"Twice in sixty thousand times," said Booverman, unrelenting. "That only
evens up the sixth hole. Twice in sixty thousand times!"
From where the ball lay an easy brassy brought it near enough to the
green to negotiate another four. Pickings, trembling like a toy dog in
zero weather, reached the green in ten strokes, and took three more
puts.
The fifteenth, a short pitch over the river, eighty yards to a slanting
green entirely surrounded by more long grass, which gave it the
appearance of a chin spot on a full face of whiskers, was Booverman's
favorite hole. While Pickings held his eyes to the ground and tried to
breathe in regular breaths, Booverman placed his ball, drove with the
requisite back spin, and landed dead to the hole. Another two resulted.
"Even threes--fifteen holes in even threes," said Pickings to himself,
his head beginning to throb. He wanted to sit down and take his temples
in his hands, but for the sake of history he struggled on.
"Damn it!" said Booverman all at once.
"What's the matter?" said Pickings, observing his face black with fury.
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