For the next five holes Sprague and Purvis played with varying fortunes, but when the seventh hole was played the former was one up. As for Ricordo, while he greatly improved, he did not even halve a single hole with either of them. As he improved they offered to give him strokes, and so make the possibility of a match, but he refused.
"I always like to play level," he said sententiously. "You never beat a man if he gives you strokes. Let me see, I am now seven down. If I lose two more it will be impossible for me to win the match, eh?"
"That is the arithmetic of it, I imagine," said Purvis.
"Ah!" said Ricordo.
Ding! Ding! Ding! The three balls flew through the air, and each went straight to the green, only in this case Ricordo's ball went several yards further than the others.
"That was a lucky stroke of mine," he said, as he saw them exchange significant glances. "Ah! if I could only do it always!"
For the first time Sprague felt a suggestion of competition in the game. Although he was seven holes up on the stranger, and they had only eleven more to play, the possibility of losing flashed into his mind. Besides, he felt some little resentment, because of the superior way in which the foreigner spoke. He seized an iron club, and placed his ball within two yards of the hole.
"Why, that is magnificent," remarked Ricordo. "That is where skill comes in."
Purvis came next, and while he sent his ball on the green, it was at an extreme corner.
"If I lose this hole, my chance of winning on you shrinks to a vanishing point," remarked Ricordo. "Well, I must not lose it."