"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to be interesting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here. Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Go straight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three."
Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles—Waddles, with his lip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cup hunters and winter members who try to hog the course.
Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summit of the hill.
"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we've got 'em licked!"
Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots—two hundred pounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind the pill—and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, and at every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ball straight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as he offered it. I never saw a man change so in a short space of time.
"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tiny bit better——"
"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between friends?"
"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling silver, you poor cow!"
Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair green there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball may easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution.
"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we need is a six."