“Let's see anybody beat that!” he cried as he stepped off the tee to give place to Major Wardell.
Mr. Carwell's white ball had sailed well up on the putting green of the first hole, a shot seldom made at Maraposa.
“A few more strokes like that and he'll win the match,” murmured Bartlett.
“And when he does, don't forget what I told you,” whispered Viola to him.
He found her hand, hidden at her side in the folds of her dress, and pressed it. She smiled up at him, and then they watched the major swing at his ball.
“It's going to be a corking match,” murmured more than one member of the gallery, as they followed the players down the field.
“If any one asked me, I should say that Carwell had taken just a little too much champagne to make his strokes true toward the last hole,” said Tom Sharwell to Bruce Garrigan.
“Perhaps,” was the admission. “But I'd like to see him win. And, for the sake of saying something, let me inform you that in Africa last year there were used in nose rings alone for the natives seventeen thousand four hundred and twenty-one pounds of copper wire. While for anklets—”
“I'll buy you a drink if you chop it off short!” offered Sharwell.
“Taken!” exclaimed Garrigan, with a grin.