Whipple, West knew, was weak on putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent's weakness.

While West pondered, Whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for an occasional nervous whisper.
Then West leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball.

It was the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but West was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted him.

His mind was made up.

Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant goal.