"Yes, zur; 'tes Miss Castlemaine, wot the links do belong to, and Muster Briarfield." The lad rushed away towards the green.
"Ah!" said Ricordo, "we may be playing for the lady—who knows?"
He looked at Sprague as he spoke, and noted the pallor of his face.
"Do you know Miss Castlemaine?" asked Purvis.
"I expected to see her when I came here," said the stranger; "but, as I said to Mr. Briarfield last night, although I have been here several days, I have not yet had the felicity of setting eyes on her. But fortune favours me now. Ah, we are playing for a great stake, Mr. Sprague. Who knows?"
"Perhaps the man who is standing by her side will win her," laughed Purvis. He hardly knew why he spoke.
"The man who is standing by may see most of the game," said Ricordo, "but he never wins—never. It is only the man who plays who wins. Ah, gentlemen, discussing the stakes on a tee is bad preparation for a stroke; therefore we will dismiss the subject. Besides, I never make wagers. Life itself is the wager."
He struck his ball, and although it flew far, it had what golfers call a "slice" on it. It cleared the hazard, but curled away to the right of the large green, at least twenty yards from the hole. He made no remark, but moved aside for Sprague to play.
"You've got your chance, Sprague," said Purvis in low tones. "A good straight shot, and you are close to the tee; it can't be more than a hundred and eighty yards."
Sprague felt his hands tremble. He had not missed a drive for the round; he determined he would not miss now. The stranger had made him feel that the game was a game of life. He knew not why, but it seemed to him that the future would depend on whether he won or lost.