THE CON WAS ON IN A NEW NOVEL, LEGENDS WALTER HAGEN AND TITANIC THOMPSON SQUARE OFF IN A MATCH IN WHICH EVERYTHING IS A LITTLE SHADY

In ``Follow the Wind'' the narrator goes into the woods after a
bad shot at Lincoln Park in San Francisco and emerges in the men's
room of a club he has never seen before. He wanders around the
clubhouse, only to find it peopled with legends of the game, the
most famous and greatest players in the history of golf -- Bobby
Jones, Walter Hagen, Old and Young Tom Morris, Babe Zaharias, Tony
Lema. The only living player there is Ben Hogan, who isn't
actually a member. Now, after a fitful night's sleep, the narrator
has come down to breakfast, still trying to unravel the mystery of
his whereabouts.

I hadn't bothered to notice who else was in the dining room
when I entered. As I now looked around, I saw a smattering of
new faces.

I did not see the Babe or Old Tom. Hagen stood like a sentinel
behind the bar, where I had met him the day before. He had
realized immediately that I was an outsider and had offered to
take me under his wing, an offer I eagerly accepted.

Then I saw Jones sitting nearby, having an animated conversation
with a mustachioed gentleman in a kilt. They were arguing about
the condition of the greens.

``Doc, they're too blasted fast!'' complained Jones. ``Why, those
things run like jackrabbits. You have to use more water or more
fertilizer or something. You've got to slow 'em down, or else it's
going to be frightful out there.''

``I canna' do that. These are all me courses, 'n' 'tis me who's
gonna be dic tatin' the playin' conditions. Ye got tha'?'' the
man in the kilt said stubbornly.

When Jones realized he wouldn't get his way, he headed straight
to Haig for consolation. The two of them talked for a moment,
until Haig roared and bellowed, caught his breath, then laughed.
He slapped Jones on the back and sent him off. Then he looked
over at me.

``What was that all about?'' I asked.

``That? Oh, that's just the Macker laying down the law.''

``Mac?''

``You couldn't pick him out? Junior, you must've played something
by him. Criminy, the man's designed or remodeled a couple of
hundred tracks at least. Ever drop your peg at Cypress Point? That
was a new one in my time, but it has sure grown into something,
hasn't it?''

``Wait a minute,'' I replied. ``You mean to tell me that the
greenskeeper here is Alister MacKenzie?''

``You got it, junior.'' Haig laughed. ``This is really something,
ain't it?''

``If he's heading up Greens and Grounds, which course do you to
play? One of his?''

``Nah. We play just about anywhere, 'cause everything's
reciprocal. If I want to knock on Jones for some cash, he comes
with me down to Florida -- you know, Sarasota and St. Pete. The
game's on at Whitefield Estates and Pasadena country club, the
same joints where we duked it out in '26. I own him down there,
junior.'' The Haig was glowing like a lightbulb. ``And he wants to
hit on me, he takes me to his place across the water.''

``St. Andrews?''

``Right on the noggin', kid. And Old Tom Morris's got Prestwick.
We've got a regular rotation working here. But you've gotta be
invited.''

``By whoever has privileges?'' I asked.

Haig winked and pointed his finger at me. There was a gleam in his
eye as he explained how things worked around here. ``I still
don't get it, Haig. How can a man be frozen into a moment?''

``It's not just a second or a moment. It's a time of life, a
period, maybe a run of two, three, four days. Maybe it's a week, a
year, a decade. You ask a man what was best for him, he's apt to
say just about anything. Me, I got those couple of weeks down in
suntan land. Getting ready for some Jones hunting, then going out
for the kill.''

``But if you're surrounded by more than just a moment, you have
some ups and downs, don't you? Don't the bad spells overcome the
good ones sometimes?''

``I suppose so, but you gotta understand this is different. Here,
you know it's somehow gonna work itself out. It just gives you
confidence, patience, a gentle sort of feeling. In this place,
even if I hit it crooked, I know I have some weapons left. A hot
little putter can give a man a lifetime of patience, you know what
I'm saying? I have no worries about what's gonna happen. I know
I've got what I need to do the job.''

