core. His first drive with a brassie
had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron. The
ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the
spectators, but which caused Joel to look glum and West to grind the
turf under his heel in anger. For, like a thing possessed, that ball
fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found
lay up to its middle in gravel.

West groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and
carefully selected a club. Whipple meanwhile cleared the bunker in the
best of style, and landed on the green in a good position to hole out in
two shots. "Great Gobble!" muttered West as he swung his club, and fixed
his eye on a point an inch and a half back of the imbedded ball, "if I
don't get this out of here on this shot, I'm a gone goose!" March
grinned sympathetically but anxiously, and the onlookers held their
breath. Then back went the club--there was a scattering of sand and
gravel, and the ball dropped dead on the green, four yards from
the hole.

"Excellent!" shouted Professor Beck, and Joel jumped in the air from
sheer delight. "Good for you, Out!" yelled Dave Somers; and the rest of
the watchers echoed the sentiment in various ways, even those who
desired to see Whipple triumphant yielding their meed of praise for the
performance. And, "I guess, Out," said Whipple ruefully, "you might as
well take the cup." But Outfield West only smiled silently in response,
and followed his ball with businesslike attention to the game.

Whipple was weak on putting, and his first stroke with an iron failed to
carry his ball to the hole. West, on the contrary, was a sure player on
the green, and now with his ball but four yards from the hole he had
just the opportunity he desired to better his score. The green was level
and clean, and West selected a small iron putter, and addressed the ball
with all the attention to form that the oldest St. Andrews veteran might
desire. Playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than
not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, West gave a long
stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view. Whipple holed out on
his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood
fifteen strokes each.

The honor was West's, and he led off for End Hole with a beautiful
brassie drive that cleared the first two bunkers with room to spare.
Whipple, for the first time in the