“Well, that ends it,” said Booverman, gloomily.

“I’ve got to make a two and a three to do it.  The two is quite possible; the three absurd.”

The seventeenth hole returns to the swamp that enlivens the sixth.  It is a full cleek, with about six mental hazards distributed in Indian ambush, and in five of them a ball may lie until the day of judgment before rising again.

Pickings turned his back, unable to endure the agony of watching.  The click of the club was sharp and true.  He turned to see the ball in full flight arrive unerringly hole high on the green.

“A chance for a two,” he said under his breath.  He sent two balls into the lost land to the left and one into the rough to the right.

“Never mind me,” he said, slashing away in reckless fashion.

Booverman with a little care studied the ten-foot route to the hole and putted down.

“Even threes!” said Pickings, leaning against a tree.

“Blast that sixth hole!” said Booverman, exploding.  “Think of what it might be, Picky—­what it ought to be!”

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.”