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Updated: June 10, 2025
"Something well under four," said Booverman, scratching his head. "Under four, nothing; even threes!" "What?" "Even threes." They stopped, and tabulated the holes. "So it is," said Booverman, amazed. "What an infernal pity!" "Pity?" "Yes, pity. If only some one else could play it out!"
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.
"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.
"You know what I ought to do now I ought to stop," said Booverman, in profound despair "quit golf and never lift another club. It's a crime to go on; it's a crime to spoil such a record. Twenty-eight for nine holes, only forty-two needed for the next nine to break the record, and I have done it in thirty-three and in fifty-three! I ought not to try; it's wrong."
"I have a feeling," said Booverman, as though puzzled but not duped by what had happened "I have a strange feeling that I'm not going to get into trouble here. That would be too obvious. It's at the seventh or eighth holes that something is lurking around for me. Well, I won't waste time."
When they climbed the hill, Booverman's ball lay within three feet of the cup, which he easily putted out. "Two down," said Pickings, inaudibly. "By George! what a glorious start!" "Once in sixty thousand times," said Booverman to himself.
Booverman with a little care studied the ten-foot route to the hole and putted down. "Even threes!" said Pickings, leaning against a tree. "Blast that sixth hole!" said Booverman, exploding. "Think of what it might be, Picky what it ought to be!" Pickings retired hurriedly before the shaking approach of Booverman's frantic club. Incapable of speech, he waved him feebly to drive.
When I get a good drive off the first tee," said Booverman discouraged, "I mess up all the rest. You'll see." "Oh, come now," said Pickings, as a matter of form. He played his shot, which came methodically to the edge of the green. Booverman took his mashy for the short running-up stroke to the pin, which seemed so near. "I suppose I've tried this shot a thousand times," he said savagely.
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.
Well, any more sneers? Anything else to criticize?" "Let it go at that." Booverman, in this heckled mood, turned irritably to his ball, played a long midiron, just cleared the crescent bank of the last swale, and ran up on the green. "Damn that sixth hole!" said Booverman, flinging down his club and glaring at Pickings. "One stroke back, and I could have done it."
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