The cup play went on, the four contestants being well matched, and the shots duly applauded from hole to hole.
The turn was made and the homeward course began, with the excitement increasing as it was seen that there would be the closest possible finish, between the major and Mr. Carwell at least.
“What's the row over there?” asked Bartlett suddenly, as he walked along with Viola and Captain Poland.
“Where?” inquired the captain.
“Among those autos. Looks as if one was on fire.”
“It does,” agreed Viola. “But I can see our patriotic palfrey, so I guess it's all right. There are enough people over there, anyhow. But it is something!”
There was a dense cloud of smoke hovering over the place where some of the many automobiles were parked at one corner of the course. Still it might be some one starting his machine, with too much oil being burned in the cylinders.
“Now for the last hole!” exulted Mr. Carwell, as they approached the eighteenth. “I've got you two strokes now, Major, and I'll have you four by the end of the match.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” was the laughing and good-natured reply.
There was silence in the gallery while the players made ready for the last hole.