"What an infernal pity!"
"Pity?"
"Yes, pity. If only some one else could play it out!"
He studied the hundred and fifty yards that were needed to reach the
green that was set in the crescent of surrounding trees, changed his
brassy for his cleek, and his cleek for his midiron.
"I wish you hadn't told me," he said nervously.
Pickings on the instant comprehended his blunder. For the first time
Booverman's shot went wide of the mark, straight into the trees that
bordered the river to the left.
"I'm sorry," said Pickings with a feeble groan.
"My dear Picky, it had to come," said Booverman, with a shrug of his
shoulders. "The ball is now lost, and all the score goes into the air,
the most miraculous score any one ever heard of is nothing but a crushed
egg!"
"It may have bounded back on the course," said Pickings, desperately.
"No, no, Picky; not that. In all the sixty thousand times I have hit
trees, barns, car-tracks, caddies, fences,--"
"There it is!" cried Pickings, with a shout of joy.
Fair on the course, at the edge of the green itself, lay the ball, which
soon was sunk for a four.
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