"Nine holes," said she, "and I'm going to beat you, today!"
He frowned a little at the spirit of the threat, for any self-assertion in a woman crossed his grain; but soon forgot his pique in admiration of the drive.
Swishing, her club flashed down in a quick circle. Crack! It struck the gutta-percha squarely. The little white sphere zipped away like a rocket, rose in a far trajectory, up, up, toward the water-hazard at the foot of the grassy slope, then down in a long curve.
Even while the girl's cry of "Fore!" was echoing across the green, the ball struck earth, ricochetted and sped on, away, across the turf, till it came to rest not twenty yards from the putting green of the first hole.
"Wheeoo!" whistled Waldron. "Some drive. I guess you're going to make good your threat, today, Kate of my heart!"
The smile she flashed at him showed that her resentment had, for the moment, been forgotten.
"Come on, Wally, now let's see what you can do," said she, starting off down the slope, while her meek caddy tagged at a respectful distance.
Waldron, thus adjured, teed up and swung at the ball. But the Scotch had by no means steadied his aim. He foozled badly and broke his pet driver, into the bargain. The steel head of it flew farther even than the ball, which moved hardly ten yards.
"Damn!" he muttered, under his breath, choosing another stick and glancing with real irritation at Catherine's lithe, splendidly poised figure already some distance down the slope.
His second stroke was more successful, nearly equalling hers. But her advantage, thus early won, was not destined to be lost again. And as the game proceeded, Waldron's temper grew steadily worse and worse.