Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 10, 2025
There are the traps to the seventh hole to be crossed, and to the right the paralleling river can be reached by a short stab or a long, curling slice, which the prevailing wind obligingly assists to a splashing descent. "And now we have come to the eighth hole," said Booverman, raising his hat in profound salutation.
"Well, I don't know whether I am or not," said Booverman, obstinately. In fact, he felt rather defrauded. The integrity of his record was attacked. "See here, I play thirty-six holes a day, two hundred and sixteen a week, a thousand a month, six thousand a year; ten years, sixty thousand holes; and this is the first time a bit of luck has ever happened to me once in sixty thousand times."
Well, what do you think of that?" Booverman, unconvinced, approached the hole with suspicion, gingerly removing the pin. At the bottom, sure enough, lay his ball for a phenomenal two. "That's the first bit of luck that has ever happened to me," he said furiously; "absolutely the first time in my whole career." "I say, old man," said Pickings, in remonstrance, "you're not angry about it, are you?"
The best thing to do, I suppose, would be to play for a conservative six." When, after four butchered shots, Pickings had advanced to where Booverman had driven, the ball lay in clear position just beyond the bumps and rills that ordinarily welcome a long shot. Booverman played a perfect mashy, which dropped clear on the green, and ran down a moderate put for a three.
"Look at that," he said, extending a fluttering hand. "I can't do it; I can never do it." "Old fellow, you must," said Pickings; "you've got to. Bring yourself together. Here!" He slapped him on the back, pinched his arms, and chafed his fingers. Then he led him back to the ball, braced him into position, and put the putter in his hands. "Buck fever," said Booverman in a whisper.
Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek in his hand shook like an aspen. He straightened up and walked away. "Picky," he said, mopping his face, "I can't do it. I can't put it." "You must." "I've got buck fever. I'll never be able to put it never." At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman had gone to pieces. He stood shaking from head to foot.
And to think I might have done it with a little luck!" Pickings felt his heart begin to pump, but he was able to say with some degree of calm: "You may get a three here." "Never. Four, three and four is what I'll end." "Well, good heavens! what do you want?" "There's no joy in it, though," said Booverman, gloomily. "If I had those two strokes back, I'd go down in history, I'd be immortal.
Topics of engrossing mental interests are bad form on the golf-links, since they leave a disturbing memory in the mind to divert it from that absolute intellectual concentration which the game demands. Therefore Pickings and Booverman, as they started toward the crowded first tee, remarked de rigueur: "Good weather." "A bit of a breeze." "Not strong enough to affect the drives."
If they hadn't moved the flag two hours ago, I'd have had a three. Now, what do you think of that for rotten luck?" "Lay it dead," said Pickings, anxiously, shaking his head sympathetically. "The green's a bit fast." The put ran slowly up to the hole, and stopped four inches short. "By heavens! why didn't I put over it!" said Booverman, brandishing his putter.
"Well," said Booverman, without joy, "that ball is lying about two hundred and forty yards straight up the course, and by this time it has come quietly to a little cozy home in a nice, deep hoof track, just as I found it yesterday afternoon. Then I will have the exquisite pleasure of taking my niblick, and whanging it out for the loss of a stroke. That'll infuriate me, and I'll slice or pull.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking