Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek in his hand shook like an aspen. He straightened up and walked away.
"Picky," he said, mopping his face, "I can't do it. I can't put it."
"You must."
"I've got buck fever. I'll never be able to put it—never."
At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman had gone to pieces. He stood shaking from head to foot.
"Look at that," he said, extending a fluttering hand. "I can't do it; I can never do it."
"Old fellow, you must," said Pickings; "you've got to. Bring yourself together. Here!" He slapped him on the back, pinched his arms, and chafed his fingers. Then he led him back to the ball, braced him into position, and put the putter in his hands.
"Buck fever," said Booverman in a whisper. "Can't see a thing."
Pickings, holding the flag in the cup, said savagely:
"Shoot!"