It seems a
shame; you're the nicest little ball I ever have known. You've stuck to
me an awful long while. It's a shame."
He teed up, and drove his best drive, and followed it with a brassy that
laid him twenty yards off the green, where a good approach brought the
desired four.
"Even threes," said Pickings to himself, as though he had seen a ghost.
Now he was only a golfer of one generation; there was nothing in his
inheritance to steady him in such a crisis. He began slowly to
disintegrate morally, to revert to type. He contained himself until
Booverman had driven free of the river, which flanks the entire green
passage to the ninth hole, and then barely controlling the impulse to
catch Booverman by the knees and implore him to discretion, he burst
out:
"I say, dear boy, do you know what your score is?"
"Something well under four," said Booverman, scratching his head.
"Under four, nothing; even threes!"
"What?"
"Even threes."
They stopped, and tabulated the holes.
"So it is," said Booverman, amazed.
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