Pickings retired hurriedly before the shaking approach of Booverman's frantic club. Incapable of speech, he waved him feebly to drive. He began incredulously to count up again, as though doubting his senses. "One under three, even threes, one over, even, one under--" "Here! What the deuce are you doing?" said Booverman, angrily. "Trying to throw me off?" "I didn't say anything," said Pickings. "You didn't--muttering to yourself." "I must make him angry to keep his mind off the score," said Pickings, feebly to himself. He added aloud, "Stop kicking about your old sixth hole! You've had the darndest luck I ever saw, and yet you grumble." Booverman swore under his breath, hastily approached his ball, drove perfectly, and turned in a rage. "Luck?" he cried furiously. "Pickings, I've a mind to wring your neck. Every shot I've played has been dead on the pin, now, hasn't it?" "How about the ninth hole--hitting a tree?" "Whose fault was that? You had no right to tell me my score, and, besides, I only got an ordinary four there, anyway." "How about the railroad track?" "One shot out of bounds. Yes, I'll admit that. That evens up for the fourth." "How about your first hole in two?" "Perfectly played; no fluke about it at all--once in sixty thousand times. Well, any more sneers? Anything else to criticize?" "Let it go at that." Booverman, in this heckled mood, turned irritably to his ball, played a long midiron, just cleared the crescent bank of the last swale, and ran up on the green. [Illustration: Wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on the clubhouse with the miraculous news] "Damn that sixth hole!" said Booverman, flinging down his club and glaring at Pickings. "One stroke back, and I could have done it." Pickings tried to address, but the moment he swung his club, his legs began to tremble. He shook his head, took a long breath, and picked up his ball. They approached the green on a drunken run in the wild hope that a short put was possible. Unfortunately the ball lay thirty feet away, and the path to the hole was bumpy and riddled with worm-casts. Still, there was a chance, desperate as it was. Pickings let his bag slip to the ground and sat down, covering his eyes while Booverman with his putter tried to brush away the ridges. "Stand up!" Pickings rose convulsively. "For heaven's sake, Picky, stand up! Try to be a man!" said Booverman, hoarsely. "Do you think I've any nerve when I see you with chills and fever? Brace up!" "All right." Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek in his hand shook like an aspen. He straightened up and walked away. "Picky," he said, mopping his face, "I can't do it. I can't put it." "You must." "I've got buck fever. I'll never be able to put it--never." At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman had gone to pieces. He stood shaking from head to foot.