"Sure! When I get a good drive off the first tee," said Booverman discouraged, "I mess up all the rest. You'll see."
"Oh, come now," said Pickings, as a matter of form. He played his shot, which came methodically to the edge of the green.
Booverman took his mashy for the short running-up stroke to the pin, which seemed so near.
"I suppose I've tried this shot a thousand times," he said savagely. "Any one else would get a three once in five times—any one but Jonah's favorite brother."
He swung carelessly, and watched with a tolerant interest the white ball roll on to the green straight for the flag. All at once Wessels and Pollock, who were ahead, sprang into the air and began agitating their hats.
"By George! it's in!" said Pickings. "You've run it down. First hole in two! Well, what do you think of that?"
Booverman, unconvinced, approached the hole with suspicion, gingerly removing the pin. At the bottom, sure enough, lay his ball for a phenomenal two.
"That's the first bit of luck that has ever happened to me," he said furiously; "absolutely the first time in my whole career."
"I say, old man," said Pickings, in remonstrance, "you're not angry about it, are you?"
"Well, I don't know whether I am or not," said Booverman, obstinately. In fact, he felt rather defrauded. The integrity of his record was attacked. "See here, I play thirty-six holes a day, two hundred and sixteen a week, a thousand a month, six thousand a year; ten years, sixty thousand holes; and this is the first time a bit of luck has ever happened to me—once in sixty thousand times."