e
right of the Home Green. But Whipple summoned discretion to his aid, and
instead of trying to make the green on the next drive, played short, and
landed far to the right of the Bunker. This necessitated a short
approach, and by the time he had gained the green and was "made" within
holing distance of the flag, the score was once more even, and the end
was in sight.

And now the watchers moved about restlessly, and Joel found his heart
in his throat. But West gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the
situation. It was quite possible for a skillful player to hole out on
the next stroke from Whipple's lie. West, on the contrary, was too far
distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in
one play. Whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in
bettering his lie was the question. Whipple, West knew, was weak on
putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent's weakness. While
West pondered, Whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that
strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for
an occasional nervous whisper.

Then West leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. It was
the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but
West was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted
him. His mind was made up. Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on
the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club
above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant
goal. Then there was a pause. Whipple no longer studied his own play;
his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently
against the grass. Joel leaned breathlessly forward. Professor Beck
muttered under his breath, and then cried "S--sh!" to himself in an
angry whisper. And then West's club swung back gently, easily, paused an
instant--and--

Forward sped the ball--on and on--slower--slower--but straight as an
arrow--and then--Presto! it was gone from sight!

A moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that
moment Professor Beck announced:

"The odd to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-three."

Then the group became silent again. Whipple addressed his ball. It was
yet possible to tie the score. His face was pale, and for the first time
during the tournament he felt nervous. A better player could scarce have
missed the hole from Whipple's lie, but for once that youth's nerv