A breath of relief went up from the watchers, but it was not until Frost had holed out that the applause came. Then a dozen fellows pressed around Ned to slap him on the back and shake his hand. “Five, Tooker! That bogey! It’s never been done before! Oh, you Ned Tooker!” Frost shook hands with him, too, hiding his discomfiture as best he could. As they took up the journey to the eighth tee the score for the two rounds stood at 73 each, and the match depended on the next two holes.
[CHAPTER XIV]
DAN IS OUT OF SORTS
The eighth hole is a short one, 150 yards, and the bogey is 3. A long drive, a short approach and you’re on the green. The hole has been done in 3 a good many times, and to-day both Ned and his adversary equaled bogey. At the ninth tee the excitement amongst the audience had grown intense. The ninth was five yards shorter than the last hole and was an easy one. There was a bunker near enough the tee to punish a weak drive, but after that it was fair sailing. Ned made a hard, straight drive that was a fraction too high. Had there been even a mild breeze he would have suffered in direction. Frost’s ball went lower, skimming above the bunker with only a half-dozen feet to spare, and doing a remarkable amount of rolling after it had struck the smooth turf. It was a fine long shot and bettered Ned’s by fifteen yards. The gallery unanimously agreed as they took up their way across the links and skirted the bunker that the match depended now on the next strokes. Frost had the advantage in distance, but it was felt that Ned was quite capable of overcoming that handicap, since on midiron plays he had shown himself superior to Frost all the afternoon.
Ned was away and played first, using his mashie. The ball went away high and the gallery watched its arch with breathless interest. It struck on the green, about two yards out of line with the flag, and apparently quite near the hole. One of the players who had finished his game and, with the others, was standing near the home green, waved his hand and cut a caper. Frost selected a midiron for his approach. For the first time that day he seemed nervous, and was an unusually long time in making his shot. It had good direction, struck well this side of the green and rolled smoothly on until it lay within four yards of the hole. The gallery hurried to the green, the two players following more leisurely. Ned’s lie was almost but not quite as good as Frost’s, being just over four paces distant from the hole, while Frost’s was just under. Kirk stepped forward and lifted the flag from the hole, treading across the short turf as though presiding at a funeral. The gallery ranged itself around the green, determined not to miss a thrill.
Ned looked critically along the line to the hole, swung his putter once or twice from the wrists and addressed his ball. Had a grasshopper sneezed at that moment every member of the gallery would have jumped a foot! Ned swung his club back gently, brought it smoothly forward, there was a little tap and the ball ran swiftly toward the hole. Ned had put too much force into the stroke, for the ball reached the edge of the cup, leaped across and trickled on for a yard! A murmur of dismay went up. Kendall’s heart sank. Frost gripped his putter, brushed aside a tiny pebble, settled himself and tapped his ball very gently. His direction was good, but, having determined not to fall into Ned’s error, he erred on the other side and the ball traveled a scant two yards. A sigh of relief arose about Kendall; he caught a boy grinning at him and grinned back; Teller Sanford’s black eyes were gleaming with excitement. There was only a tied match to hope for now, but that was better than the defeat that would have come had Frost holed out in his first try. But even a yard is a long way sometimes when much depends on the result, and there was a good deal of suspense while Ned measured the distance and swung his putter. But this time the ball behaved itself and dropped into the hole with a comforting thud. A sigh of relief went up from all around. Then every eye fixed itself on the Broadwood player. Two yards was not a long putt for Frost, but there was always the chance that he wouldn’t make it, and as he sped the little ball forward more than one onlooker gripped his hands. It began to slow down soon after it left the club; a foot from the hole it was barely rolling; at the very brink of the hole it paused, seemed to look into the abyss before it, shudder and stop. For an instant no one moved or breathed. It seemed that the ball would drop over the edge at any instant. But it didn’t. Frost, watching it, shrugged his shoulders and walked toward it.
“Oh, call it in!” cried Ned, and jumped in the hope of jarring the ground sufficiently to set the ball in motion. But the thing was obdurate. It never stirred. Frost tapped it with his putter and it rolled out of sight. Then he turned to Ned with outstretched hand.
“You win, Tooker,” he said, with a smile. He was a little bit pale. Ned shook hands, but—
“Nonsense!” he said. “I’m not going to take the game on a fluke like that. We’ll call it a draw, Frost, and play another nine.”