Pickings tried to address, but the moment he swung his club, his legs began to tremble.  He shook his head, took a long breath, and picked up his ball.

They approached the green on a drunken run in the wild hope that a short put was possible.  Unfortunately the ball lay thirty feet away, and the path to the hole was bumpy and riddled with worm-casts.  Still, there was a chance, desperate as it was.

Pickings let his bag slip to the ground and sat down, covering his eyes while Booverman with his putter tried to brush away the ridges.

“Stand up!”

Pickings rose convulsively.

“For heaven’s sake, Picky, stand up!  Try to be a man!” said Booverman, hoarsely.  “Do you think I’ve any nerve when I see you with chills and fever?  Brace up!”

“All right.”

Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek in his hand shook like an aspen.  He straightened up and walked away.

“Picky,” he said, mopping his face, “I can’t do it.  I can’t put it.”

“You must.”

“I’ve got buck fever.  I’ll never be able to put it—­never.”

At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman had gone to pieces.  He stood shaking from head to foot.

“Look at that,” he said, extending a fluttering hand.  “I can’t do it; I can never do it.”

“Old fellow, you must,” said Pickings; “you’ve got to.  Bring yourself together.  Here!” He slapped him on the back, pinched his arms, and chafed his fingers.  Then he led him back to the ball, braced him into position, and put the putter in his hands.

“Buck fever,” said Booverman in a whisper.  “Can’t see a thing.”

Pickings, holding the flag in the cup, said savagely: 

“Shoot!”

The ball advanced in a zigzag path, running from worm-cast to a worm-cast, wobbling and rocking, and at the last, as though preordained, fell plump into the cup!

At the same moment, Pickings and Booverman, as though carried off by the same cannon-ball, flattened on the green.

III

Five minutes later, wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on the clubhouse with the miraculous news.  For an hour the assembled golfers roared with laughter as the two stormed, expostulated, and swore to the truth of the tale.

[Illustration:  A committee carefully examined the books of the club]

They journeyed from house to house in a vain attempt to find some convert to their claim.  For a day they passed as consummate comedians, and the more they yielded to their rage, the more consummate was their art declared.  Then a change took place.  From laughing the educated town of Stockbridge turned to resentment, then to irritation, and finally to suspicion.  Booverman and Pickings began to lose caste, to be regarded as unbalanced, if not positively dangerous.  Unknown to them, a committee carefully examined the books of the club.  At the next election another treasurer and another secretary were elected.