He survived it. He survived the drive at the 14th this time and, when Thomson had had putts for a birdie slip agonizingly past at each of the three holes, the stage was set for his triumphant finish. What a stage it is—and what a finish he produced.
The first and 18th holes make one big green rectangle, from which all spectators are barred. At one end the Royal and Ancient clubhouse presides over the first tee and the 18th green. To the right the golden sands stretch away to the coast and Carnoustie. On the far side of the 18th a line of tall gray buildings—hotels, clubs and old Tom Morris' original shop among them—make the perfect grandstand. Every window is crammed, and there are even people clinging to the chimney pots.
Into this arena there strolled the familiar portly figure in the white cap and dark plus fours—looking, as someone observed, rather like an archbishop's butler. His drive is up the middle, and now he has an eight-iron, and 5 to win. With his curious closed stance he seems to be aiming into the hotel dining room, but he knows what he is about. The ball soars high against the blue sky, and with a single short bounce plops down within a yard of the flag.
He is no longer the archbishop's butler. He is the archbishop himself.