They then crossed the road and arrived by a planked walk at a dirt mound in the midst of a swamp.  Before them the cozy marsh lay stagnant ahead and then sloped to the right in the figure of a boomerang, making for those who fancied a slice a delightful little carry of one hundred and fifty yards.  To the left was a procession of trees, while beyond, on the course, for those who drove a long ball, a giant willow had fallen the year before in order to add a new perplexity and foster the enthusiasm for luxury that was beginning among the caddies.

“I have a feeling,” said Booverman, as though puzzled but not duped by what had happened—­“I have a strange feeling that I’m not going to get into trouble here.  That would be too obvious.  It’s at the seventh or eighth holes that something is lurking around for me.  Well, I won’t waste time.”

He slapped down his ball, took a full swing, and carried the far-off bank with a low, shooting drive that continued bounding on.

“That ought to roll forever,” said Pickings, red with excitement.

“The course is fast—­dry as a rock,” said Booverman, deprecatingly.

Pickings put three balls precisely into the bubbling water, and drew alongside on his eighth shot.  Booverman’s drive had skimmed over the dried plain for a fair two hundred and seventy-five yards.  His second shot, a full brassy, rolled directly on the green.

“If he makes a four here,” said Pickings to himself, “he’ll be playing five under four—­no, by thunder! seven under four!” Suddenly he stopped, overwhelmed.  “Why, he’s actually around threes—­two under three now.  Heavens! if he ever suspects it, he’ll go into a thousand pieces.”

As a result, he missed his own ball completely, and then topped it for a bare fifty yards.

“I’ve never seen you play so badly,” said Booverman in a grumbling tone.  “You’ll end up by throwing me off.”

When they arrived at the green, Booverman’s ball lay about thirty feet from the flag.

“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.  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.  “A thirty-foot put that stops an inch short—­did you ever see anything like it?  By everything that’s just and fair I should have had a three.  You’d have had it, Picky.  Lord! if I only could put!”