``But wouldn't you like a little bit of uncertainty? A little bit
of excitement?''

``If it's excitement you want,'' Haig said, ``just match me up
at my best against Jones at his best. Or match me up against the
Babe at her best. Sometimes we just play on through the night,
one great shot topping another, birdie matching birdie, eagle
for eagle. You know how it goes. Anything you can do, I can do
better. Oh, someone wins in the end.'' He looked around. ``What
I mean is, we beat each other's brains out, but who can complain
when everyone plays his best?''

``What about equipment?'' I pressed him. ``I mean, doesn't the
modern stuff give an edge to somebody like Tony Lema? He gets to
play with steel clubs, and you and Jones are using hickory.''

``The first time Lema asked me to tour the Old Course with him, we
used his steel shafts. His course, his time. Rules are rules,
even for guys like me. Then I said, `Tony boy, how's about you
coming down to my place for a rematch?' He said, `I'm on,' and out
he came with those steel shafts. Had to put 'em away and play with
hickory, and his pants got heavy on him. Spent the rest of the day
worrying if the blasted shaft was gonna break in half. I left him
talking to his fool self with his pockets picked clean as a
whistle.''

So that's how they do it. They can exchange course privileges --
after all, Haig did say that everything was reciprocal -- but
they have to use the clubs and balls of the host's era. And then
they get to see what everybody can do in their time.

Hagen put his arm around my shoulder and said in a whisper, ``I've
got something working in a little while. Cool your heels for 45
minutes, then meet me out back.''

The Haig was waiting as promised. He was sitting at a portable
garden table, next to a long black Austro-Daimler limousine,
eating breakfast like an aristocrat. A liveried chauffeur, who
must double as his valet, attended to his every need.

``What is all this?'' I asked, admiring the linen tablecloth and
the sterling silver radiating in the sunlight. ``I thought you
were taking me to watch you play.''

``Don't go getting impatient, junior. I'm just showing you how
it's done. He turned to the chauffeur. ``This really brings back
the memories, doesn't it, Spec?''

``Yes, sir, Mr. Hagen. Sure does.''

``Junior, this is Spec Hammond, the same guy who was with me at
Deal for the British Open in '20. The sumbitches wouldn't let us
in the clubhouse, so we showed 'em something didn't we, Spec?''

``You bet, Mr. Hagen.'' Spec poured coffee without a change of
expression.

``You have to understand what a statement old Spectator and I
made. Me finishing a round in the British Open and having my man
Spec here pull this thing up behind the 18th green. Served me
lunch right behind the 18th green. Just like this -- fine linen,
fine wines, crystal and all. It was sweet, junior.''

Haig was wearing beige knickers, argyle hose made of cashmere and
a light- colored sport coat. His white shirt was freshly ironed,
and a red cravat was the centerpiece of the outfit. Hagen looked
like a man who had won 11 majors. ``I've got me a slippery eel to
hook today,'' he said.

``Who's the victim?''

``It's actually a fellow I've never played with before. Just
heard a lot about him, so I wanted to see him in the flesh.''

``Who is it?''

``Ever hear of Titanic Thompson?''

``No.'' But the name alone promised to be worth hearing about.

``You ever made golf bets, junior? I take that back. Ever made
any bets?''

``I've played for a five spot, if that's what you mean.''

``That isn't what I'm talking about, unless that five spot had
some zeros on it.''

``Then I guess I never did,'' I replied.

``Don't worry about it, junior,'' said Haig, ``because there
aren't too many who have. At least not like this guy bets. Anyway,
Titanic and yours truly are lined up for a little something
today.''

``Where are you going to play?''

Haig set his coffee cup down gently. ``You've been to the Beach,
haven't you?''

``Pebble Beach? Once, in high school. Pretty special. But why
there?''

``It wasn't my idea. It's Titanic's joint. I hear he asked to be
sent there. The only thing I know about him is that he was there
in the late '30s as a young fellow. Worked some of the swiftest
slides I've ever heard of.''

