Player had begun the day holding second place, five strokes behind Dave Hill, a fairly obscure golfer who had taken an early lead and remained hot. On the back nine now, Player bogeyed three holes, losing whatever chance he had of overtaking Hill, and I wondered if somehow we Pinkertons had overlooked a trick. Had we permitted a diamond ring in the gallery to reflect the sun into Player's eyes and shatter his concentration? Had we allowed a press photographer to work with a camera that clicked too loudly? Probably not. "The Pinkertons here," Gay Brewer declared, "have done the best job of policing a tournament that I've ever seen. We'd probably profit by hiring them every week." I made a mental note to relay Brewer's words to New York headquarters. The least that Trecost and his men deserved was five Attaboys and a Well done!