"Dead easy," I said, referring to the putt, now that I had the glasses on.
"Looks so," said Jupiter, "but be careful. You can't hope to putt until you know your ball."
At the moment I did not understand, but a minute after I had a shock. Putting perfectly straight, the ball rolled easily along and then made a slight hitch backward, as if I had put a cut on it, and struck off ahead, straight as an arrow but to the left of the disk. This it continued to do in its course, zigzagging more and more out of the straight line until it finally stopped, quite two and a half miles from the cup.
"Now watch me," said Jupiter. "You'll get an idea of how the ball works."
I obeyed, and was surprised to see him aim at a point at least a mile aside of the mark, but the results were perfect, for the gutty, acting precisely as mine did, zigzagged along until it reached the rim of the cup and then dropped gently in.
"One up," said Jupiter, with a broad smile as he watched my ill-repressed wonderment.
As we were transported to the next tee by Phaeton and his machine, I looked at my ball, and the peculiarity of its make became clear at once. It was called "The Vulcan," and in action had precisely the same movement as that of a thunder-bolt—thus:
"Great ball, eh?" said Jupiter. "Adds a lot to the science of the game. A straight putt is easy, but the zigzag is no child's play."
"I think I shall like it," I said, "if I ever get used to it."