``Slides?'' I asked.

``Slides his hand into another guy's pocket and removes some
money,'' he explained. ``Made a good living.''

Haig started telling me stories about Thompson. His favorite was
about Titanic's driving along a Texas highway outside Dallas.
Titanic passed a road sign saying it was 17 miles to town. He
stopped, got out, walked back to the sign, dug it up and put it in
the trunk of his car. Then he turned around and drove away from
the city to a point that was nearly 22 miles out. He pulled out
his shovel and reset the sign. Several weeks later when he was
driving the road with an unsuspecting passenger, he struck up a
conversation about distances. Then they came to the sign. ``You
know,'' he said to his companion, ``I'll bet you it's over 20
miles into downtown Dallas. Those state highway boys don't know
nothin'.'' When the other fellow disputed him, relying on the
sign, Titanic was ready to sink him. ``I'll bet you a hundred
dollars,'' he dared. Haig said he drove that road for years,
playing the same ruse on the uninitiated. According to Haig,
Titanic Thompson called that sign his own private annuity.

``Another time he bet a man he could hit a ball a quarter mile,''
Haig said. ``The money got laid down, and he trucks the sucker to
the rim of the Grand Canyon. Bats it out into the wild blue
yonder. It went a quarter mile and then some.

``Junior,'' he said to me, ``no matter what the guy says, if it
sounds too good to be true, it is. So keep your hands in your
pockets. Don't bet him he can't do something he says he can.''

``So how are you gonna beat him?'' I asked, wondering if Haig
would follow his own advice and refrain from betting.

``Oh, we ain't gonna play for anything major, maybe just a few
hundred or so. I'm doing this for you, remember.''

Spec looked at his watch and coughed to attract Haig's attention.
``Is it time, Spec?'' Haig asked. ``O.K., take her out slow and
quiet. I don't want them to know we're coming just yet. Pull her
to a stop just after this rise up ahead.''

We started to move, and I had no idea where we were, but before
we'd gone very far, the mysterious fog that surrounded the Club
engulfed the car. When we cleared the fog, the sky had changed.
Although it had been clear and blue only moments ago, back down
the road at the Club, it was now gray and slightly hazy. I rolled
down the window, and when I heard waves crashing, I knew we were
somewhere near Carmel-by-the-Sea, a stone's throw from Del Monte
Lodge and the Pebble Beach Golf Links.

Spec coasted the limousine to a quiet stop. The partition slid
open. Haig leaned toward it. ``You have the other suit, Spec, old
boy?''

The chauffeur handed Haig some rumpled clothes. They were almost
the same color as the ones he had on, but there was a vast
difference: While they, too, were decidedly handsome, they were
also decidedly unpressed. Haig started to undress; he was changing
his clothes in the backseat of the car.

``I thought you always did it with style,'' I said. ``You're
dressing down for this gig?''

``Why do I want to look fresh for this guy? I've got an image to
keep up. I want him thinkin' old Haig here just got out of the
love loft with some dame. I want him thinkin' I can't hit my hat.
Say, Spec,'' he said, turning his attention away from me. ``Shoot
me some of that Scotch back here, will you?

``Got to smell the part, junior.''

He was quickly becoming the Haig they tell stories about, the man
enshrined in legend. In an instant he had transformed himself from
a member of the landed gentry to a morning-after caricature of a
good-time Charley.

The chauffeur was also changing his clothes. The breeches and
boots came off and were replaced by baggy pants and an old woolen
sweater. The pants were rumpled, and the sweater had more holes in
it than a practice putting green.

Spec restarted the engine. It purred in a low hum, and the car
started to move slowly. Ever so slowly.

``Pull up behind the putting green. Make it look as if you're lost
and have been looking for the place for a while.''

Spec Hammond followed Hagen's directives like an actor playing a
role. The limousine came to a stop behind the putting green. Haig
spied the 1st tee, which was only 30 yards away.

