As a result, he missed his own ball completely, and then topped it for a bare fifty yards.
"I've never seen you play so badly," said Booverman in a grumbling tone. "You'll end up by throwing me off."
When they arrived at the green, Booverman's ball lay about thirty feet from the flag.
"It's a four, a sure four," said Pickings under his breath.
Suddenly Booverman burst into an exclamation.
"Picky, come here. Look—look at that!"
The tone was furious. Pickings approached.
"Do you see that?" said Booverman, pointing to a freshly laid circle of sod ten inches from his ball. "That, my boy, was where the cup was yesterday. If they hadn't moved the flag two hours ago, I'd have had a three. Now, what do you think of that for rotten luck?"
"Lay it dead," said Pickings, anxiously, shaking his head sympathetically. "The green's a bit fast."
The put ran slowly up to the hole, and stopped four inches short.