Sir Geoffrey and Margot applauded generously. The ball pitched in the fairway, and lay, nicely teed up, upon a tuft of grass. Lionel took his brassey.
“That ball,” he declared solemnly, “is going on to the green. I know it.”
He made a beautiful shot.
“Dead, b’ Jove!” growled the Squire.
“Not quite,” said Joyce.
Lionel and his partner had played “two more.” When they reached the thirteenth green, each side had played three strokes. Margot had to play her ball from the edge of the green. Joyce had a six foot putt. If Margot could lie “dead,” the hole would be halved. It was not very likely that Joyce would hole her putt over a roughish green. Margot took her time, playing with extraordinary care. Her ball trickled within a foot of the hole.
“Down ours,” enjoined Lionel to his partner. “You’ll do it, Joyce. It’s a sitter.”
Joyce played as carefully as Margot, scrutinising the lie of the ground. Lionel did the same, adding a last word:
“Bang for the back of the hole!”
“I think so,” said Joyce.