It was Frost’s honor and he teed his ball very carefully, using the merest pinch of sand. Conversation had dwindled away of late. Much depended on these last three holes and both contestants were saving their breath and thinking instead of talking. The gallery whispered amongst themselves, but very generally respected the players’ desire for silence. Frost took his stance, weighed his driver, looked at the slope beyond the bowl a moment and swung. Back came the club until it hung for an instant behind his left hip. Then up it went, slowly at first, then faster, the head traveling a wide arc ere it swooped down upon the ball. There was a hard, crisp _click_ and away sped the guttie, a white speck in the sunlight, straight in line with the distant hole and at just the right height. There was a little spurt of gravel on the slope beyond the hollow where the grass was thin, the ball leaped into the air, came down again several yards beyond and then nestled to earth. It was the longest drive Frost had made that day, and probably the longest ever made from the seventh tee, and a murmur of applause came from the gallery. Frost stepped aside, an expression of pleasure showing in spite of his efforts. Ned smiled. “Some drive, that, Frost,” he said as he dipped his hand in the sand box. “As pretty as I ever saw.” “Not so bad,” replied Frost modestly. “I should say not!” Ned walked to the far corner of the tee and placed his little pinch of sand on the ground, carefully shaping it between his fingers. Then he put his ball on it. But he took it up the next moment and flicked away a half inch from the top of the little cone. When he faced the ball the gallery saw with surprise that he was going to play the “longest way round.” The surprise became audible and some of the older boys frowned their neighbors into silence. Ned lost no time in preliminaries. Back came his club and then up in a wide sweep and down again. Off went the ball, low and hard. A dead leaf fluttered down from a branch, showing where the guttie had just escaped coming to grief against an out-reaching limb. Straight along the edge of the hill it sped, ten feet or so above the ground at the top of its arc, and struck, bounded and rolled. It was a good drive, a remarkably good one for Ned, and the gallery’s approval was loud and continued, even while they failed to see Ned’s reason for driving in that direction. He had put his ball almost as far from the tee as Frost’s, but it lay much farther from the hole. The players parted company and the gallery split up into two groups, more than half of them choosing to follow Ned’s fortunes. “It doesn’t seem to me,” ventured Kendall, “that he gained anything by putting his ball up there.” “It doesn’t look so,” replied Teller, “but it’s all right. Ned will win now. He’s laughing. He always laughs when he’s at his best. I’ve seen it lots of times.”