``There's Titanic, all right.'' Haig was checking him out,
measuring him. ``He's waiting for us, junior.''

When he saw us walking his way, Thompson greeted Haig. ``Glad to
have you, Walter, my boy.'' His voice was loud and deep, and it
carried like a long tee ball. ``Some of these folks here asked if
they could watch us play,'' he boomed. ``You don't mind a small
gallery, do you?''

Five hundred people were ringing the 1st tee. If their clothing
was an indication, the vast majority of them were staying at the
lodge. The men wore tweed jackets and ties. There were a fair
number of women in the gallery, many of them with their hands on
their hats as the breeze picked up. The ladies had their eyes
fastened on Haig.

Haig walked briskly to the tee and shook hands with Thompson, who
towered over him by a good four inches. With their hands joined,
Haig looked up into his opponent's soft blue eyes, trying to size
him up. But Titanic Thompson was not a man to assess with a
yardstick.

As caught up in the confrontation as I was, there was still a
question that I needed to have answered: What year was it? What
would Haig's equipment be? Hickory or steel?

I began casting about for clues, and the answer came sooner than I
had expected. Behind us, hanging from the entrance to the Del
Monte Lodge, was a banner announcing Pebble Beach as ``the first
West Coast venue for the United States Amateur Championship, to be
contested here next summer, September 2 through 7, 1929.''

Well, I'll say one thing for Thompson: He was taking on Walter
Hagen in his prime, at the peak of Hagen's powers, fresh off his
fourth triumph in the British Open.

``So, Titanic,'' Haig said as he turned to the crowd, playing
them as if they were clubs in his bag, ``how many strokes shall I
give you? One a side is all you're getting, so don't go begging on
me, O.K.?''

The crowd roared. ``He's a bumpkin, Haig,'' shouted someone. ``You
can take him, Walter,'' yelled another. ``Let's go,'' said someone
else.

``I've never begged for anything in my life,'' boasted Titanic to
the crowd. ``I'll play you flat, old man.''

No strokes? I mean, the guy might be good, but this was Haig in
his prime. Titanic couldn't be that good.

``Be my guest,'' said Titanic, turning to Haig and motioning to
the tee. ``Let 'er fly, champ.''

Hagen got right to it. He strode confidently to the hitting area
and put his peg into the ground. He waggled and got set. He was
hunched over a bit and deadly serious; the look on his face told
anyone curious enough to notice that he was going to tear into the
ball.

Then he backed away. Was he too nervous to hit?

He walked over to one of the women in the gallery, a real looker.
``My darling,'' he said, admiring her flowing auburn hair, ``you
look like a woman of inestimable taste. Where can I buy some fine
champagne around here?''

She blushed and turned to the man whose arm she had been holding a
moment before. He was not amused. She looked at Hagen, at his
jet-black hair, his weathered but handsome face, and was smitten.
``Why,'' she said softly, ``Mr. Hagen, I believe you can purchase
something right over there. I'm certain they can satisfy . . . ah
. . . your every need.''

``Thank you for that advice, my dear. I won't forget it.'' Haig
winked. The man now had to hold her up, her body having fallen
limp. She had fainted dead away.

Back at the tee Haig wasted no time. A fast lurching swing got his
shot airborne. It hooked far to the left, barely staying
inbounds.

Thompson's swing, in contrast to Haig's, was as smooth as glass.
He pumped one out there 235 yards from the tee. He was in perfect
position to come into the green.

Both men moved quickly down the fairway. Haig got down to business
before Titanic did. He was playing as if he were rushing to get to
the bank before closing time, but his hurry-up tempo did not
inhibit his ability. He took a mid-iron and punched it low,
hooking it around the trees that stood between him and the green.
His ball, a Wilson Sure-Flite, bounced over a bunker, coming to
rest three feet from the hole.

Titanic played an iron that finished well short of the hole. He
was 23 feet away, so he putted first. When his ball lipped out, I
figured this was going to be a long day. I mean, he almost made
birdie right out of the box against one of the greatest players
ever. Hagen knocked in his short putt for birdie. One up.

