"Never mind me," he said, slashing away in reckless fashion.
Booverman with a little care studied the ten-foot route to the hole and putted down.
"Even threes!" said Pickings, leaning against a tree.
"Blast that sixth hole!" said Booverman, exploding. "Think of what it might be, Picky—what it ought to be!"
Pickings retired hurriedly before the shaking approach of Booverman's frantic club. Incapable of speech, he waved him feebly to drive. He began incredulously to count up again, as though doubting his senses.
"One under three, even threes, one over, even, one under—"
"Here! What the deuce are you doing?" said Booverman, angrily. "Trying to throw me off?"
"I didn't say anything," said Pickings.
"You didn't—muttering to yourself."
"I must make him angry to keep his mind off the score," said Pickings, feebly to himself. He added aloud, "Stop kicking about your old sixth hole! You've had the darndest luck I ever saw, and yet you grumble."