“One under three,” said Pickings to his fluttering inner self.  “He can’t realize it.  If I can only keep his mind off the score!”

The seventh tee is reached by a carefully planned, fatiguing flight of steps to the top of a bluff, where three churches at the back beckon so many recording angels to swell the purgatory lists.  As you advance to the abrupt edge, everything is spread before you; nothing is concealed.  In the first plane, the entangling branches of a score of apple-trees are ready to trap a topped ball and bury it under impossible piles of dry leaves.  Beyond, the wired tennis-courts give forth a musical, tinny note when attacked.  In the middle distance a glorious sycamore draws you to the left, and a file of elms beckon the sliced way to a marsh, wilderness of grass and an overgrown gully whence no balls return.  In front, one hundred and twenty yards away, is a formidable bunker, running up to which is a tract of long grass, which two or three times a year is barbered by a charitable enterprise.  The seventh hole itself lies two hundred and sixty yards away in a hollow guarded by a sunken ditch, a sure three or—­a sure six.

Booverman was still too indignant at the trick fate had played him on the last green to yield to any other emotion.  He forgot that a dozen good scores had ended abruptly in the swale to the right.  He was only irritated.  He plumped down his ball, dug his toes in the ground, and sent off another long, satisfactory drive, which added more fuel to his anger.

“Any one else would have had a three on the six,” he muttered as he left the tee.  “It’s too ridiculous.”

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’m sorry,” said Pickings, feeling his fingers grow cold and clammy on the grip.

The eighth hole has many easy opportunities.  It is five hundred and twenty yards long, and things may happen at every stroke.  You may begin in front of the tee by burying your ball in the waving grass, which is always permitted a sort of poetical license.  There are the traps to the seventh hole to be crossed, and to the right the paralleling river can be reached by a short stab or a long, curling slice, which the prevailing wind obligingly assists to a splashing descent.

“And now we have come to the eighth hole,” said Booverman, raising his hat in profound salutation.  “Whenever I arrive here with a good score I take from eight to eighteen, I lose one to three balls.  On the contrary, when I have an average of six, I always get a five and often a four.  How this hole has changed my entire life!” He raised his ball and addressed it tenderly:  “And now, little ball, we must part, you and I. It seems a shame; you’re the nicest little ball I ever have known.  You’ve stuck to me an awful long while.  It’s a shame.”