Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ball had the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, I thought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead of that, it seemed to duck in flight, caught the hard face of the incline, and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which broke all our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in the sand trap. "Hard luck!" said MacNeath; and I think he really meant to be sympathetic. Ambrose looked at him as a bulldog might look at a mastiff. "Oh, I wouldn't say that!" he answered, rather stiffly. "I like to play my second shot from over there." "You're welcome!" said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture by poling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction post and went sailing on up the plateau toward the clubhouse. No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled up the hill I tried to say something hopeful. "He may have stopped short of the trap." "Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in--up to his neck." Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in and what sort of a lie it had found. "Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away from the wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft to it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's just possible." "But not probable," said I. "What on earth is he waiting for?" Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette. "You don't mind if I study this situation a bit?" said he to MacNeath. "Take your time," said the veteran. "Because I wouldn't want to use the wrong club here," continued Ambrose. The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a glimpse of me and beckoned. "How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?" he asked. "All even--two matches to two." "That," said Ambrose after a thoughtful pause, "seems to put it up to me." At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for his bag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; but Ambrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but a hundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club--out of a trap? Suicide! Sheer suicide! An iron might give him a fighting chance to halve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club in the boy's hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said something of the sort to MacQuarrie. "Sh-h!" he whispered. "Yon's a baffy. I made it for him." "What's a baffy?"