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 The ball rolled two yards.

He looked at it in silence. Then he looked at me—also in silence.

I was gazing seaward.

When I looked round, he was getting to work with a brassy.

This time he hit the bunker and rolled back. He repeated this maneuver twice.

"Hard luck!" I murmured sympathetically on the third occasion, thereby going as near to being slain with an iron as it has ever been my lot to go. Your true golfer is easily roused in times of misfortune, and there was a red gleam in the eye the professor turned to me.

"I shall pick my ball up," he growled.

We walked on in silence to the second tee.

He did the second hole in four, which was good. I won it in three, which—unfortunately for him—was better.

I won the third hole.