Silk Shirt

Walter Hagen always smiles for the camera. When he talks to his caddy, when he sits down to lunch, when he strolls in the wake of his drives, his face relaxes into large curves of good nature. Thus he looked when he arrived, half an hour late, at the St. George's Hill Club, Weybridge, England, to play the second half of a match with Abe Mitchell for a prize of -L-500.* He was at that point four holes behind.

He won the second hole when Mitchell bunkered an iron shot. He won the fourth hole when Mitchell hooked a drive. He won the fifth and sixth holes with faultless golf, the tenth with a birdie. After that he was never behind again. Mitchell, quite obviously, was stewing in his own juice. Perspiration poured into his eyes; he had his caddy fetch a towel from the clubhouse, complained that he could not hold his clubs. To remedy the last evil he donned a chamois glove, but, yielding to the dim British feeling that a man who plays golf without a coat might as well play without trousers, he kept his tweed jacket on. Hagen's silk shirt invited breezes. He smiled. At the seventy-first tee he lay on the ground for a brief rest, then rose, sent a perfect drive down the fairway. Mitchell sliced his iron shot. Hagen, standing blandly by, watched him make a hopeless try for recovery, then holed his own putt and turned to oblige the camera men. He had won, at 2 up and 1 to go, the (unofficial) professional championship of the world.

* The largest official stake ever offered for a professional golf match.