As we walked to the 2nd tee, I tapped Titanic's caddie on the
shoulder. ``How much has Thompson bet today?'' I was dying to know
what they were playing for.

``Enough,'' he said. ``Enough. Let me put it to you this way, kid.
He's already up over $1,000.''

``No way!'' I corrected him fast. ``He lost the 1st hole, or can't
you count?''

``You really don't get it, do you?'' He walked off without saying
anything more.

Hagen ripped two immensely long shots on the 2nd hole, a par-5,
and got home in two. Thompson was in the fringe with his second,
but a poor chip took him out of birdie range. Hagen two-putted.
Two up.

``Junior,'' Haig said to me on the way to the 3rd tee, ``I
probably should have more dough riding against this sumbitch, but
I'm content to just let you watch this. But don't get too
google-eyed now, 'cause I can't keep this up for 18 holes. Just
relax and enjoy the show.''

For the next four holes I watched Hagen mug to the crowd. His
technique was fascinating. He played quickly; the most interesting
part was the way he hit the difficult shots so fast. He scarcely
took time to line up. But give him a knockdown shot, something
simple, and he would take all day studying, posturing, gesturing,
posing, thinking, changing clubs, doing anything he could to
prolong the moment of uncertainty, the suspense, before he hit.
The easier the shot, the longer he took. But the results were
always the same. He knocked 'em stiff, one after another. And on
the putting green he was as delicate and precise as a brain
surgeon. He moved carefully. He saw it all. And he rarely missed.

Haig was four under after six holes, and Titanic, two under and 2
down, was hard on his heels. What a start!

The 7th hole at Pebble Beach is one of the most beautiful par-3s
in the world. At only 107 yards, it requires a delicate shot that
must land on a tiny, kidney-shaped green. To the right and back is
the Pacific Ocean. Bunkers are everywhere.

Haig, who had the honor, played a seven-iron, keeping his ball
underneath what little breeze there was. He punched it in there to
about 10 feet. It was a solid shot, an eminently commercial play.
Titanic had his work cut out for him.

Thompson eyed Haig's ball and looked over at Haig himself. ``Let's
double it right here,'' he bellowed. Haig nodded at him.

I tugged at Haig's sleeve to get his attention. ``What are you
guys up to now? How much is on the line?''

``Five hundred,'' he said matter-of-factly. Until this moment I
had never seen anyone play for more than $20.

Titanic, on the other hand, was all business. He pulled up a tuft
of grass, tossing it into the air to check the wind, which had
picked up. It was getting stiff, and it was blowing right into his
face. He squinted at the green and at the ocean beyond it. He
reached for his clubs and slowly pulled a driver out of his bag.
Wait a minute. It was windy, I knew, but a driver?

Haig and I watched in disbelief as Thompson laced one but good. He
grunted at impact, sending his poor Spalding Dot out over the
green, over Haig's ball, over everything. It landed at least 75
yards out in the water, drowning in the sea beyond the green. It
was a goner if ever there was one.

``What was he doing with that shot?'' I asked Haig.

``My boy, he was going 3 down.''

Titanic didn't show any emotion whatsoever. He turned to Haig and
said, ``That's good,'' referring to the 10-footer that awaited
Haig on the green. Hagen took 2 at the 7th, Thompson an X.

Hagen was five under after seven, and he was starting to pound
his opponent into the ground like a stake. It was time, I decided,
to make another attempt at diplomacy with Titanic's caddie.

``You guys are 3 down,'' I whispered to him. ``What's Titanic
going to do now?''

``Don't you know anything, kid? Titanic's got only pocket money
bet with Hagen. His real dough is sprinkled all over the gallery.
That's where the action is.''

``Yeah, but he's 3 down and sinking fast, fella.'' I was still
whispering so as not to disturb the players. ``Even Titanic
Thompson isn't going to get rich betting on that.''

