"Well, we won't argue about how many of them there are," I said. "Suppose
someone killed the lot, should we hear less of Renshaw?"
"Never," he replied emphatically. "Renshaw will always be a name
wherever tennis is spoken of."
I dread to think what the result might have been had his answer been
other than it was.
The next year he dropped tennis completely and became an ardent amateur
photographer, whereupon all his friends implored him to return to tennis,
and sought to interest him in talk about services and returns and
volleys, and in anecdotes concerning Renshaw. But he would not heed
them.
Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. He took his friends, and
made them his enemies. He took babies, and brought despair to fond
mothers' hearts. He took young wives, and cast a shadow on the home.
Once there was a young man who loved not wisely, so his friends thought,
but the more they talked against her the more he clung to her. Then a
happy idea occurred to the father. He got Begglely to photograph her in
seven different positions.