Pickings felt a strange, unaccountable desire
to leap upon Booverman like a fluffy, enthusiastic dog; but he fought it
back with the new sense of responsibility that came to him. So he said
artfully: "By George! old man, if you hadn't missed on the fourth or the
sixth, you'd have done even threes!"
"You know what I ought to do now--I ought to stop," said Booverman, in
profound despair--"quit golf and never lift another club. It's a crime
to go on; it's a crime to spoil such a record. Twenty-eight for nine
holes, only forty-two needed for the next nine to break the record, and
I have done it in thirty-three--and in fifty-three! I ought not to try;
it's wrong."
He teed his ball for the two-hundred-yard flight to the easy tenth, and
took his cleek.
"I know just what'll happen now; I know it well."
But this time there was no varying in the flight; the drive went true to
the green, straight on the flag, where a good but not difficult put
brought a two.
"Even threes again," said Pickings, but to himself. "It can't go on.
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