``Listen, genius, he didn't bet on that. He told everyone here
before Hagen even showed up that he'd be late. Won $200 and change
right there. Some of these idiots actually thought Hagen would
get himself to the church on time.'' He chuckled.

``Then Ti said Haig would offer him strokes. That's $500, clean as
a whistle. Then'' -- the caddie was almost hysterical now --
``then he tells 'em all he'll play Hagen straight up. I mean, they
went nuts. Must've thought old Titanic Thompson rotted his
freakin' brains out drinking bathtub gin. They figured he'd be
tying his own noose if he played Hagen on the level. So they bet
he'd never play Hagen even up. Picked up about $300 lickety-split
by stiffing your guy on the strokes.''

My jaw was down.

``What these folks can't get straight,'' he continued, ``is that
old Ti ain't really playing Hagen at all. He's playing them.''

And now he had to play the 8th, the hardest hole on the course. It
is a massive par-4 that forces players to fire their second shots
over a deep chasm across Stillwater Cove. It was here that
Thompson started to come back. He caught the fairway with his
drive, then rifled a brassie onto the green and made the putt. He
won against Haig's bogey, 3 versus 5. ``He wasted that birdie,''
Haig told me as we departed the green.

At the 9th, a 450-yard par-4 that parallels the Pacific and is a
slicer's nightmare from start to finish, Thompson won with a par
as Haig played the entire hole from the right rough. After nine,
Haig was only one hole ahead.

The back nine starts along the ocean, and then, after one hole, it
goes back into Del Monte Forest. Hagen won the 10th with a 4. Away
from the pounding surf, the golf grew quieter, and Hagen slowly
numbed Thompson with a series of scrambling pars. Titanic never
got any closer to him than 2 down.

At the 17th tee Haig stood dormie. He had the honor, having kept
it since the 10th. But he was uneasy, for he knew that even
though Titanic was 2 down with two to play, he was a dangerous
adversary, especially if he could force the action to the final
tee, for on Pebble's legendary oceanside par-5 closer, anything
could happen.

The 17th, like the 7th, is a par-3. The green is in the shape of
an hourglass, surrounded by an assortment of odd-shaped bunkers
and bordered on the left and rear by the ocean. The main
difference between the two holes is that number 7 is the length
of a football field, while 17 is more than twice as long.

Haig slammed a brassie toward the green. His ball was hit well,
but the wind shifted as he hit, giving Haig's shot an extra push
and sending it into one of the back bunkers.

Advantage Titanic. Thompson pulled out his driver, just as he had
done on 7. This time, however, there was no murmur from the
gallery. In this fickle wind the club selection was eminently
reasonable.

But all that changed when he uncorked the shot. It soared like
Lindbergh for Paris, but in the opposite direction. Headed due
west, this was one shot that looked as if it would carry Hawaii.
This baby wasn't coming down until it hit Japan.

Haig looked over at me and shrugged. We both fixed our eyes on
Titanic. With his shot drowning in a watery grave, Titanic had to
concede the match. He paid Haig the same way a banker hands out
greenbacks to a patron making a withdrawal. It was only business.

The crowd applauded both players, and everyone walked the 18th
fairway back to the Lodge. ``Have you figured it out?'' I asked
Haig in a whisper as we walked.

``I'm thinking, I'm thinking,'' Haig said. ``He's pretty good,
I'll tell you that. But he probably picked this place 'cause they
don't know him around these parts. One thing a hustler can't
handle is a reputation. Me, junior, it's my life's blood. To a guy
like Titanic, though, it's death.''

I was looking over the crowd, noticing the clothing, the long
dresses, the hats on the men and women, when Haig snapped his
fingers. ``Gotta be,'' he said, turning around to find Titanic.

Thompson was smiling as he worked his way through a knot of
spectators. They were all handing him money, some more gracefully
than others, and to each of the losers Titanic simply said,
``That's the way it goes, boys.''

``I understood the shot on 17,'' said Haig, finally cornering
Thompson in the lodge. ``Hell, Titanic, I can see you hitting a
driver under those circumstances. But that one on 7? What were you
doing out there?''

