All the sportswoman in Elsie revolted at this. "No, Pip," she said; "certainly not. We arranged nothing about stymies before we started, so stymies must stand. I must just play it." She took her mashie, and made a gallant but unsuccessful effort to jump her ball over Pip's. Each holed the next putt, and the match remained square--with one to play. Ye gods! They were very silent as they prepared to drive off for the last time. Absolutely alone, far out on the course, they were now approaching what was properly "the turn," more than a mile from the clubhouse. "I shall put down a new ball here," said Pip, "just for luck." "So shall I," said Elsie. "We mustn't mix them on the green, then. What is yours?" "A 'Haskell.'" "Right. Mine's a 'Springvale Kite.'" Elsie had the honour, and drove as good a ball as any that afternoon. Pip, determined to take as few risks as possible, used his cleek, and lay just beside her. The ninth hole on the Links of Eric is known as "The Crater." The green lies in a curious hollow on the top of a conical hill. An average drive leaves your ball at the hill-foot in a good lie. After this only one stroke is of the slightest use. You take your farthest-laid-back mashie, commend your soul to Providence, and smite. The ball, if struck as desired, will rise up, tower, and drop into the basin at the top of the hill. Should you play too strongly you will fly over the oasis of green turf and fall into a howling wilderness of bents, sand, and whins on the far side; should you play short, your ball will bury itself in the slopes of shifting sand that guard the approach, and your doom is sealed. It is credibly reported that all four players in a four-ball match--scratch men, every one--once arrived upon the Crater green, ball in hand, each having given up the struggle under the despairing impression that no opponent could possibly have played more strokes than himself. On paper, this was just the sort of hole that Elsie should have won from Pip. But in practice the conditions were even. Pip's Herculean wrists made it possible for him to force the ball up to the necessary height with a half-mashie-shot, but for Elsie the task involved a full swing--and to keep your ball under absolute control in such circumstances is about the most difficult shot in golf. Pip's approaching was at its worst unspeakable, but on this occasion he was at his best. The ball sailed grandly into the air and dropped in a reassuringly perpendicular fashion into the Crater. Elsie's effort was almost as good, though her ball curled slightly to the left before dropping. They tramped up the long flight of wooden steps which facilitated the ascent to the summit with bated breath. A glance at the green would decide the match. Elsie reached the top first. Pip heard her give a little gasp. One ball, new, white, and glistening, lay on the green ten or twelve yards from the hole. The other was nowhere to be seen. "Whose ball, I wonder?" said Pip calmly.