"I'd like to grab some of that two to one," said the boy.
"Don't be foolish," counselled the canny Scot. "Ye'll have enough on your mind wi'out makin' bets; an' for pity's sake, remember what I've told ye—slow back, don't press, keep your head down, an' count three before ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-rnin' an' ye've a grand chance to win."
MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long, well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silence that was almost painful.
"Mighty pretty," said he with a careless nod at his opponent. "Hope I do as well."
"Ye can," muttered old Dunn'l, "if ye'll keep your fool mouth shut an' your eye on the ball!"
As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of the gallery—a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his next move—expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitude of the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused for an instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant ease was gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. He looked again at MacNeath's ball, a white speck far down the fairway. MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head.
"Never mind that one!" he whispered to himself savagely. "Play the one on the tee!"
Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly stiffened in every muscle and joint—gone tense with the nervous strain. He did manage to remember about the back swing—it was slow enough to suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it reached the bunker.
"Well, by the sweet and suffering——"
This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just the thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face.