United States or Zimbabwe ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
R.N. Booverman, the Treasurer, and Theobald Pickings, the unenvied Secretary of an unenvied hoard, arrived at the first tee at precisely ten o'clock on a certain favorable morning in early August to begin the thirty-six holes which six times a week, six months of the year, they played together as sympathetic and well-matched adversaries.
"Now, Pickings, this is going to stop," said Booverman angrily. "I'm not going to make a fool of myself. I'm going right up to the tee, and I'm going to drive my ball right smack into the woods and end it. And I don't care." "What!" "No, I don't care. Here goes."
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?"
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.
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.
"Theobald," said Booverman, selecting his cleek and speaking with inspired conviction, "I will tell you exactly what is going to happen. I will smite this little homeopathic pill, and it will land just where I want it. I will probably put out for another two. Three holes in twos would probably excite any other human being on the face of this globe. It doesn't excite me.
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."
The seventh hole itself lies two hundred and sixty yards away in a hollow guarded by a sunken ditch, a sure three or a sure six. Booverman was still too indignant at the trick fate had played him on the last green to yield to any other emotion. He forgot that a dozen good scores had ended abruptly in the swale to the right. He was only irritated.
For the first time Booverman's shot went wide of the mark, straight into the trees that bordered the river to the left. "I'm sorry," said Pickings with a feeble groan. "My dear Picky, it had to come," said Booverman, with a shrug of his shoulders. "The ball is now lost, and all the score goes into the air, the most miraculous score any one ever heard of is nothing but a crushed egg!"
He began slowly to disintegrate morally, to revert to type. He contained himself until Booverman had driven free of the river, which flanks the entire green passage to the ninth hole, and then barely controlling the impulse to catch Booverman by the knees and implore him to discretion, he burst out: "I say, dear boy, do you know what your score is?"
Word Of The Day