Pickings let his bag slip to the ground and sat down, covering his eyes
while Booverman with his putter tried to brush away the ridges.
"Stand up!"
Pickings rose convulsively.
"For heaven's sake, Picky, stand up! Try to be a man!" said Booverman,
hoarsely. "Do you think I've any nerve when I see you with chills and
fever? Brace up!"
"All right."
Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek in
his hand shook like an aspen. He straightened up and walked away.
"Picky," he said, mopping his face, "I can't do it. I can't put it."
"You must."
"I've got buck fever. I'll never be able to put it--never."
At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman had
gone to pieces. He stood shaking from head to foot.
"Look at that," he said, extending a fluttering hand. "I can't do it; I
can never do it."
"Old fellow, you must," said Pickings; "you've got to. Bring yourself
together. Here!" He slapped him on the back, pinched his arms, and
chafed his fingers. Then he led him back to the ball, braced him into
position, and put the putter in his hands.
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