He studied the hundred and fifty yards that were needed to reach the green that was set in the crescent of surrounding trees, changed his brassy for his cleek, and his cleek for his midiron. "I wish you hadn't told me," he said nervously. Pickings on the instant comprehended his blunder. For the first time Booverman's shot went wide of the mark, straight into the trees that bordered the river to the left. "I'm sorry," said Pickings with a feeble groan. "My dear Picky, it had to come," said Booverman, with a shrug of his shoulders. "The ball is now lost, and all the score goes into the air, the most miraculous score any one ever heard of is nothing but a crushed egg!" "It may have bounded back on the course," said Pickings, desperately. "No, no, Picky; not that. In all the sixty thousand times I have hit trees, barns, car-tracks, caddies, fences,--" "There it is!" cried Pickings, with a shout of joy. Fair on the course, at the edge of the green itself, lay the ball, which soon was sunk for a four. Pickings felt a strange, unaccountable desire to leap upon Booverman like a fluffy, enthusiastic dog; but he fought it back with the new sense of responsibility that came to him. So he said artfully: "By George! old man, if you hadn't missed on the fourth or the sixth, you'd have done even threes!" "You know what I ought to do now--I ought to stop," said Booverman, in profound despair--"quit golf and never lift another club. It's a crime to go on; it's a crime to spoil such a record. Twenty-eight for nine holes, only forty-two needed for the next nine to break the record, and I have done it in thirty-three--and in fifty-three! I ought not to try; it's wrong." He teed his ball for the two-hundred-yard flight to the easy tenth, and took his cleek. "I know just what'll happen now; I know it well." But this time there was no varying in the flight; the drive went true to the green, straight on the flag, where a good but not difficult put brought a two. "Even threes again," said Pickings, but to himself. "It can't go on. It must turn." "Now, Pickings, this is going to stop," said Booverman angrily. "I'm not going to make a fool of myself. I'm going right up to the tee, and I'm going to drive my ball right smack into the woods and end it. And I don't care." "What!" "No, I don't care. Here goes." Again his drive continued true, the mashy pitch for the second was accurate, and his put, after circling the rim of the cup, went down for a three. The twelfth hole is another dip into the long grass that might serve as an elephant's bed, and then across the Housatonic River, a carry of one hundred and twenty yards to the green at the foot of an intruding tree. "Oh, I suppose I'll make another three here, too," said Booverman, moodily. "That'll only make it worse." He drove with his midiron high in the air and full on the flag. "I'll play my put carefully for three," he said, nodding his head. Instead, it ran straight and down for two.