At a respectful distance we watched the renegades drive from the eighteenth tee. Kitts had the honour--if there is any honour in winning a four hole in eight strokes--and messed about over his ball even longer than usual. His drive developed a lovely curve to the right, and went skipping and bounding down the hill toward the ravine. "And that'll be in the Kitchen unless something stops it!" said Cupid with a sigh of relief. "I was afraid the blighters might halve this one and need extra holes!" Now with Adolphus in the Devil's Kitchen all Windy needed was a straight ball over the brow of the hill--in fact, a ball anywhere on the course would be almost certain to win the hole and the match--but when he walked out on the tee it was plain to be seen that he had lost confidence in his wooden club. Any golfer knows what it means to lose confidence in his wood, and Windy had reason to doubt his driver. His tee shots had been fearfully off direction, and here was one that _had_ to go straight. He teed his ball, swung his club a couple of times, and shook his head. Then he yelled at his caddie. "Oh, boy! Bring me my cleek!" Now, a cleek is a wonderful club if a man knows how to use one, but it produces a low tee shot, as a general thing. It produced one for Windy--a screamer, flying with the speed of a rifle bullet. I thought at first that it was barely going to clear the top of the hill, but I misjudged it. Three feet higher and the ball would have been over, but it struck the ground and kicked abruptly to the right, disappearing in the direction of the Devil's Kitchen. We heard a crashing noise. It was Windy splintering his cleek shaft over the tee box. "Both down!" ejaculated Cupid. "Suffering St. Andrew, what a finish!" We arrived on the rim of the Kitchen and peered into that wild amphitheatre. Kitts had already found his ball, and was staring at it with an expression of dumb anguish on his face. It was lying underneath a tangle of sturdy oak roots, as safely protected as if an octopus was trying to hatch something out of it. Windy was combing the weeds which grew on the abrupt sides of the pit, too full of his own trouble to pay any attention to his opponent. "If it's a lost ball----" said Cupid. But it wasn't. Windy found it, half-way up the left slope, hidden in the weeds, and not a particularly bad lie except for the fact that nothing human could have taken a stance on that declivity. Having found his ball, Windy took a look at Kitts's lie and then, for the first and only time in his golfing career, Wilkins recognised the rules of the game. "You're away, sir," said he to Kitts. "Play!" Adolphus took his niblick and attacked the octopus. His first three strokes did not even jar the ball, but they damaged the oak roots beyond repair. On his eighth attempt the ball popped out of its nest, and the next shot was a very pretty one, sailing up and out to the fair green, but there was no applause from the gallery.