players has been
halved purposely--that is to say, that it was an arranged thing from
start to finish. Such things may have happened in other sports, but take
it from me that it never, never happens in golf. One man never plays
down to another, whatever disparity there may be in their respective
degrees of skill. It does not matter how many holes one is up on one's
opponent; there is never any slackening until the game has been won. It
makes no difference if the man you are playing against is your very best
friend or your brother, and one has sometimes to pass through the trying
ordeal of straining his every nerve to win a match when in his heart of
hearts, for some particular reason, he would like the other man to win.
I intrude these affairs of our own in these concluding reflections only
for the purpose of indicating that, though we love our game and always
enjoy it, professional golf is not quite the same thing as that played
by amateurs, and must not be judged from the same standpoint. I think it
is because of this continual sense of a great responsibility, and the
custom and necessity of always--absolutely always--trying to play our
very best game, that the leading professionals are constantly a stroke
or two better than the most skilful amateurs, even though the latter
practise the game quite as much, and have apparently just as much
opportunity, or even more, of making themselves perfect.

I have mentioned the spectators. I have generally found the crowds who
follow a big professional match round the links both highly intelligent
and exceedingly considerate. But sometimes we overhear some strange
things said. Taylor and I were once fulfilling an important engagement
together, and when my opponent had a particularly difficult shot to
play, two ladies came up quite close to him and persisted in talking in
a loud tone of voice. Taylor waited for a little while in the hope that
their chatter would cease, but it did not. Then, in a feeling of
desperation, he attempted to address his ball; but the task was
hopeless. The conversation went on more loudly than ever, and he was
doomed to certain failure if he attempted his stroke in these
circumstances. So he stood up again, and looked round in the direction
whence the voices came. "Oh," said one of the ladies then, "you can go
on now. We've quite finished." We must be thankful for small mercies.
James Braid and I were once playing down at Beckenham. At one of the
putting