Joel followed the play with much interest if small appreciation of its intricacies, and carried West’s bag, and hoped all the time that that youth would win, knowing how greatly he had set his heart upon so doing.

There is no bunker between second and third holes, but the brook which supplies the lake runs across the course and is about six yards wide from bank to bank.  But it has no terrors for a long drive, and both the players went safely over and won Academy Hole in three strokes.  West still held the odd.  Two long strokes carried Whipple a scant distance from Railroad Bunker, which fronts Ditch Hole, a dangerous lie, since Railroad Bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost meriting the title of hill, directly back of it.  But if Whipple erred in judgment or skill, West found himself in even a sorrier plight when two more strokes had been laid to his score.  His first drive with a brassie had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron.  The ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the spectators, but which caused Joel to look glum and West to grind the turf under his heel in anger.  For, like a thing possessed, that ball fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found lay up to its middle in gravel.

West groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and carefully selected a club.  Whipple meanwhile cleared the bunker in the best of style, and landed on the green in a good position to hole out in two shots.  “Great Gobble!” muttered West as he swung his club, and fixed his eye on a point an inch and a half back of the imbedded ball, “if I don’t get this out of here on this shot, I’m a gone goose!” March grinned sympathetically but anxiously, and the onlookers held their breath.  Then back went the club—­there was a scattering of sand and gravel, and the ball dropped dead on the green, four yards from the hole.

“Excellent!” shouted Professor Beck, and Joel jumped in the air from sheer delight.  “Good for you, Out!” yelled Dave Somers; and the rest of the watchers echoed the sentiment in various ways, even those who desired to see Whipple triumphant yielding their meed of praise for the performance.  And, “I guess, Out,” said Whipple ruefully, “you might as well take the cup.”  But Outfield West only smiled silently in response, and followed his ball with businesslike attention to the game.

Whipple was weak on putting, and his first stroke with an iron failed to carry his ball to the hole.  West, on the contrary, was a sure player on the green, and now with his ball but four yards from the hole he had just the opportunity he desired to better his score.  The green was level and clean, and West selected a small iron putter, and addressed the ball with all the attention to form that the oldest St. Andrews veteran might desire.  Playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, West gave a long stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view.  Whipple holed out on his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood fifteen strokes each.