"Well, that ends it," said Booverman, gloomily.
"I've got to make a two and a three to do it. The two is quite possible;
the three absurd."
The seventeenth hole returns to the swamp that enlivens the sixth. It is
a full cleek, with about six mental hazards distributed in Indian
ambush, and in five of them a ball may lie until the day of judgment
before rising again.
Pickings turned his back, unable to endure the agony of watching. The
click of the club was sharp and true. He turned to see the ball in full
flight arrive unerringly hole high on the green.
"A chance for a two," he said under his breath. He sent two balls into
the lost land to the left and one into the rough to the right.
"Never mind me," he said, slashing away in reckless fashion.
Booverman with a little care studied the ten-foot route to the hole and
putted down.
"Even threes!" said Pickings, leaning against a tree.
"Blast that sixth hole!" said Booverman, exploding. "Think of what it
might be, Picky--what it ought to be!"
Pickings retired hurriedly before the shaking approach of Booverman's
frantic club.
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