Mike - BTW, we've been neglecting the most plausible explanation for the disappearance of those bunkers. Tillinghast, possibly on furlough from his whirlwind "Duffer's Headache" tour, probably stopped into the visit his old boyhood home. While there he probably took in an afternoon at Merion.
Arriving at the clubhouse, he was likely surprised to find it empty, with only a bare bones operation. Nevertheless, he ventured forth onto the great old course. He was zipping around nicely, when a duffed approach to the 4th skipped along, hopping over the creek and coming to rest in the left bunker fronting the green. His blood beginning to boil, he nevertheless managed to get up and down for par.
On to the 5th, still hot under the collar from his approach to the 4th, he snaphooked his drive. He couldn't bear to watch. As he walked after it, he realized that the ball hadn't run into the creek, but, rather, was sitting in one of the bunkers abutting the hazard. This was too much for Tillie too bear, after all his nom de plume was Hazard, not Double Hazard.
Retreating in a full sprint toward the maintenance building, Tillie arrived there to find that it, too, was devoid of human life. Moving quickly, relying on instincts acquired from his cross-country expedition, he managed to find a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He sped the wheel barrow back out across Ardmore Ave, cruising right past the bunkers on 4 and 5, until he arrived at the sandy waste in front of the 4th tee. Like a man possessed, he hastily filled the wheel barrow full of sand. Once full he retraced his steps to the two noxious bunkers found along the bank of the creek on #5 and quickly filled them up with sand.
But his work was not yet complete. Now a bit tired, but still determined, he pushed the cart back toward the sand source on 4. Again, he left the sandy area with his cart full anew. This time he proceeded directly up the hill on 4, and descended down the fairway toward the green. The steep hill, and Tillie's exhaustion got the better of him, and he lost control of the wheelbarrow. Released from his control, it began hurdling down the hill, toward the creek in front of 4 green. All Tillie could do was sit and watch. The wheelbarrow nosedived into the creek, sending its load airborne. The sandy load flew across the creek returning to earth in the left bunker in front of 4.
Utterly spent, but nonetheless satisfied with his accomplishments, Tillie collected the wheelbarrow and returned it to the maintenance shed (where no one was waiting for it). He managed to clean himself off, and repaired to the bar in the rambling old clubhouse (untended of course, cost cutting). He sated himself with a number of whiskeys until well after dark. Completely soused, he eventually stumbled out of the clubhouse returning home whereupon he passed out on the frontporch of a neighboring home.
Three weeks later, a letter arrived at 450 Ardmore Avenue. It was short and to the point.
"Consulting Fee.......50
Labor................... 25
Credit (whiskey).......5"
Please remit to Albert Warren Tillinghast"