He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on the skyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first one was tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, and even at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger.
"Hello!" ejaculated Pinkinson. "Ain't that MacNeath and the kid, going to Sixteen? It is, by golly! D'you reckon they're playing out the bye holes just for fun—or what?"
"It can't be anything else," said Bradshaw. "The boy couldn't have carried him that far."
Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, very much out of breath.
"Mister Phipps says—if you want to see—some reg'lar golf—you'd better catch the finish—of his match. He says—bring all the gang with you."
"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean that they're still playing?"
"Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when I left 'em."
All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The various groups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of the clubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. All square? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holding MacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of the doubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movement backward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as an objective point.
It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some mysterious wireless of their own devising.
"MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddy has got to sink this one."