“This is your day all right,” said Pickings, stepping to the tee.

“Oh, there’s never been anything the matter with my irons,” said Booverman, darkly.  “Just wait till we strike the fourth and fifth holes.”

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.  The third hole lay two hundred and five yards below, backed by the road and trapped by ditches, where at that moment Pollock, true to his traditions as a war correspondent, was laboring in the trenches, to the unrestrained delight of Wessels, who had passed beyond.

“Theobald,” said Booverman, selecting his cleek and speaking with inspired conviction, “I will tell you exactly what is going to happen.  I will smite this little homeopathic pill, and it will land just where I want it.  I will probably put out for another two.  Three holes in twos would probably excite any other human being on the face of this globe.  It doesn’t excite me.  I know too well what will follow on the fourth or fifth.  Watch.”

“Straight to the pin,” said Pickings in a loud whisper.  “You’ve got a dead line on every shot to-day.  Marvelous!  When you get one of your streaks, there’s certainly no use in my playing.”

“Streak’s the word,” said Booverman, with a short, barking laugh.  “Thank heaven, though, Pickings, I know it!  Five years ago I’d have been shaking like a leaf.  Now it only disgusts me.  I’ve been fooled too often; I don’t bite again.”

In this same profoundly melancholic mood he approached his ball, which lay on the green, hole high, and put down a difficult put, a good three yards for his third two.

Pickings, despite all his classic conservatism, was so overcome with excitement that he twice putted over the hole for a shameful five.

Booverman’s face as he walked to the fourth tee was as joyless as a London fog.  He placed his ball carelessly, selected his driver, and turned on the fidgety Pickings with the gloomy solemnity of a father about to indulge in corporal punishment.

“Once in sixty thousand times, Picky.  Do you realize what a start like this—­three twos—­would mean to a professional like Frank or even an amateur that hadn’t offended every busy little fate and fury in the whole hoodooing business?  Why, the blooming record would be knocked into the middle of next week.”

“You’ll do it,” said Pickings in a loud whisper.  “Play carefully.”

Booverman glanced down the four-hundred-yard straightaway and murmured to himself: 

     “I wonder, little ball, whither will you fly? 
      I wonder, little ball, have I bid you good-by? 
      Will it be ’mid the prairies in the regions to the west? 
      Will it be in the marshes where the pollywogs nest? 
      Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?”