He teed up, and drove his best drive, and followed it with a brassy that laid him twenty yards off the green, where a good approach brought the desired four.
"Even threes," said Pickings to himself, as though he had seen a ghost. Now he was only a golfer of one generation; there was nothing in his inheritance to steady him in such a crisis. He began slowly to disintegrate morally, to revert to type. He contained himself until Booverman had driven free of the river, which flanks the entire green passage to the ninth hole, and then barely controlling the impulse to catch Booverman by the knees and implore him to discretion, he burst out:
"I say, dear boy, do you know what your score is?"
"Something well under four," said Booverman, scratching his head.
"Under four, nothing; even threes!"
"What?"
"Even threes."
They stopped, and tabulated the holes.
"So it is," said Booverman, amazed. "What an infernal pity!"
"Pity?"