onitory
"_Hush!_" was heard. But he was plainly disturbed, and when the little
white sphere made its flight it went sadly aglee and dropped to earth
far to the right of the green, and where rough and cuppy ground made
exact putting well-nigh impossible. Professor Beck promptly laid down a
command of absolute silence during shots, and some of the smaller youths
left the course in favor of another portion of the campus, where a boy's
right to make all the noise he likes could not be disputed. But the harm
was done, and when play for the third hole began the score was: Whipple
7, West 8.

Even to one of such intense ignorance of the science of golf as Joel
March, there was a perceptible difference in the style of the two
competitors. Outfield West was a great stickler for form, and imitated
the full St. Andrews swing to the best of his ability. In addressing the
ball he stood as squarely to it as was possible, without the use of a
measuring tape, and drove off the right leg, as the expression is.
Despite an almost exaggerated adherence to nicety of style, West's play
had an ease and grace much envied by other golf disciples in the school,
and his shots were nearly always successful.

Whipple's manner of driving was very different from his opponent's. His
swing was short and often stopped too soon. His stance was rather
awkward, after West's, and even his hold on the club was not according
to established precedent. Yet, notwithstanding all this, it must be
acknowledged that Whipple's drives had a way of carrying straight and
far and landing well.

Joel followed the play with much interest if small appreciation of its
intricacies, and carried West's bag, and hoped all the time that that
youth would win, knowing how greatly he had set his heart upon so doing.

There is no bunker between second and third holes, but the brook which
supplies the lake runs across the course and is about six yards wide
from bank to bank. But it has no terrors for a long drive, and both the
players went safely over and won Academy Hole in three strokes. West
still held the odd. Two long strokes carried Whipple a scant distance
from Railroad Bunker, which fronts Ditch Hole, a dangerous lie, since
Railroad Bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost
meriting the title of hill, directly back of it. But if Whipple erred in
judgment or skill, West found himself in even a sorrier plight when two
more strokes had been laid to his s