"I shall tell father that," said Phyllis in her most decided voice,
"and see what he says. I don't wonder at the man taking to drink after
doing such a thing."
"I--I think you're making a mistake," I said.
"I never make mistakes," Mr. Chase replied. "I am called Archibald the
All Right, for I am infallible. I propose to keep a reflective eye
upon the jovial Hawk."
He helped himself to another section of the chocolate cake.
"Haven't you finished yet, Tom?" inquired Phyllis. "I'm sure Mr.
Garnet's getting tired of sitting talking here."
I shot out a polite negative. Mr. Chase explained with his mouth full
that he had by no means finished. Chocolate cake, it appeared, was the
dream of his life. When at sea he was accustomed to lie awake o'
nights thinking of it.
"You don't seem to realize," he said, "that I have just come from a
cruise on a torpedo boat. There was such a sea on, as a rule, that
cooking operations were entirely suspended, and we lived on ham and
sardines--without bread."
"How horrible!"
"On the other hand," added Mr. Chase philosophically, "it didn't
matter much, because we were all ill most of the time."
"Don't be nasty, Tom."
"I was merely defending myself. I hope Mr. Hawk will be able to do as
well when his turn comes. My aim, my dear Phyllis, is to show you in a
series of impressionist pictures the sort of thing I have to go
through when I'm not here. Then perhaps you won't rend me so savagely
over a matter of five minutes' lateness for breakfast."
"Five minutes! It was three quarters of an hour, and everything was
simply frozen."
"Quite right, too, in weather like this. You're a slave to convention,
Phyllis. You think breakfast ought to be hot, so you always have it
hot. On occasion I prefer mine cold. Mine is the truer wisdom. I have
scoffed the better part, as the good Kipling has it. You can give the
cook my compliments, Phyllis, and tell her--gently, for I don't wish
the glad news to overwhelm her--that I enjoyed that cake. Say that I
shall be glad to hear from her again. Care for a game of tennis,
Garnet?"
"What a pity Norah isn't here," said Phyllis. "We could have had a
four."
"But she is at present wasting her sweetness on the desert air of
Yeovil. You had better sit out 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 Doherty Back-handed Slosh. A winning stroke every time."
We proceeded to the tennis court. I played with the sun in my eyes. I
might, if I chose, emphasize 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 racket, 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 fiendishly good 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 four strokes. He served. I know now how
soldiers feel under fire. The balls whistled at me like live things.
Only once did I take the service with the full face of the racket, and
then I seemed to be stopping a bullet. I returned it into the net.
"Game," said Mr. Chase.
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
instructively 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. 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 two 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 loath 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 under hand, I
must send the ball over the net with this next stroke.
I restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigor 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 racket. 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 Doherty Slosh."
"I thought it must be," said Phyllis.
The game ended with another brace of faults.
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.
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 Doherty Slosh diminished my lead by fifteen. The Renshaw Slam
brought the score to Deuce. 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 at 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 Doherty Slosh had beaten me on the post.
"Game _and_--" said Mr. Chase, twirling his racket 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
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 eyes of
its particular lady star. _It_ was never cut out ignominiously by
infernally capable lieutenants in his Majesty's navy. No wonder it was
cheerful.
It must be pleasant to be a star.