voice that sounded to his own ears unrecognizable.

Booverman followed his advice and landed by the fence to the left,
almost off the fair. A midiron for his second put him in position for
another four, and again brought his score to even threes.

When the daring golfer has passed quaking up the narrow way and still
survives, he immediately falls a victim to the fourteenth, which is a
bend hole, with all the agonies of the preceding thirteenth, augmented
by a second shot over a long, mushy pond. If you play a careful iron to
keep from the railroad, now on the right, or to dodge the river on your
left, you are forced to approach the edge of the swamp with a cautious
fifty-yard-running-up stroke before facing the terrors of the carry. A
drive with a wooden club is almost sure to carry into the swamp, and
only a careful cleek shot is safe.

"I wish I were playing this for the first time," said Booverman,
blackly. "I wish I could forget--rid myself of memories. I have seen
class A amateurs take twelve, and professionals eight. This is the end
of all things, Picky, the saddest spot on earth. I won't waste time.
Here goes."

To Pickings's horror, the drive began slowly to slice out of bounds,
toward the railroad tracks.

"I knew it," said Booverman, calmly, "and the next will go there, too;
then I'll put one in the river, two the swamp, slice into--"

All at once he stopped, thunderstruck. The ball, hitting tire or rail,
bounded high in the air, forward, back upon the course, lying in perfect
position; Pickings said something in a purely reverent spirit.

"Twice in sixty thousand times," said Booverman, unrelenting. "That only
evens up the sixth hole. Twice in sixty thousand times!"

From where the ball lay an easy brassy brought it near enough to the
green to negotiate another four. Pickings, trembling like a toy dog in
zero weather, reached the green in ten strokes, and took three more
puts.

The fifteenth, a short pitch over the river, eighty yards to a slanting
green entirely surrounded by more long grass, which gave it the
appearance of a chin spot on a full face of whiskers, was Booverman's
favorite hole. While Pickings held his eyes to the ground and tried to
breathe in regular breaths, Booverman placed his ball, drove with the
requisite back spin, and landed dead to the hole. Another two resulted.

"Even threes--fifteen holes in even threes," said Pickings to himself,
his head beginning to throb. He wanted