``I bet a guy.''

``That doesn't help me, Titanic. What was the bet, for crying out
loud?''

``Some loudmouth. World traveler, he was. Said he'd seen
you at St. George's, at Deal and at Muirfield. You know, the
British Open. Said you were long, as in l-o-n-g. The old starched
collar tells me to go get Jim Barnes, Arthur Havers and Mac Smith.
Says I could stretch their drives back-to-back- to-back, and even
then I'd never be close to Sir Walter. I mean, he's telling me
this like he's a professor or something. Now, you can guess where
this is going, boys. The son of a gun says I'll never outhit you
in a million years. Shoot, Walter, I couldn't resist. Had to make
the bet. Darned if I didn't bet the bastard I could do it twice in
one day. I bagged one at 7 and could have tied the ribbon on it at
12, you know, when you knocked it on there with a mid-mashie.'' He
lifted his champagne flute and took a long sip. ``Hell, fellas, I
just waited until 17 for some drama.''

``You mean you weren't even trying to win?'' I asked,
interrupting him. ``You were 2 down at 17. You could have pulled
it out, especially with Haig in the sand.''

``Son, I had 500 bucks bet with your buddy Walter here. I had
$5,000 bet with Mr. Great Britain over there. And look around this
room, kid,'' he said, craning his neck. ``I bet these folks that
your friend's first shot would be a hook.'' His eyes were darting
everywhere, searching for new pigeons like a newly licensed hunter
out to bag the limit the first day of the season. ``I bet he'd
smell of Scotch when he showed up. Bet he'd talk to a dame before
he hit a shot. Oh, he had me a little worried when he addressed
that thing, but when he backed off . . . kid, when he backed off,
I knew it was my day. I mean, I even bet Mr. British Open over
there that Haig would birdie number 7. I gave your pal the damn
putt, for Pete's sake. But trust me, kid, it was for a good cause.
I got over $10,000 in here.'' He gently patted the right front
pocket of his plus fours.

Haig looked at Titanic, then he leaned over and whispered in my
ear, ``Isn't this guy beautiful, junior?''

Hagen steered me out of the lodge and back toward the limousine.
Spec was there, ready to roll. We wound through Del Monte Forest,
back into the fog. When we emerged, the sunlight was blinding.
Spec pulled up to the back door of the clubhouse as if no time
had passed.

Hagen was out of the car as soon as it stopped. I rushed after
him, chasing him back inside. By the time I reached the bar, he
was already back to work, the unaffected expression on his face a
clever cover for our covert mission.

``That little jaunt, junior,'' he cautioned me, ``was on the
quiet. So mum's the word. I don't know what Jones would think of
me and Titanic putting on that show out back.''

Haig drifted again to the stories about Jones and their match in
Florida. When he talked, there was not a hint of worry in his
voice; there were no second thoughts, no compunctions about our
visit with Titanic Thompson. Haig was free and easy, floating on
air.

COLOR ILLUSTRATION:ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOREN LONGIt was a good bet that before he teed off, the Haig would have women swooning. [Walter Hagen teeing off in front of crowd that includeswoman who has fainted]

COLOR ILLUSTRATION:ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOREN LONG ``I want him thinkin' I can't hit my hat,'' said the Haig, donning a rumpled suit.[Walter Hagen standing in front of car]

COLOR ILLUSTRATION:ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOREN LONGTitanic had won a sucker bet when he drove into the Grand Canyon. [Titanic Thompson driving the ball into canyon]

COLOR ILLUSTRATION:ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOREN LONGHagen told Junior he liked to play Jones (left) in '26.[Walter Hagen, Bobby Jones, and Junior]COLOR ILLUSTRATION:ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOREN LONG At 7 Thompson doubled the bet, then took out his driver.[Titanic Thompson taking his driver out of his golf bag which is held by his caddy]COLOR ILLUSTRATION:ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOREN LONGFor Thompson, the Pebble Beach gallery was easy pickings. [Titanic Thompson holding handful of money]