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Johnson, Owen, 1878-1952

"Murder in Any Degree"

Hang it all! that sixth wasn't right! You told me the green was
fast."
"I'm sorry," said Pickings, feeling his fingers grow cold and clammy on
the grip.
The eighth hole has many easy opportunities. It is five hundred and
twenty yards long, and things may happen at every stroke. You may begin
in front of the tee by burying your ball in the waving grass, which is
always permitted a sort of poetical license. There are the traps to the
seventh hole to be crossed, and to the right the paralleling river can
be reached by a short stab or a long, curling slice, which the
prevailing wind obligingly assists to a splashing descent.
"And now we have come to the eighth hole," said Booverman, raising his
hat in profound salutation. "Whenever I arrive here with a good score I
take from eight to eighteen, I lose one to three balls. On the contrary,
when I have an average of six, I always get a five and often a four. How
this hole has changed my entire life!" He raised his ball and addressed
it tenderly: "And now, little ball, we must part, you and I.


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