Incapable of speech, he waved him feebly to drive. He
began incredulously to count up again, as though doubting his senses.
"One under three, even threes, one over, even, one under--"
"Here! What the deuce are you doing?" said Booverman, angrily. "Trying
to throw me off?"
"I didn't say anything," said Pickings.
"You didn't--muttering to yourself."
"I must make him angry to keep his mind off the score," said Pickings,
feebly to himself. He added aloud, "Stop kicking about your old sixth
hole! You've had the darndest luck I ever saw, and yet you grumble."
Booverman swore under his breath, hastily approached his ball, drove
perfectly, and turned in a rage.
"Luck?" he cried furiously. "Pickings, I've a mind to wring your neck.
Every shot I've played has been dead on the pin, now, hasn't it?"
"How about the ninth hole--hitting a tree?"
"Whose fault was that? You had no right to tell me my score, and,
besides, I only got an ordinary four there, anyway."
"How about the railroad track?"
"One shot out of bounds.
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