It
must turn."
"Now, Pickings, this is going to stop," said Booverman angrily. "I'm not
going to make a fool of myself. I'm going right up to the tee, and I'm
going to drive my ball right smack into the woods and end it. And I
don't care."
"What!"
"No, I don't care. Here goes."
Again his drive continued true, the mashy pitch for the second was
accurate, and his put, after circling the rim of the cup, went down for
a three.
The twelfth hole is another dip into the long grass that might serve as
an elephant's bed, and then across the Housatonic River, a carry of one
hundred and twenty yards to the green at the foot of an intruding tree.
"Oh, I suppose I'll make another three here, too," said Booverman,
moodily. "That'll only make it worse."
He drove with his midiron high in the air and full on the flag.
"I'll play my put carefully for three," he said, nodding his head.
Instead, it ran straight and down for two.
He walked silently to the dreaded thirteenth tee, which, with the
returning fourteenth, forms the malignant Scylla and Charybdis of the
course.
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