Two long strokes carried Whipple a scant distance from Railroad Bunker, which fronts Ditch Hole, a dangerous lie, since Railroad Bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost meriting the title of hill, directly back of it.

But if Whipple erred in judgment or skill, West found himself in even a sorrier plight when two more strokes had been laid to his score.

His first drive with a brassie had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron.

The ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the spectators, but which caused Joel to look glum and West to grind the turf under his heel in anger.

For, like a thing possessed, that ball fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found lay up to its middle in gravel.
West groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and carefully selected a club.