Spirit of the links

166 THE SPIRIT OF THE LINKS
is a chilly descent when the spell is broken, and it is
all earth and clay again, but in the reaction there is
no suffering. A happy reason comes to the rescue
of the throbbing player, and he is reminded that such
things are not to be for always, lest golf should not
be what it is.
When the sun shines the putting greens get keen.
There is an old saying that driving is an art, iron
play a science, and putting is the devil. Just that—
the devil. I agree entirely, and I have ascertained
that the greatest exponents of the game are in sym-
pathy with the suggestion.
Well may the writers of text-books of the game
declare, when they come to the chapter on putting,
that there is really nothing to say, and that they
must leave the reader to find out the whole business by
instinct and practice, as there are no rules to be laid
down for his guidance. What would be the use of their
pretending that they can really teach putting when,
if they had to hole an eight-feet putt for a champion-
ship, the odds would be slightly against them? In
June 1905, while I was smoking my pipe on the top
of the bank on the far side of the home green at St.
Andrews, I was being provided at intervals of no
great length with much food for reflection and
philosophy, better than which no man who ever
talks or writes of golf could wish for. The Open
Championship was being played for, and there duly
carne along Vardon, Braid, Taylor, and Herd, all
more or less favourites for the event in progress, and
it is a real fact that of these four men three of