dug his toes in the ground, and
sent off another long, satisfactory drive, which added more fuel to his
anger.
"Any one else would have had a three on the six," he muttered as he left
the tee. "It's too ridiculous."
He had a short approach and an easy put, plucked his ball from the cup,
and said in an injured tone:
"Picky, I feel bad about that sixth hole, and the fourth, too. I've
lost a stroke on each of them. I'm playing two strokes more than I ought
to be.
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