“I hope so,” murmured Kendall as he followed the others along the edge of the woods. When Ned reached his ball he looked at it for several moments. Then he studied the course ahead. Below him at the right lay The Bowl. Between him and the little red flag at the hole lay a hollow, with a corner of the bunker elbowing into line. One advantage was with him. He was now only a scant yard or two below the level of the bunker, whereas Frost must work uphill all the way to the green. Ned’s ball lay on a slight slope, so that he had to stand several inches above it. But it was not cupped. It lay nestled in a little tuft of dry grass, with a tiny twig holding it from rolling further down the slope. Ned thoughtfully picked out his lofter. Then he as thoughtfully slipped it back into the bag and drew forth a brassie. Several of the knowing ones shook their heads. It seemed a bad lie for a brassie shot, they thought. But Ned faced the hole, swung the club and had luck with him. The ball struck the opposite hillside, bounded high in the air and fell dead only four yards from the bunker! A yell of astonishment and delight went up from the watchers.
“What did I tell you?” demanded Teller with a pleased smile on his face.
“But—but he oughtn’t to have used that brass club, then,” objected Kendall. “The book says so!”
“I guess the book was wrong.” Teller nodded at the distant ball. “There’s the answer to that.”
Below them Frost was making his second stroke. Up the hill went the ball, landed, jumped a foot or two into the air, came down and trickled back a yard before it found lodgment.
“He will be lucky if he gets over from there in one,” Kendall heard one of the gallery remark. “He’s thirty yards from the bunker and way below it.”
But he did get over, making a very pretty shot with a niblick and just grazing the top of the bunker. Ned went over neatly and the ball bounded out of sight toward the green. Frost’s fourth stroke took him well onto the green, but at the left of the hole. It was apparent that Ned, playing 4, could at least tie the hole in 6. But when his ball was found it lay only twenty yards or so from the hole and visions of a bogey score floated before the eyes of the excited audience. Smilingly and, as it looked, almost carelessly, Ned took his mashie, cast one short glance at the flag and hit the ball. Up and away it went in a short arching flight.
“Too hard,” someone groaned behind Kendall. But Kendall, his heart in his mouth, saw the ball drop, make one feeble effort to bound, and then lie dead within a yard of the flag!
Something that was like a hushed cheer went up from the gallery which had now reunited and had drawn aside at the edge of the green. Ned slipped his mashie back into his bag with a fine unconcern and took out his putter. Frost at the side of the green was looking rather serious as he bent over his ball. His fifth stroke left him within a scant two feet of the hole. The audience literally held their breath as Ned brushed aside an invisible obstacle in his path to the goal, measured the distance and direction with his eye and swung his putter back gently. Tap! Forward rolled the ball, straight for the hole, but oh, so slowly! Three inches away from the edge it seemed about to stop, but it changed its mind and trickled on—on—and then, pop, it was out of sight!