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Updated: June 10, 2025
As Booverman himself admitted, his appearance on the golf-links was the signal for the capricious imps of chance who stir up politicians to indiscreet truths and keep the Balkan pot of discord bubbling, to forsake immediately these prime duties, and enjoy a little relaxation at his expense. Now, for the first three years Booverman responded in a manner to delight imp and devil.
The only dangers are a matted wilderness of long grass in front of the tee, the certainty of landing out of bounds on the slightest slice, or of rolling down hill into a soggy substance on a pull. Also there is a tree to be hit and a sand-pit to be sampled. "Now watch my little friend the apple-tree," said Booverman.
Heavens! if he ever suspects it, he'll go into a thousand pieces." As a result, he missed his own ball completely, and then topped it for a bare fifty yards. "I've never seen you play so badly," said Booverman in a grumbling tone. "You'll end up by throwing me off." When they arrived at the green, Booverman's ball lay about thirty feet from the flag.
He was slowly going to pieces, forgetting the invincible stoicism that is the pride of the true golfer. "I say, take your time, old chap," he said, his voice no longer under control. "Go slow! go slow!" "Picky, for the first four years I played this course," said Booverman, angrily, "I never got better than a six on this simple three-hundred-and-fifty-yard hole.
A long drive that varies a degree is doomed to go out of bounds or to take the penalty of the river. "Don't risk it. Take an iron play it carefully," said Pickings in a voice that sounded to his own ears unrecognizable. Booverman followed his advice and landed by the fence to the left, almost off the fair.
Once in a while he had broken out, "If ever my luck changes, if it comes all at once " But he never ended the sentence, ashamed, as it were, to have indulged in such a childish fancy. Yet, as Providence moves in a mysterious way its wonders to perform, it was just this invincible pessimism that alone could have permitted Booverman to accomplish the incredible experience that befell him.
He added aloud, "Stop kicking about your old sixth hole! You've had the darndest luck I ever saw, and yet you grumble." Booverman swore under his breath, hastily approached his ball, drove perfectly, and turned in a rage. "Luck?" he cried furiously. "Pickings, I've a mind to wring your neck. Every shot I've played has been dead on the pin, now, hasn't it?"
Pickings drew out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "It may come all at once," he said faintly. This mild hope only infuriated Booverman. He had already teed his ball for the second hole, which was poised on a rolling hill one hundred and thirty-five yards away. It is considered rather easy as golf-holes go.
"It's a four, a sure four," said Pickings under his breath. Suddenly Booverman burst into an exclamation. "Picky, come here. Look look at that!" The tone was furious. Pickings approached. "Do you see that?" said Booverman, pointing to a freshly laid circle of sod ten inches from his ball. "That, my boy, was where the cup was yesterday.
Due to the fact that his two on the first brought him not the slightest thrill of nervous joy, he made a perfect shot, the ball carrying the green straight and true. "This is your day all right," said Pickings, stepping to the tee. "Oh, there's never been anything the matter with my irons," said Booverman, darkly. "Just wait till we strike the fourth and fifth holes."
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