"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean that they're still playing?" "Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when I left 'em." All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All square? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holding MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an objective point. It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some mysterious wireless of their own devising. "MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddy has got to sink this one." Ambrose's ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took one look at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without an instant's hesitation--a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance to waver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarrie himself could not have shown more confidence. MacNeath's caddie replaced the flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved them back and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answered the question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter of applause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at us with a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me. He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign of nervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he stepped forward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, and got off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he did not raise his head until the ball was well down the course. "He's countin' three before he looks up!" whispered a voice in my ear; and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth, and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can never express in words. "Then he's really been playing good golf?" I asked. "Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It's a dingdong match, an' just a question which one will crack fir-rst." MacNeath's drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under the strain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the machinelike precision of the veteran golfer--stance, swing and follow-through standardised by years of experience.