"Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in—up to his neck."
Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in and what sort of a lie it had found.
"Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away from the wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft to it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's just possible."
"But not probable," said I. "What on earth is he waiting for?"
Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette.
"You don't mind if I study this situation a bit?" said he to MacNeath.
"Take your time," said the veteran.
"Because I wouldn't want to use the wrong club here," continued Ambrose.
The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a glimpse of me and beckoned.
"How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?" he asked.