There is nothing to describe the thirteenth hole. It is not
really a golf-hole; it is a long, narrow breathing spot, squeezed by the
railroad tracks on one side and by the river on the other. Resolute and
fearless golfers often cut them out entirely, nor are ashamed to
acknowledge their terror. As you stand at the thirteenth tee, everything
is blurred to the eye. Near by are rushes and water, woods to the left
and right; the river and the railroad; and the dry land a hundred yards
away looks tiny and distant, like a rock amid floods.
A long drive that varies a degree is doomed to go out of bounds or to
take the penalty of the river.
"Don't risk it. Take an iron--play it carefully," said Pickings in a
voice that sounded to his own ears unrecognizable.
Booverman followed his advice and landed by the fence to the left,
almost off the fair. A midiron for his second put him in position for
another four, and again brought his score to even threes.
When the daring golfer has passed quaking up the narrow way and still
survives, he immediately falls a victim to the fourteenth, which is a
bend hole, with all the agonies of the preceding thirteenth, augmented
by a second shot over a long, mushy pond.
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