His ball flew through the air. It was struck, and clean and true; it fell within ten yards of the hole.
"Good!" said Purvis, "a good putt, and you are down in two." Somehow, he had lost interest in the game himself: all interest was centred in the other two. Even when his ball failed to reach the green he did not mind; he did not care if he lost.
When they reached the green, they found that Sprague's ball had stymied Ricordo's—that is to say, it lay on the green on a straight line between Ricordo's ball and the hole.
"Will you either play out, or pick up your ball, signore?" said Ricordo quietly. "I believe it is the law that there are no stymies in a three-ball match."
He said this because Sprague stood waiting for him to play.
"If it is a stymie, certainly," he said, almost angrily.
"Look for yourself," said the stranger.
Sprague looked. "Very well, I'll play it out," he said.
He cast a hasty glance around, and saw that Olive Castlemaine and Herbert Briarfield had moved to the edge of the green and were watching the contest.
Sprague measured the distance carefully, then seizing the putter he played. The ball rolled to the lip of the hole, and stopped. His heart almost ceased to beat. Then perhaps a blade of grass bent or a breath of wind stirred—anyhow, the ball dropped into the hole.