Part 44 (1/2)

Both gave an exceedingly moderate exhibition at the seventeenth tee, Pip because he not infrequently did so, and Elsie because her nerve was going. Their second shots were better, though Pip as usual got farther with his cleek than Elsie with her bra.s.sie. Elsie therefore had to play the odd in approaching the green. This time she did herself justice. It was a perfect shot. The ball rose quickly, fell plump upon the green, checked itself with a little back-spin, and staggered uncertainly towards the hole. Finally it stopped, eighteen inches beyond the pin.

Elsie heaved a sigh of the most profound relief. In all human probability she was sure of a ”half” now, and unless Pip laid his approach dead she would win the hole outright, and so make the match safe, safe, safe! She involuntarily clasped her hands together over her beating heart.

Pip, impa.s.sive as ever, said nothing, but took his mas.h.i.+e and succeeded in reaching the green. Since his ball lay a good ten yards short, his chances of a half looked meagre, but he grasped his putter with determination and ”went for” the hole. The ball rolled smoothly over the green, but suddenly turned off a little and just rolled past the lip of the hole.

”Bad luck!” said Elsie, with ready sympathy.

Bad luck indeed, but not for Pip. The ball, as she spoke, suddenly slowed down and stopped dead, midway, to a hair's-breadth, between the ball and the hole. Elsie required only a short putt to win the hole and make herself ”dormy,” and Pip had laid her a dead stymie.

Involuntarily they looked at each other. Then Pip said quickly,--

”I'll pick up my ball while you putt. We aren't having any stymies in this match, of course.”

All the sportswoman in Elsie revolted at this. ”No, Pip,” she said; ”certainly not. We arranged nothing about stymies before we started, so stymies must stand. I must just play it.”

She took her mas.h.i.+e, and made a gallant but unsuccessful effort to jump her ball over Pip's. Each holed the next putt, and the match remained square--with one to play. Ye G.o.ds!

They were very silent as they prepared to drive off for the last time.

Absolutely alone, far out on the course, they were now approaching what was properly ”the turn,” more than a mile from the clubhouse.

”I shall put down a new ball here,” said Pip, ”just for luck.”

”So shall I,” said Elsie.

”We mustn't mix them on the green, then. What is yours?”

”A 'Haskell.'”

”Right. Mine's a 'Springvale Kite.'”

Elsie had the honour, and drove as good a ball as any that afternoon.

Pip, determined to take as few risks as possible, used his cleek, and lay just beside her.

The ninth hole on the Links of Eric is known as ”The Crater.” The green lies in a curious hollow on the top of a conical hill. An average drive leaves your ball at the hill-foot in a good lie. After this only one stroke is of the slightest use. You take your farthest-laid-back mas.h.i.+e, commend your soul to Providence, and smite. The ball, if struck as desired, will rise up, tower, and drop into the basin at the top of the hill. Should you play too strongly you will fly over the oasis of green turf and fall into a howling wilderness of bents, sand, and whins on the far side; should you play short, your ball will bury itself in the slopes of s.h.i.+fting sand that guard the approach, and your doom is sealed. It is credibly reported that all four players in a four-ball match--scratch men, every one--once arrived upon the Crater green, ball in hand, each having given up the struggle under the despairing impression that no opponent could possibly have played more strokes than himself.

On paper, this was just the sort of hole that Elsie should have won from Pip. But in practice the conditions were even. Pip's Herculean wrists made it possible for him to force the ball up to the necessary height with a half-mas.h.i.+e-shot, but for Elsie the task involved a full swing--and to keep your ball under absolute control in such circ.u.mstances is about the most difficult shot in golf. Pip's approaching was at its worst unspeakable, but on this occasion he was at his best. The ball sailed grandly into the air and dropped in a rea.s.suringly perpendicular fas.h.i.+on into the Crater. Elsie's effort was almost as good, though her ball curled slightly to the left before dropping.

They tramped up the long flight of wooden steps which facilitated the ascent to the summit with bated breath. A glance at the green would decide the match.

Elsie reached the top first. Pip heard her give a little gasp.

One ball, new, white, and glistening, lay on the green ten or twelve yards from the hole. The other was nowhere to be seen.

”Whose ball, I wonder?” said Pip calmly.

They stooped together and examined the ball as it lay on the green. So close were they that Pip was conscious of a flutter that pa.s.sed through Elsie's body.

The ball was a ”Springvale Kite.”

Pip maintained an absolutely unmoved countenance. The ball was his, and so, unless a miracle intervened, was the hole. And the match.