If you play a careful iron to
keep from the railroad, now on the right, or to dodge the river on your
left, you are forced to approach the edge of the swamp with a cautious
fifty-yard-running-up stroke before facing the terrors of the carry. A
drive with a wooden club is almost sure to carry into the swamp, and
only a careful cleek shot is safe.
"I wish I were playing this for the first time," said Booverman,
blackly. "I wish I could forget--rid myself of memories. I have seen
class A amateurs take twelve, and professionals eight. This is the end
of all things, Picky, the saddest spot on earth. I won't waste time.
Here goes."
To Pickings's horror, the drive began slowly to slice out of bounds,
toward the railroad tracks.
"I knew it," said Booverman, calmly, "and the next will go there, too;
then I'll put one in the river, two the swamp, slice into--"
All at once he stopped, thunderstruck. The ball, hitting tire or rail,
bounded high in the air, forward, back upon the course, lying in perfect
position; Pickings said something in a purely reverent spirit.
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