Pickings put three balls precisely into the bubbling water, and drew alongside on his eighth shot. Booverman's drive had skimmed over the dried plain for a fair two hundred and seventy-five yards. His second shot, a full brassy, rolled directly on the green. "If he makes a four here," said Pickings to himself, "he'll be playing five under four--no, by thunder! seven under four!" Suddenly he stopped, overwhelmed. "Why, he's actually around threes--two under three now. Heavens! if he ever suspects it, he'll go into a thousand pieces." As a result, he missed his own ball completely, and then topped it for a bare fifty yards. "I've never seen you play so badly," said Booverman in a grumbling tone. "You'll end up by throwing me off." When they arrived at the green, Booverman's ball lay about thirty feet from the flag. "It's a four, a sure four," said Pickings under his breath. Suddenly Booverman burst into an exclamation. "Picky, come here. Look--look at that!" The tone was furious. Pickings approached. "Do you see that?" said Booverman, pointing to a freshly laid circle of sod ten inches from his ball. "That, my boy, was where the cup was yesterday. If they hadn't moved the flag two hours ago, I'd have had a three. Now, what do you think of that for rotten luck?" "Lay it dead," said Pickings, anxiously, shaking his head sympathetically. "The green's a bit fast." The put ran slowly up to the hole, and stopped four inches short. "By heavens! why didn't I put over it!" said Booverman, brandishing his putter. "A thirty-foot put that stops an inch short--did you ever see anything like it? By everything that's just and fair I should have had a three. You'd have had it, Picky. Lord! if I only could put!" "One under three," said Pickings to his fluttering inner self. "He can't realize it. If I can only keep his mind off the score!" The seventh tee is reached by a carefully planned, fatiguing flight of steps to the top of a bluff, where three churches at the back beckon so many recording angels to swell the purgatory lists. As you advance to the abrupt edge, everything is spread before you; nothing is concealed. In the first plane, the entangling branches of a score of apple-trees are ready to trap a topped ball and bury it under impossible piles of dry leaves. Beyond, the wired tennis-courts give forth a musical, tinny note when attacked. In the middle distance a glorious sycamore draws you to the left, and a file of elms beckon the sliced way to a marsh, wilderness of grass and an overgrown gully whence no balls return. In front, one hundred and twenty yards away, is a formidable bunker, running up to which is a tract of long grass, which two or three times a year is barbered by a charitable enterprise. The seventh hole itself lies two hundred and sixty yards away in a hollow guarded by a sunken ditch, a sure three or--a sure six.