Part II

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Saturday morning dawned hot and clear, but by ten o'clock there. were purple thunderheads low in the west and the blue of the sky had been dimmed by a thin, hazy overcast. The heat was appalling. Not a leaf stirred in the leaden, dead-still air.

It appeared that every golf enthusiast in the state had turned out to see the professional women play. The parking lot of the Riverdale Country Club had been full since early morning and cars were parked along both sides of the road as far as the eye could reach. The gallery was larger than the ones which had turned out for the State Tournaments, or Sam Snead's exhibition match the year before. The spectators, uncomfortable in the dismal and oppressive heat, were noisy and uncooperative; by the time Dana Farrell and Clare Emerson were due to tee off, the groundskeepers were already employing ropes to keep the crowd in check.

Clare Emerson stood behind No. 1 tee, swinging her driver nervously, silently cursing the twosome ahead for its dawdling slowness. Due to the cumbersome gallery and the inevitable tardiness of some of the early start-

ers, they were twenty minutes behind the scheduled starting time already. For the tenth time in as many minutes she glanced apprehensively at the threatening sky. All I need, she thought grimly, is to have to play this thing in a thunderstorm! Her head ached dully and it seemed she could almost taste the electricity in the air. She beckoned to her caddy and once more dried her sweating hands on the towel he held ready.

And

Her eyes darted over the noisy, milling throng of spectators, hating them, hating every coughing, throat-clearing, loud-talking, paper-rattling one of them! where was Carter? He wouldn't dare not show up, even though she'd told him last night she never wanted to see him again. She meant it, too. She never wanted to see him, or any of the rest of these dull, pompous, self-satisfied stuffed shirts again. Nevertheless, he'd better be here, or she'd make him regret it!

She looked at Dana Farrell standing near the starter's table, relaxed, smoking a cigarette and talking quietly to a slim, blackhaired girl whom Clare recognized instantly.

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