For the first time Sprague felt a suggestion of compet.i.tion in the game.

Although he was seven holes up on the stranger, and they had only eleven more to play, the possibility of losing flashed into his mind. Besides, he felt some little resentment, because of the superior way in which the foreigner spoke. He seized an iron club, and placed his ball within two yards of the hole.

"Why, that is magnificent," remarked Ricordo. "That is where skill comes in."

Purvis came next, and while he sent his ball on the green, it was at an extreme corner.

"If I lose this hole, my chance of winning on you shrinks to a vanishing point," remarked Ricordo. "Well, I must not lose it."

He looked at the ball steadily, and then turned to his companions.

"Is it not whimsical?" he said. "This little thing seems to have become a part of our life, eh? And the game of golf is also a game of life, _non e vero_? Forgive me, signores, but I am an Eastern, and everything in life is a parable to such as I."

He struck the ball, and laid it, according to golfers' parlance, "dead."

"Fine shot," said Purvis; as for Sprague, he said nothing.

For the first time Purvis lost a hole to Ricordo, but Sprague halved it with him.

"Good hole," remarked Purvis. "One under bogey."

"Ah yes," said Ricordo, "but I cannot afford even to halve with Mr.

Sprague if I am to win the match, eh? Seven up and ten to play. No, I must win, and not halve. I have lost so much in the beginning of the game. The game of life is always hard to win, when you lose in the beginning."

Sprague took the honour, and drove with unerring precision. As he saw it fall, a look of satisfaction came into his eyes.

"Longest ball you've driven to-day, Sprague," said Purvis. "It's possible to reach the green with a good 'bra.s.sy' from there."

"Nasty hazard just before the green, by the look of it," remarked Sprague, looking steadily.

"Ther' iz, zur," said one of the caddies, "great big pit overgrawed weth vuss and vearny stuff."

Ricordo addressed his ball. It was teed rather too high, and he patted it down. A moment later he made his shot. There was a slight curve on it, but he outdrove Sprague by two or three yards. Purvis foozled his drive for the first time.

"Are you going to try it?" asked Purvis, as Sprague stood before his ball.

"It's risky," said the other. "Do your players here carry that green in two?" he asked the caddy who pulled out an iron for him.

"'T 'ave bin dun, zur," replied the caddy. "The perfeshernal 'ave done et, an' a gen'leman from London; but moasly they doan't. Bezides, ther's a little wind."

"I'll try it," said Sprague, taking the bra.s.sy.

He struck the ball fairly, but it did not carry. It fell into the bushes.

Sprague suppressed an angry exclamation.

"Goin' to play for safety, zur?" asked the caddy of Ricordo.

Ricordo took the bra.s.sy from the boy, and looked steadily towards the green.

"Risky," remarked Purvis, almost involuntarily. He knew that according to strict rules he had no right to say anything.

"The essence of life is risk," remarked Ricordo. Somehow both felt that he was a different man from what he had been an hour before. He no longer seemed to be playing a game upon which nothing depended, but to be struggling for a great victory in life. His eyes were no longer half closed, and the old expression of cynical indifference was gone. A few seconds later his ball fell within six yards of the pin.

Neither of the players uttered a sound; but the boys could not suppress their admiration.

"You are six up at the turn, signore," remarked Ricordo to Sprague.

"That is odds against one; but _noi verremo_."

Sprague walked silently to the next tee. It was the first hole he had lost to the foreigner, and although his position seemed well-nigh impregnable, he had a fear of losing. He felt as though he were not playing with a man, but with fate.

Ricordo took the honour. The green was over two hundred yards away, but he landed his ball safely on it. Sprague drove next; he failed to reach it by more than thirty yards. Purvis fared no better. Again Ricordo won the hole.

"Five up, and eight to play," he laughed pleasantly. "I cannot afford to make any mistakes, signore."

Ding, dong, went the b.a.l.l.s. When they had played the seventeenth hole, Ricordo had actually placed himself one up on Purvis, and was all square with Sprague. The game was to be finished on the last green.

"Ah, I like that," said Ricordo lightly. "Life is never interesting when everything is settled early in the game, eh, Mr. Sprague? And everything is worth so much more when we win by a single bold stroke, eh?"

Why it was, Sprague could not tell, but his heart beat faster than was its wont. An atmosphere of grim earnestness possessed him, and more, a fear filled his heart. After having the game in his hands he was in danger of losing it. Not that he had played badly. In nearly every case he had been level with bogey, but then in nearly every case for the last nine holes the stranger had beaten him by a stroke. Yes, he was angry.

The man had commenced as a beginner, he had thrown away his chances, and yet he had recovered all the ground he had lost. More than once he caught himself watching Ricordo's dark features. The fez which surmounted his face made him look sinister. The black beard and moustache covered his mouth, but he fancied a mocking smile playing around his lips. The man impressed him as a mystery. Sometimes he found himself thinking of him as an Englishman, but again strange fancies flitted through his mind concerning him. He pictured him away in desert places, dreaming of dark things.

"Anyhow, I can't win," said Purvis. "The best I can do is to halve the match with you, Mr. Ricordo."

"But I have a chance of winning," said Sprague. "By the way, signore, we've had nothing on the game. What do you say to a stake on this hole?"

"No, Mr. Sprague, I never play for stakes, except the stake of life."

"What do you mean?"

"A game is always more than a game to me. It has destiny in it. Thus we are playing for stakes, great stakes."

"What are they?"

"Ah, who can tell? Perhaps for heaven, perhaps for h.e.l.l."

"Oh, I say!"

They were now standing on the eighteenth tee, and the green was near the club-house. Close to the flag they saw a woman and a man.

"Do you know who that is on the green?" Ricordo asked of the caddy who had made his tee and was moving away.

"Yes, zur; 'tes Miss Castlemaine, wot the links do belong to, and Muster Briarfield." The lad rushed away towards the green.

"Ah!" said Ricordo, "we may be playing for the lady--who knows?"

He looked at Sprague as he spoke, and noted the pallor of his face.

"Do you know Miss Castlemaine?" asked Purvis.