I have already mentioned last year's match between Mr. Tolley and Mr. Gardner. It is recent history, but I will set it down as I recall it now before memory becomes indistinct. Almost all the rest of the match seems to be obliterated by that tremendous finish. Mr. Gardner had been two up at lunch. He had begun a little weakly in the afternoon, and Mr. Tolley had seized his chance and played up magnificently. He was two up at the twelfth, frittered away a glorious chance at the thirteenth, which he only halved, but won the fourteenth in a great three. He was three up and four to play, and had for the moment fought Mr. Gardner to a standstill. At the fifteenth, Mr. Gardner was barely on the green in two, and it was odds against his getting a four. Mr. Tolley had hit a fine drive : in all human probability he had only to put his pitch-and-run approach somewhere on the green to win the match by four and three and the Championship. 'Only' -yes, but that second is a nasty shot at the best of times, for the green is fast and runs away from the player and at the far end of it is a bunker. The temptation is to be short. Mr. Gardner had yielded to it. Mr. Tolley no doubt determined that he would not. He hit his shot all too well and truly. 'In off the club,' we groaned, and the ball raced across the green into the bunker. It might often not have mattered so greatly: he might have got his five and with it a half. But this time-'twas ever thus-the fates were unrelenting. The ball lay very near the further edge of the bunker, which interfered with the swing of the club. The ball did not come out the first time and the hole cost Mr. Tolley six shots.

Two up with three to go is in itself a pleasant position, but not when five minutes before the match seemed won. 'Holes falling away like snow off a dyke,' we quoted to one another. 'Anything may happen now,' was the prevailing impression. Sure enough Mr. Tolley took six to the long sixteenth, playing none of the shots very ill but none very well, and now he was only one up. The seventeenth was one long-drawn-out series of emotions-first hope, then despair, then a revulsion of joy. Both were weak with their seconds. Mr. Gardner played the odd and was weak again-he must have been half a dozen yards short. Mr. Tolley got within six or eight feet. He would have that putt, we thought, to win, and the worst that could happen would be a half in five. But we reckoned without Mr. Gardner, who gallantly holed his long putt. That was despair. Then Mr. Tolley put his in too-a great effort at such a moment. That was the revulsion of joy. Still things were far from pleasant, for Mr. Gardner was now the hunter, Mr. Tolley the hunted, and moreover Mr. Gardner always played the last hole well. And he played it perfectly again this time in four. Mr. Tolley was just trapped in a rush with a very long drive and could not beat a five. All square and all to play for. It was a dreadful moment, but Mr. Tolley by his courageous play at the last two holes had clearly got himself in hand once more, and we felt that his bolt was not shot. He holed a great putt for two, as all the world knows, and never was a ball more boldly hit against the back of the tin, but he deserves every bit as much credit for his tee shot. Plump had gone Mr. Gardner's ball on to the green first. It was a bad shot to have to follow and Mr. Tolley improved on it. One great recovering spurt followed by another: what better finish can one ever hope to see?

It always seems to me that the most memorable Open Championships I have watched have been those which Taylor has won. Yet Taylor when he wins nearly always wins easily. He takes on one of his irresistible moods and leaves his field like a streak of lightning. There is no desperately close struggle, but there is drama and to spare nevertheless. Taylor often begins with a little misfortune and emerges like a man transfigured. It was thus in the Championship at Deal in 1909. Everything seemed to be going wrong by inches for him in the first nine holes and he was making heavy weather of it. Looking on I felt a sort of giggling, schoolboy desire that some tactless spectator should speak to Taylor, in order that I might see him stricken to the earth. With the turn of the round came the turn of the tide. Taylor holed a putt for three at the tenth and there was no holding him. He came home like a roaring lion, and for the next three rounds he played with his most unvarying and brilliant accuracy. It was clear that there could not possibly be another champion. There was nobody else to watch.

It was much the same in Hoylake in 1913, though in that case the misfortune, very nearly a fatal one, came in the qualifying round and not in the actual Championship. Taylor was left with a five at the last hole to qualify. He hit a good tee shot and then did the one thing that could put him in jeopardy: he was weak with his second and was caught in the big cross-bunker in front of the green. All the afternoon he had been fighting hard: the strain seemed over, and now in a moment it was worse than it had ever been before. Number three sent the ball out of the bunker and over the green. Number four was well enough played but left the ball anything but dead. Exactly how long number five was I am not now prepared to swear, but it was many more feet long than any of us like at a crisis. However, in the ball went, and as it dropped some one said: 'I believe Taylor will go right ahead now and win the whole thing.' And so he did. The wind blew and the rain beat against the players. With his cap down and his coat collar up, Taylor hit the ball through it all like an arrow from the bow and beat Ray, who was second, by eight strokes.

The man who, having once been down is now up, is always to be feared, and this is more true of Taylor than of any other golfer. Only once can I recall his throwing away his advantage in such a position. That was at the Open Championship at Prestwick in 1914. The situation was a poignant one. Both he and Vardon had won five Championships. On the first day Vardon was leading; Taylor was close behind him and they were drawn to play together on the second day. There was a large and unruly mob of spectators, and nearly all of them wanted to watch this one couple. By lunch-time Taylor had almost reduced Vardon's lead to vanishing point. After lunch he went off like a shot out of a gun, and when three holes had been played he himself held a lead of two strokes. According to all precedent he would go further and further ahead completely irresistible. But the tee shot to the fourth hole at Prestwick is a narrow one, if the nearest line to the hole is taken. On the right is the Pow burn: on the left at just the distance of a good tee shot is a bunker. Some people prefer to pull far away to the left and make the longest way round the shortest way home. Taylor went by the straight road, pushed out his shot and was trapped in sand near the burn. Vardon played away to the left, put his second on the green and got his four. Taylor did not make a good recovery, got into more trouble and took seven. Three shots gone at one hole ! No wonder his next tee shot over the Himalayas had not a great deal to spare. Soon he was cold as ice again and fought resolutely, but he could never quite get into his stride nor catch Vardon. For once at the decisive moment he had taken the wrong turning.