iver, and
turned on the fidgety Pickings with the gloomy solemnity of a father
about to indulge in corporal punishment.

"Once in sixty thousand times, Picky. Do you realize what a start like
this--three twos--would mean to a professional like Frank or even an
amateur that hadn't offended every busy little fate and fury in the
whole hoodooing business? Why, the blooming record would be knocked into
the middle of next week."

"You'll do it," said Pickings in a loud whisper. "Play carefully."

Booverman glanced down the four-hundred-yard straightaway and murmured
to himself:

"I wonder, little ball, whither will you fly?
I wonder, little ball, have I bid you good-by?
Will it be 'mid the prairies in the regions to the west?
Will it be in the marshes where the pollywogs nest?
Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"

[Illustration: "Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"]

He pronounced the last word with a settled conviction, and drove another
long, straight drive. Pickings, thrilled at the possibility of another
miracle, sliced badly.

"This is one of the most truly delightful holes of a picturesque
course," said Booverman, taking out an approaching cleek for his second
shot. "Nothing is more artistic than the tiny little patch of
putting-green under the shaggy branches of the willows. The receptive
graveyard to the right gives a certain pathos to it, a splendid, quiet
note in contrast to the feeling of the swift, hungry river to the left,
which will now receive and carry from my outstretched hand this little
white floater that will float away from me. No matter; I say again the
fourth green is a thing of ravishing beauty."

This second shot, low and long, rolled up in the same unvarying line.

"On the green," said Pickings.

"Short," said Booverman, who found, to his satisfaction, that he was
right by a yard.

"Take your time," said Pickings, biting his nails.

"Rats! I'll play it for a five," said Booverman.

His approach ran up on the line, caught the rim of the cup, hesitated,
and passed on a couple of feet.

"A four, anyway," said Pickings, with relief.

"I should have had a three," said Booverman, doggedly. "Any one else
would have had a three, straight on the cup. You'd have had a three,
Picky; you know you would."

Pickings did not answer. He was slowly going to pieces, forgetting the
invincible stoicism that is the pride of the true golfer.