The ninth we halved, for in the black depth of my soul I had formed a
plan of fiendish subtlety. I intended to allow him to win--with
extreme labor--eight holes in succession.
Then, when hope was once more strong in him, I would win the last, and
he would go mad.
* * * * *
I watched him carefully as we trudged on. Emotions chased one another
across his face. When he won the tenth hole he merely refrained from
oaths. When he won the eleventh a sort of sullen pleasure showed in
his face. It was at the thirteenth that I detected the first dawning
of hope. From then onward it grew. When, with a sequence of shocking
shots, he took the seventeenth hole in eight, he was in a parlous
condition. His run of success had engendered within him a desire for
conversation. He wanted, as it were, to flap his wings and crow. I
could see dignity wrestling with talkativeness.