The last hole had given Alexander the honour again. He drove even more
deliberately than before. For quite half a minute he stood over his
ball, pawing at it with his driving-iron like a cat investigating a
tortoise. Finally he despatched it to one of the few safe spots on the
hillside. The drive from this tee has to be carefully calculated, for,
if it be too straight, it will catch the slope and roll down into the
ravine.
Mitchell addressed his ball. He swung up, and then, from immediately
behind him came a sudden sharp crunching sound. I looked quickly in the
direction whence it came. Mitchell's caddie, with a glassy look in his
eyes, was gnawing a large apple. And even as I breathed a silent
prayer, down came the driver, and the ball, with a terrible slice on
it, hit the side of the hill and bounded into the ravine.
There was a pause--a pause in which the world stood still. Mitchell
dropped his club and turned. His face was working horribly.
"Mitchell!" I cried. "My boy! Reflect! Be calm!"
"Calm! What's the use of being calm when people are chewing apples in
thousands all round you? What _is_ this, anyway--a golf match or a
pleasant day's outing for the children of the poor? Apples! Go on, my
boy, take another bite.
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