"Streak's the word," said Booverman, with a short, barking laugh. "Thank heaven, though, Pickings, I know it! Five years ago I'd have been shaking like a leaf. Now it only disgusts me. I've been fooled too often; I don't bite again." In this same profoundly melancholic mood he approached his ball, which lay on the green, hole high, and put down a difficult put, a good three yards for his third two. Pickings, despite all his classic conservatism, was so overcome with excitement that he twice putted over the hole for a shameful five. Booverman's face as he walked to the fourth tee was as joyless as a London fog. He placed his ball carelessly, selected his driver, and turned on the fidgety Pickings with the gloomy solemnity of a father about to indulge in corporal punishment. "Once in sixty thousand times, Picky. Do you realize what a start like this--three twos--would mean to a professional like Frank or even an amateur that hadn't offended every busy little fate and fury in the whole hoodooing business? Why, the blooming record would be knocked into the middle of next week." "You'll do it," said Pickings in a loud whisper. "Play carefully." Booverman glanced down the four-hundred-yard straightaway and murmured to himself: "I wonder, little ball, whither will you fly? I wonder, little ball, have I bid you good-by? Will it be 'mid the prairies in the regions to the west? Will it be in the marshes where the pollywogs nest? Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?" [Illustration: "Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"] He pronounced the last word with a settled conviction, and drove another long, straight drive. Pickings, thrilled at the possibility of another miracle, sliced badly. "This is one of the most truly delightful holes of a picturesque course," said Booverman, taking out an approaching cleek for his second shot. "Nothing is more artistic than the tiny little patch of putting-green under the shaggy branches of the willows. The receptive graveyard to the right gives a certain pathos to it, a splendid, quiet note in contrast to the feeling of the swift, hungry river to the left, which will now receive and carry from my outstretched hand this little white floater that will float away from me. No matter; I say again the fourth green is a thing of ravishing beauty." This second shot, low and long, rolled up in the same unvarying line. "On the green," said Pickings. "Short," said Booverman, who found, to his satisfaction, that he was right by a yard. "Take your time," said Pickings, biting his nails. "Rats! I'll play it for a five," said Booverman. His approach ran up on the line, caught the rim of the cup, hesitated, and passed on a couple of feet. "A four, anyway," said Pickings, with relief. "I should have had a three," said Booverman, doggedly. "Any one else would have had a three, straight on the cup. You'd have had a three, Picky; you know you would."