ple-tree," said Booverman. "I'm going
to play for it, because, if I slice, I lose my ball, and that knocks my
whole game higher than a kite." He added between his teeth: "All I ask
is to get around to the eighth hole before I lose my ball. I know I'll
lose it there."

Due to the fact that his two on the first brought him not the slightest
thrill of nervous joy, he made a perfect shot, the ball carrying the
green straight and true.

"This is your day all right," said Pickings, stepping to the tee.

"Oh, there's never been anything the matter with my irons," said
Booverman, darkly. "Just wait till we strike the fourth and fifth
holes."

When they climbed the hill, Booverman's ball lay within three feet of
the cup, which he easily putted out.

"Two down," said Pickings, inaudibly. "By George! what a glorious
start!"

"Once in sixty thousand times," said Booverman to himself. The third
hole lay two hundred and five yards below, backed by the road and
trapped by ditches, where at that moment Pollock, true to his traditions
as a war correspondent, was laboring in the trenches, to the
unrestrained delight of Wessels, who had passed beyond.

"Theobald," said Booverman, selecting his cleek and speaking with
inspired conviction, "I will tell you exactly what is going to happen. I
will smite this little homeopathic pill, and it will land just where I
want it. I will probably put out for another two. Three holes in twos
would probably excite any other human being on the face of this globe.
It doesn't excite me. I know too well what will follow on the fourth or
fifth. Watch."

"Straight to the pin," said Pickings in a loud whisper. "You've got a
dead line on every shot to-day. Marvelous! When you get one of your
streaks, there's certainly no use in my playing."

"Streak's the word," said Booverman, with a short, barking laugh. "Thank
heaven, though, Pickings, I know it! Five years ago I'd have been
shaking like a leaf. Now it only disgusts me. I've been fooled too
often; I don't bite again."

In this same profoundly melancholic mood he approached his ball, which
lay on the green, hole high, and put down a difficult put, a good three
yards for his third two.

Pickings, despite all his classic conservatism, was so overcome with
excitement that he twice putted over the hole for a shameful five.

Booverman's face as he walked to the fourth tee was as joyless as a
London fog. He placed his ball carelessly, selected his dr