“What a pity Norah isn’t here,” said Phyllis. “We could have had a four.”
“But she is a present wasting her sweetness on the desert air of Yeovil. You had better sit down and watch us, Phyllis. Tennis in this sort of weather is no job for the delicately-nurtured feminine. I will explain the finer points of my play as we go on. Look out particularly for the Tilden Back-Handed Slosh. A winner every time.”
We proceeded to the tennis court. I played with the sun in my eyes. I might, if I chose, emphasise that fact, and attribute my subsequent rout to it, adding, by way of solidifying the excuse, that I was playing in a strange court with a borrowed racquet, and that my mind was preoccupied—firstly, with /l’affaire/ Hawk, secondly, and chiefly, with the gloomy thought that Phyllis and my opponent seemed to be on friendly terms with each other. Their manner at tea had been almost that of an engaged couple. There was a thorough understanding between them. I will not, however, take refuge behind excuses. I admit, without qualifying the statement, that Mr. Chase was too good for me. I had always been under the impression that lieutenants in the Royal Navy were not brilliant at tennis. I had met them at various houses, but they had never shone conspicuously. They had played an earnest, unobtrusive game, and generally seemed glad when it was over. Mr. Chase was not of this sort. His service was bottled lightning. His returns behaved like jumping crackers. He won the first game in precisely six strokes. He served. Only once did I take the service with the full face of the racquet, and then I seemed to be stopping a bullet. I returned it into the net. The last of the series struck the wooden edge of my racquet, and soared over the back net into the shrubbery, after the manner of a snick to long slip off a fast bowler.
“Game,” said Mr. Chase, “we’ll look for that afterwards.”
I felt a worm and no man. Phyllis, I thought, would probably judge my entire character from this exhibition. A man, she would reflect, who could be so feeble and miserable a failure at tennis, could not be good for much in any department of life. She would compare me instinctively with my opponent, and contrast his dash and brilliance with my own inefficiency. Somehow the massacre was beginning to have a bad effect on my character. All my self-respect was ebbing. A little more of this, and I should become crushed,—a mere human jelly. It was my turn to serve. Service is my strong point at tennis. I am inaccurate, but vigorous, and occasionally send in a quite unplayable shot. One or two of these, even at the expense of a fault or so, and I might be permitted to retain at least a portion of my self-respect.
I opened with a couple of faults. The sight of Phyllis, sitting calm and cool in her chair under the cedar, unnerved me. I served another fault. And yet another.
“Here, I say, Garnet,” observed Mr. Chase plaintively, “do put me out of this hideous suspense. I’m becoming a mere bundle of quivering ganglions.”
I loathe facetiousness in moments of stress.
I frowned austerely, made no reply, and served another fault, my fifth.
Matters had reached a crisis. Even if I had to lob it underhand, I must send the ball over the net with the next stroke.
I restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigour which had marked my previous efforts. The ball flew in a slow semicircle, and pitched inside the correct court. At least, I told myself, I had not served a fault.
What happened then I cannot exactly say. I saw my opponent spring forward like a panther and whirl his racquet. The next moment the back net was shaking violently, and the ball was rolling swiftly along the ground on a return journey to the other court.
“Love-forty,” said Mr. Chase. “Phyllis!”
“Yes?”
“That was the Tilden Slosh.”
“I thought it must be,” said Phyllis.
In the third game I managed to score fifteen. By the merest chance I returned one of his red-hot serves, and—probably through surprise—he failed to send it back again.
In the fourth and fifth games I omitted to score. Phyllis had left the cedar now, and was picking flowers from the beds behind the court.
We began the sixth game. And now for some reason I played really well. I struck a little vein of brilliance. I was serving, and this time a proportion of my serves went over the net instead of trying to get through. The score went from fifteen all to forty-fifteen. Hope began to surge through my veins. If I could keep this up, I might win yet.
The Tilden Slosh diminished my lead by fifteen. Then I got in a really fine serve, which beat him. ‘Vantage In. Another Slosh. Deuce. Another Slam. ‘Vantage out. It was an awesome moment. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken by the flood—I served. Fault. I served again,—a beauty. He returned it like a flash into the corner of the court. With a supreme effort I got to it. We rallied. I was playing like a professor. Then whizz—!
The Slosh had beaten me on the post.
“Game /and/—,” said Mr. Chase, tossing his racquet into the air and catching it by the handle. “Good game that last one.”
I turned to see what Phyllis thought of it.
At the eleventh hour I had shown her of what stuff I was made.
She had disappeared.
“Looking for Miss Derrick?” said Chase, jumping the net, and joining me in my court, “she’s gone into the house.”
“When did she go?”
“At the end of the fifth game,” said Chase.
“Gone to dress for dinner, I suppose,” he continued. “It must be getting late. I think I ought to be going, too, if you don’t mind. The professor gets a little restive if I keep him waiting for his daily bread. Great Scott, that watch can’t be right! What do you make of it? Yes, so do I. I really think I must run. You won’t mind. Good-night, then. See you to-morrow, I hope.”
I walked slowly out across the fields. That same star, in which I had confided on a former occasion, was at its post. It looked placid and cheerful. /It/ never got beaten by six games to love under the very eyes of a lady-star. /It/ was never cut out ignominiously by infernally capable lieutenants in His Majesty’s Navy. No wonder it was cheerful.
Chapter 14.
A Council of War
“The fact is,” said Ukridge, “if things go on as they are now, my lad, we shall be in the cart. This business wants bucking up. We don’t seem to be making headway. Why it is, I don’t know, but we are /not/ making headway. Of course, what we want is time. If only these scoundrels of tradesmen would leave us alone for a spell we could get things going properly. But we’re hampered and rattled and worried all the time. Aren’t we, Millie?”
“Yes, dear.”
“You don’t let me see the financial side of the thing enough,” I complained. “Why don’t you keep me thoroughly posted? I didn’t know we were in such a bad way. The fowls look fit enough, and Edwin hasn’t had one for a week.”
“Edwin knows as well as possible when he’s done wrong, Mr. Garnet,” said Mrs. Ukridge. “He was so sorry after he had killed those other two.”
“Yes,” said Ukridge, “I saw to that.”
“As far as I can see,” I continued, “we’re going strong. Chicken for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is a shade monotonous, perhaps, but look at the business we’re doing. We sold a whole heap of eggs last week.”
“But not enough, Garny old man. We aren’t making our presence felt. England isn’t ringing with our name. We sell a dozen eggs where we ought to be selling them by the hundred, carting them off in trucks for the London market and congesting the traffic. Harrod’s and Whiteley’s and the rest of them are beginning to get on their hind legs and talk. That’s what they’re doing. Devilish unpleasant they’re making themselves. You see, laddie, there’s no denying it—we /did/ touch them for the deuce of a lot of things on account, and they agreed to take it out in eggs. All they’ve done so far is to take it out in apologetic letters from Millie. Now, I don’t suppose there’s a woman alive who can write a better apologetic letter than her nibs, but, if you’re broad-minded and can face facts, you can’t help seeing that the juiciest apologetic letter is not an egg. I meant to say, look at it from their point of view. Harrod—or Whiteley—comes into his store in the morning, rubbing his hands expectantly. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘how many eggs from Combe Regis to-day?’ And instead of leading him off to a corner piled up with bursting crates, they show him a four-page letter telling him it’ll all come right in the future. I’ve never run a store myself, but I should think that would jar a chap. Anyhow, the blighters seem to be getting tired of waiting.”