Yes, I'll admit that. That evens up for the
fourth."
"How about your first hole in two?"
"Perfectly played; no fluke about it at all--once in sixty thousand
times. Well, any more sneers? Anything else to criticize?"
"Let it go at that."
Booverman, in this heckled mood, turned irritably to his ball, played a
long midiron, just cleared the crescent bank of the last swale, and ran
up on the green.
[Illustration: Wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on the clubhouse
with the miraculous news]
"Damn that sixth hole!" said Booverman, flinging down his club and
glaring at Pickings. "One stroke back, and I could have done it."
Pickings tried to address, but the moment he swung his club, his legs
began to tremble. He shook his head, took a long breath, and picked up
his ball.
They approached the green on a drunken run in the wild hope that a short
put was possible. Unfortunately the ball lay thirty feet away, and the
path to the hole was bumpy and riddled with worm-casts. Still, there was
a chance, desperate as it was.
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