Farrell was the undisputed possessor of the longest ball in women's professional golf. She's hitting that ball as though she were committing murder, Dana thought, and she was not at all amused by the analogy. Maybe

I was a little hasty in telling that Harrison boy she couldn't win, Dana thought wryly. She studied the grimly set face and blazing eyes intently, and suddenly felt a chill of apprehension that was strongly mixed with pity. And all at once she knew with absolute certainty that, for her own sake, Clare Emerson must not win. She could not have said how she knew, but there was not the slightest doubt in her mind that she must retain her invincibility in the eyes of this confused girl, or the results might be disastrous beyond imagining.

As Dana stepped up to the tee, for the first time within memory the gallery bothered her. It was a narrow fairway, and the people were lined solidly along its edges all the way to the green, some of them standing yards within its boundaries. She waited, nervously, while a woman chased a small boy directly across her line of flight. When she finally took her stance and hit the ball, she knew immediately that it was a bad one. It was. She watched with horror as it took off like a bullet and hooked sharply into the crowd.

When she reached the scene she could not see what had happened because of the dense crowd, but after much pushing and swearing, the groundskeepers managed to shove the people back. A slight, leggy child of about fourteen lay

on the ground, her thin face very white and her eyes glazed with shock, while several spectators fussed over her. One of them held a bloody handkerchief to the side of the small blonde head.

Dana, her heart pounding, knelt beside the child, aware that she was shaking badly. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm so very sorry!"

The child looked up at her with dazed eyes and tried to smile. "It's alright, Miss Farrell," she whispered. "It was my fault for standing so close. I know you didn't mean to."

Dana stood up, trying without success to quiet her trembling. She watched them carry the child away and push the crowd, sullen and muttering now, back into the rough.

They never did find the ball.

The

As they came up to No. 10 tee, Clare Emerson was trying desperately to extricate herself from a bewildering tangle of emotions. She should have been exultant, for since that accident on No. 4, Dana Farrell's game had gone to hell in a handbasket. disastrous 7 she had taken on that par-4 hole and two additional bogies had not only cancelled out her 4-stroke advantage but had placed Clare, who had continued to play brilliantly, ahead by two comfortable strokes.

But she was not exultant, nor even pleased. Instead, she was the victim of a feeling of disappointment so acute it almost amounted to outrage. She felt cheated, somehow, and furious at herself for feeling that way. And worst of all, when she looked at Dana now, she could no longer

39