"You know what I ought to do now—I ought to stop," said Booverman, in profound despair—"quit golf and never lift another club. It's a crime to go on; it's a crime to spoil such a record. Twenty-eight for nine holes, only forty-two needed for the next nine to break the record, and I have done it in thirty-three—and in fifty-three! I ought not to try; it's wrong."
He teed his ball for the two-hundred-yard flight to the easy tenth, and took his cleek.
"I know just what'll happen now; I know it well."
But this time there was no varying in the flight; the drive went true to the green, straight on the flag, where a good but not difficult put brought a two.
"Even threes again," said Pickings, but to himself. "It can't go on. It must turn."
"Now, Pickings, this is going to stop," said Booverman angrily. "I'm not going to make a fool of myself. I'm going right up to the tee, and I'm going to drive my ball right smack into the woods and end it. And I don't care."
"What!"
"No, I don't care. Here goes."
Again his drive continued true, the mashy pitch for the second was accurate, and his put, after circling the rim of the cup, went down for a three.
The twelfth hole is another dip into the long grass that might serve as an elephant's bed, and then across the Housatonic River, a carry of one hundred and twenty yards to the green at the foot of an intruding tree.