It was the warning cry from the first tee to clear the course for the start of the cup-winners' match.In anticipation of some remarkable playing, an unusually large gallery would follow the contestants around.The best caddies had been selected, clubs had been looked to with care and tested, new balls were got out, and there was much subdued excitement, as befitted the occasion.
Mr.Carwell, his always flushed face perhaps a trifle more like a mild sunset than ever, strolled to the first tee.He swung his driver with freedom and ease to make sure it was the one that best suited him, andthen turned to Major Wardell, his chief rival."Do you want to take any more?" he asked meaningly.
"No, thank you," was the laughing response."I've got all I can carry.Not that I'm going to let you beat me, but I'm always a stroke or two off in my play when the sun's too bright, as it is now.However, I'm not crawling.""You'd better not !" declared his rival.As for me, the brighter the sun the better I like it.Well, are we all ready?"The officials held a last consultation and announced that play might start.Mr.Carwell was to lead.
The first hole was not the longest in the course,but to place one's ball on fair ground meant driving very surely, and for a longer distance than most players liked to think about.Also a short distance from the tee was a deep ravine, and unless one cleared that it was a handicap hard to overcome.
Mr.Carwell made his little tee of sand with care, and placed the ball on the apex.Then he took his place and glanced back for a moment to where Viola stood between Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett.Something like a little frown gathered on the face of Horace Carwell as he noted the presence of Bartlett, but it passed almost at once.
"Well, here goes, ladies and gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr.Carwell in rather loud tones and with a free and easy manner he did not often assume."Here's where I bring home the bacon and make my friend, the major, eat humble pie."Viola flushed.It was not like her father to thus boast.On the contrary he was usually what the Scotch call a "canny" player.He never predicted that he was going to win, except, perhaps, to his close friends.But he was now boasting like the veriest schoolboy.
"Here I go!" he exclaimed again, and then he swung at the ball with his well-known skill.
It was a marvelous drive, and the murmurs of approbation that greeted it seemed to please Mr.Carwell.
"Let's see anybody beat that!" he cried as he stepped off the tee to give place to Major Wardell.
Mr.Carwell's white ball had sailed well up on the putting green of the first hole, a shot seldom made at Maraposa.
"A few more strokes like that and he'll win the match," murmured Bartlett.
"And when he does, don't forget what I told you," whispered Viola to him.
He found her hand, hidden at her side in the folds of her dress, and pressed it.She smiled up at him, and then they watched the major swing at his ball.
"It's going to be a corking match," murmured more than one member of the gallery, as they followed the players down the field.
"If any one asked me, I should say that Carwell had taken just a little too much champagne to make his strokes true toward the last hole," said Tom Sharwell to Bruce Garrigan.
"Perhaps," was the admission."But I'd like to see him win.And, for the sake of saying something, let me inform you that in Africa last year there were used in nose rings alone for the natives seventeen thousand four hundred and twenty-one pounds of copper wire.While for anklets - ""I'll buy you a drink if you chop it off short!" offered Sharwell."Taken !" exclaimed Garrigan, with a grin.
The cup play went on, the four contestants being well matched, and the shots duly applauded from hole to hole.
The turn was made and the homeward course began, with the excitement increasing as it was seen that there would be the closest possible finish, between the major and Mr.Carwell at least.
"What's the row over there?" asked Bartlett suddenly, as he walked along with Viola and Captain Poland.
"Where?" inquired the captain.
"Among those autos.Looks as if one was on fire.""It does," agreed Viola."But I can see our patriotic palfrey, so I guess it's all right.There are enough people over there, anyhow.But it issomething!"There was a dense cloud of smoke hovering over the place where some of the many automobiles were parked at one corner of the course.
Still it might be some one starting his machine, with too much oil being burned in the cylinders.
"Now for the last hole!" exulted Mr.Carwell, as they approached the eighteenth."I've got you two strokes now, Major, and I'll have you fourby the end of the match.""I'm not so sure of that," was the laughing and good-natured reply.
There was silence in the gallery while the players made ready for the last hole.
There was a sharp impact as Mr.Carwell's driver struck the little white ball and sent it sailing in a graceful curve well toward the last hole.
"A marvelous shot!" exclaimed Captain Poland."On the green again! Another like that and he'll win the game!""And I can do it, too!" boasted Carwell, who overheard what was said.The others drove off in turn, and the play reached the final stage of putting.Viola turned as though to go over and see what the trouble was among the automobiles.She looked back as she saw her father stoop to send the ball into the little depressed cup.She felt sure that he would win, for she had kept a record of his strokes and those of his opponents.Thegame was all but over.
"I wonder if there can be anything the matter with our car?" mused Viola, as she saw the smoke growing denser."Dad's won, so I'm going over to see.Perhaps that chauffeur - "She did not finish the sentence.She turned to look back at her father once more, and saw him make the putt that won the game at the last hole.Then, to her horror she saw him reel, throw up his hands, and fall heavily in a heap, while startled cries reached her ears.
"Oh! Oh! What has happened?" she exclaimed, and deadly fear clutched at her heart - and not without good cause.
