“Tine shot, Mr. Booverman,” said Frank, the professional, nodding his head, “free and easy, plenty of follow-through.”

“You’re on your drive to-day,” said Pickings, cheerfully.

“Sure!  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.  “Any one else would get a three once in five times—­any one but Jonah’s favorite brother.”

He swung carelessly, and watched with a tolerant interest the white ball roll on to the green straight for the flag.  All at once Wessels and Pollock, who were ahead, sprang into the air and began agitating their hats.

“By George! it’s in!” said Pickings.  “You’ve run it down.  First hole in two!  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?”

“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.”

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.  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.  “I’m going to play for it, because, if I slice, I lose my ball, and that knocks my whole game higher than a kite.”  He added between his teeth:  “All I ask is to get around to the eighth hole before I lose my ball.  I know I’ll lose it there.”

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.