The luck favored him on his next volley, for playing two mid-irons down the hill, he reached the level meadow below safely, while McLemore sliced his second into a row of hot frames, where an indignant horticulturist and two dogs contributed an interesting mental hazard. But the Sphynx handed the farmer a dollar in exchange for lacerated feelings and glass, and the match went on. Over the brook McLemore lay thirteen, having "dubbed" his shot into the stream, but playing steadily after that reached the top of the long hill before them, safely in four more; while Ventnor lost his ball in the bushes and was now playing twenty-five.
From there on, the luck varied and at the Stockbridge farm the score stood McLemore, 21; Ventnor, 30. It seemed a difficult lead to overcome, for the Sphynx was playing straight with a mid-iron, while Steve, whose only hope lay in getting distance, had twice pulled into rough grass, which cost him lost balls and extra strokes. The wonder was how he played at all, for Aurora had refused to marry him three times in the last twenty minutes. The result was inevitable, and so like the man in the adage, after playing thirty-eight strokes, he "went up in the air," missing shot after shot and relinquishing all claim to consideration, playing on only because fate seemed to demand it of him.
At the Van Westervelt's fence both men got off "good ones," landing well in the middle of the pasture and had gone forward into the field, their caddies close behind them, when from the shelter of a clump of trees along the stream to their left, there emerged a shadow. Aurora saw it first.
"No, it's only a cow," ventured the Sphynx, whose tauric glasses were not adjusted to distances--or to bulls.
Steve glanced at the beast over his shoulder, and then took a brassey from his bag.
"He won't bother us," he muttered. But the animal was approaching majestically, pausing now and then to paw up the dirt with his front hoofs and throwing a cloud of dust over his back.
"You'd better run for it, you and Aurora," said Ventnor. "You can easily make the fence."
"I'm going to play this shot. It's the prettiest lie I've had all day."
"Come, Aurora," said Patricia, taking up her bag. "There's no time to lose. He's really coming this way," and gathering up her golf bag and skirts, she ran. The Sphynx, meanwhile, still holding his mid-iron in his hand, was undecided. His ball was twenty yards further on, and his eyes shifted uneasily from the bull to an old apple-tree within a reaching distance. The women by this time had reached a convenient stile and were perched upon it shouting.