“No. That will be gone into later, I dare say. Probably heart disease; though I never knew he had it,” said Bartlett.
“Nor I,” added Blossom. “I'd be more inclined to suspect apoplexy. But are you sure Miss Carwell will be all right?”
“Yes,” answered Captain Poland, who had raised her head after sprinkling in her face some water a caddy brought in his cap. “She is reviving.”
Dr. Baird came up just then and gave her some aromatic spirits of ammonia.
Viola opened her eyes. There was no comprehension in them, and she looked about in wonder. Then, as her benumbed brain again took up its work, she exclaimed:
“Oh, it isn't true! It can't be true! Tell me it isn't!”
“I am sorry, but it seems to be but too true,” said Captain Poland gently. “Did he ever speak of trouble with his heart, Viola?”
“Never, Gerry. He was always so well and strong.”
“You had better come to the clubhouse,” suggested Bartlett, and she went with them both.
A little later the body of Horace Carwell was carried to the “nineteenth hole”—that place where all games are played over again in detail as the contestants put away their clubs.