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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.
"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.
The gate-keeper was a buxom and determined-looking French woman of well past middle age, who turned a deaf ear to the entreaties of the occupants of the leading car that the line of trucks should be allowed to scurry across before the train passed. As the boys sat waiting in the sudden quiet, Picky Mann said quietly: "We are getting nearer. Listen to the guns."
"I'm pretty well, thank ye, Mr. Heathcote. I hope you're the same, and the ladies. The master's about somewhere, I take it. Picky, go and find the master." Picky was one of the Polynesians, who at once started on his errand. "Have you been over to Gangoil since you left it?" said Harry, looking the man full in the face. "Not I, Mr. Heathcote. I never go where I've had words.
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.
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."
And you, too, Picky, you'd be immortal, because you went around with me. The fourth hole was bad enough, but the sixth was heartbreaking." His drive cleared another swamp and rolled well down the farther plateau. A long cleek laid his ball off the green, a good approach stopped a little short of the hole, and the put went down. "Well, that ends it," said Booverman, gloomily.
He had a short approach and an easy put, plucked his ball from the cup, and said in an injured tone: "Picky, I feel bad about that sixth hole, and the fourth, too. I've lost a stroke on each of them. I'm playing two strokes more than I ought to be. Hang it all! that sixth wasn't right! You told me the green was fast."
"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.
"Hey they're us they'll stay with us shut up didn't we lose enough people, already?" Gimp said. Frank grinned with half of his mouth. "We always needed a name," he remarked. "How about The Planet Strappers? Hell if the chairborne echelon of the U.S.S.F. is so slow and picky, let 'em go sit on a sunspot." "I need some white paint and a brush, Paul," Ramos declared, running into the shop.
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