In many ways I have not, I am afraid, much more than a Cook's tourist's qualification for writing a chapter on American golf, since I spent no more than a most interesting six weeks there before the war. Duncan has written on the methods of some of the leading American players, and I do not mean to trespass on his preserves. I was, however, one of the very few Englishmen who saw the historic American contest, that at Brookline in 1913, in which Mr. Francis Ouimet played off the triple tie for the Championship with Vardon and Ray and won it. I was Mr. Ouimet's marker, and my name is enshrined upon his card which ought to be among the archives at Washington. The match was such a remarkable one, and I remember its crucial moments so clearly, that I think it is worth while even now to set down some account of it.

The course of The Country Club, for that is its official name, is not quite what we are here accustomed to think of as a Championship course, but it is a very good sound course nevertheless. The stranger's first impression is one of blank consternation, since he sees nothing but a large flat field. This is the polo ground over which the first and last holes are played-good enough holes as far as the bunkers round the greens are concerned, but dull and depressing. There is very quickly a change, however, into much more billowy and interesting country, where there are belts of woodland on either side of the fairway, and at one or two of the holes little jutting promontories of rock here and there. The woodland holes remind one of some of the Surrey courses, except that there is no sand or heather and the turf is rather of the park or meadow type. But it is good turf, and the greens are as good as they can be, with plenty of pace and undulations that are not too much exaggerated. Some of the holes have, I confess, but blurred outlines now in my memory, but two which come next door to one another remain very clear. One is the ninth, a long hole of terrifying and rather melodramatic appearance, where, after a tee shot down a valley, there is a second shot rather uphill, only to be attempted by a big driver with a big wind behind him. On the hillside are rocks and big bunkers, and the careful player is short with his second, and so home in three. The tenth is the hole which seemed to me to have a good deal to do with the final result in the great match. It is quite a short hole, no more than a mashie-niblick shot in length, but it is quite uncompromising and the green looks horribly small from the tee. Everywhere there are woods and bunkers, and in front there is first a stream and then a big bunker with a timbered face. There are plenty of other good holes- the seventeenth for instance, which Mr. Ouimet twice played magnificently at most critical moments-but those are the two that stick in my head.

Never did a course have worse weather to stand in a Championship. It rained and rained and went on raining, the air was cold and cheerless, and before the day of the tie came the ground was a dripping sop.

On the last day of the Championship the play was extraordinarily exciting. The three men who ultimately tied all had fine chances, frittered them away in a variety of ways, and then recovered by courageous finishes. Ray started first in the morning to play the crucial third round : he went very crooked, took too many fives and a six or two, and was out in 41 : then pulled himself together and came home grandly in 35. Vardon too took 41 out and began badly home : then finished very steadily and took 79, which made him equal with Ray for three rounds. Mr. Ouimet playing much later began brilliantly, had some disasters in the middle, and finished splendidly. He tied with the two Englishmen at 225, whereas Barnes, Hagen, and McDermott, who had all had good chances, were still a little way behind.

When Mr. Ouimet finished his third round, Ray and Vardon were already playing their last. Both clearly felt the strain of supporting their country's honour against so big a field, and both made all sorts of mistakes on the way out that were enough to make the poor British spectator weep. But both again got hold of themselves and their emotions, and struggled home by sheer power of sticking to it in 79 apiece. Once more danger threatened from Barnes, Hagen, and McDermott, and once more they could not quite go the pace to the end. Mr. Ouimet with 78 to win had now the chance of gaining immortality, but for a while he seemed, as old Tom Morris once said of his son, 'ower young.' He was bunkered and bunkered again on the way out, and took 43 to the turn. Then came a five in place of a three at the short tenth and all seemed over. I remember, as I splashed out in the mud and rain to meet him, that I was already composing sentences to telegraph home, to the effect that he had fought a great fight but the burden had been just too heavy for him to bear. I had to alter all those kind and possibly condescending sentences. From the tenth hole onwards he threw off all trace of nervousness and played splendidly. Even so the effort seemed too late, for he needed a three and a four at the last two holes to tie, and they were good 'four' holes.

At the seventeenth he played a fine iron shot and holed a three-yarder for his three, and pandemonium broke loose. I looked at the faces all round me grotesquely contorted with cheering and yelling, and I shall never forget the sight. Still the last hole was to come-two good shots across the muddy polo ground with a big cross-bunker in front of the green. The second shot, though well struck, had not much to spare, and a four was still difficult. Mr. Ouimet played a perfect little run up to within five feet: then, taking one short confident look at the line, hit his ball slap into the middle of the hole.

Heaven knows, this was exciting enough, but it was nothing to the next morning when the triple tie was played off over one round of eighteen holes. The rain still came down, and each player's caddie bore a towel to dry the grips of the clubs. Despite the wet the crowds came pouring out of Boston, so that the course was black with them. These were marshalled by a whole orchestra of megaphones, and by flagmen who looked very picturesque standing on the promontories of rock, red flags in hand. Certainly the spectators cheered frequently and freely, but in the circumstances they behaved, if I may say so, well and generously.