Robert Tyre Jones Jr. of Atlanta, Ga., twenty-one years old on March 17 last, is tonight America’s national open golf champion. Tied yesterday by Robert A. Cruickshank, former Scottish amateur star, who came to America and turned pro three years ago, with a score of 296 at the conclusion of the regulation 72-hole test at the Inwood Country Club, Jones was the winner in the play-off today by two strokes. It was not until the last hole was played that the question of who is to wear this year’s crown was decided in favor of the youthful amateur.

When the Southern youngster, competing in his fourth national open tournament, tapped his putt into the cup for a par 4 on the last hole, it made his total for today’s eighteen holes 76, but the issue was decided two strokes previous to that. It was decided when Jones played his second shot coming to the home hole-a truly miraculous shot out of the rough that sped almost 200 yards and ended less than two yards away from the flapping flag on the eighteenth green. It was a shot that, in addition to proving Jones one of the most courageous fighters in the world, will take its place among the epochal strokes that are a part of golf’s lengthy history.

Made in the stress of battle, it sealed the fate of the little Scottish gamecock, just as it opened up the portals of fame to the man who brought it off. It was a superb shot made by a superb golfer in a superb manner. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jones drew his No. 1 iron out of the bag, took a momentary look at the lie, glanced at the flag and swung. The ball flew off the face of his club, rose in the air and carried squarely on the green, 190 yards away. A tremendous shout went up as the ball struck on the green, bit its way into the turf, and brought up its journey about two club lengths away from the hole for a possible birdie three. Jones twice tapped his ball. When it dropped into the cup on the second tap it signalized his first great victory.

Then one of the greatest scenes of all was enacted. The crowd rushed out on the green. Two of Bobby’s fellow townsmen from Atlanta hoisted him on their shoulders and he was borne triumphantly toward the clubhouse. A kiltie, blowing away on the bagpipes, furnished musical accompaniment. His youthful face wreathed in smiles, Jones was kept busy several minutes accepting the congratulations and plaudits of the golf-mad spectators who had witnessed one of the greatest of all playoffs.