Ned was away and played first, using his mashie. The ball went away high and the gallery watched its arch with breathless interest. It struck on the green, about two yards out of line with the flag, and apparently quite near the hole. One of the players who had finished his game and, with the others, was standing near the home green, waved his hand and cut a caper. Frost selected a midiron for his approach. For the first time that day he seemed nervous, and was an unusually long time in making his shot. It had good direction, struck well this side of the green and rolled smoothly on until it lay within four yards of the hole. The gallery hurried to the green, the two players following more leisurely. Ned’s lie was almost but not quite as good as Frost’s, being just over four paces distant from the hole, while Frost’s was just under. Kirk stepped forward and lifted the flag from the hole, treading across the short turf as though presiding at a funeral. The gallery ranged itself around the green, determined not to miss a thrill. Ned looked critically along the line to the hole, swung his putter once or twice from the wrists and addressed his ball. Had a grasshopper sneezed at that moment every member of the gallery would have jumped a foot! Ned swung his club back gently, brought it smoothly forward, there was a little tap and the ball ran swiftly toward the hole. Ned had put too much force into the stroke, for the ball reached the edge of the cup, leaped across and trickled on for a yard! A murmur of dismay went up. Kendall’s heart sank. Frost gripped his putter, brushed aside a tiny pebble, settled himself and tapped his ball very gently. His direction was good, but, having determined not to fall into Ned’s error, he erred on the other side and the ball traveled a scant two yards. A sigh of relief arose about Kendall; he caught a boy grinning at him and grinned back; Teller Sanford’s black eyes were gleaming with excitement. There was only a tied match to hope for now, but that was better than the defeat that would have come had Frost holed out in his first try. But even a yard is a long way sometimes when much depends on the result, and there was a good deal of suspense while Ned measured the distance and swung his putter. But this time the ball behaved itself and dropped into the hole with a comforting thud. A sigh of relief went up from all around. Then every eye fixed itself on the Broadwood player. Two yards was not a long putt for Frost, but there was always the chance that he wouldn’t make it, and as he sped the little ball forward more than one onlooker gripped his hands. It began to slow down soon after it left the club; a foot from the hole it was barely rolling; at the very brink of the hole it paused, seemed to look into the abyss before it, shudder and stop. For an instant no one moved or breathed. It seemed that the ball would drop over the edge at any instant. But it didn’t. Frost, watching it, shrugged his shoulders and