Harris and Ramsey both made another inspection. Appearances, they knew, might deceive but not this much. If Phil Metten could crack eighty-eight on this, or any other par seventy-two course, cheerfully they would pay for the demonstration.
"Twenty and a hundred are all right with us," Ramsey accepted. "Right with you, Rountree?"
Jay was staring at his partner, somewhat staggered. He wished he had more accurate reckoning of the relics of his thousand dollars upon which he depended to pay his hotel bill and fare for Lida and himself to Chicago. He had been cutting it close, he knew, and here was a chance—a chance was a mild way of putting it, certainty was nearer it—of dropping in one round of eighteen holes, three or four hundred dollars; and if he merely lost the round, without counting costs of holes at twenty dollars each, he was stranded. However, here he was, forty dollars ahead on yesterday's rounds with Ramsey and Harris; his own partner had made the new proposition.
"All right?" Jay referred to Metten; and, boldly, Phil nodded.
"Let's start," said Jay; and they gave Phil the honor.
In three, he was off the tee; hole high in eight; down in eleven. Jay shot four for a birdie. Harris and Ramsey took six apiece. The second was short, a par three, so Phil stayed inside double figures; he sank a six. Jay's midiron from the tee went to the edge of the green and he putted twice, for a three. His opponents were down in fours.
"My God," breathed Ramsey sympathetically, as he walked close to Jay toward the third tee. "I'll scratch stakes with you—after I'm square for yesterday—and
