His mind was made up. Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on
the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club
above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant
goal. Then there was a pause. Whipple no longer studied his own play;
his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently
against the grass. Joel leaned breathlessly forward. Professor Beck
muttered under his breath, and then cried "S--sh!" to himself in an
angry whisper. And then West's club swung back gently, easily, paused an
instant--and--
Forward sped the ball--on and on--slower--slower--but straight as an
arrow--and then--Presto! it was gone from sight!
A moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that
moment Professor Beck announced:
"The odd to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-three."
Then the group became silent again. Whipple addressed his ball. It was
yet possible to tie the score. His face was pale, and for the first time
during the tournament he felt nervous. A better player could scarce have
missed the hole from Whipple's lie, but for once that youth's nerve
forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole.
The game was decided. Professor Beck again announced the score:
"The two more to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-four."
Again Whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the
victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng
broke silence.
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