"Right! The bet is that they let us through. One hundred fish."
Old Martin cackled and turned his cigar round and round in the corner of his mouth—a wolf when it comes to a cinch bet.
"Gosh! Listen to our banty rooster crow! Want another hundred, sonny?"
"Yes—grandpa!" said Wally, and sent another perfect drive soaring up over the hill.
Number Six is a long hole, and the ordinary player never attempts to carry the cross-bunker on his second. I followed with a middling-to-good shot, and we bade the congregation farewell.
"It's ridiculous!" said Wally as we climbed the hill. "I never saw a foursome yet that wouldn't yield to a red flag, or one that wouldn't let a twosome through—if properly approached. And we have the right of way over everything on the course. The Greens Committee——"
"Is composed," said I, "of Watlington, Peck and Peebles—three members of the Big Four. They built the club, they run the club, and they have never been known to let anybody through. I'm sorry, Wally, but I'm afraid you're up against it."
The boy stopped and looked at me.
"Then those fellows behind us," said he, "were betting on a cinch, eh?"
"It was your proposition," I reminded him.