Booverman swore under his breath, hastily approached his ball, drove perfectly, and turned in a rage.
"Luck?" he cried furiously. "Pickings, I've a mind to wring your neck. Every shot I've played has been dead on the pin, now, hasn't it?"
"How about the ninth hole—hitting a tree?"
"Whose fault was that? You had no right to tell me my score, and, besides, I only got an ordinary four there, anyway."
"How about the railroad track?"
"One shot out of bounds. Yes, I'll admit that. That evens up for the fourth."
"How about your first hole in two?"
"Perfectly played; no fluke about it at all—once in sixty thousand times. Well, any more sneers? Anything else to criticize?"
"Let it go at that."
Booverman, in this heckled mood, turned irritably to his ball, played a long midiron, just cleared the crescent bank of the last swale, and ran up on the green.