Although he had gone reluctantly, once he was out it seemed fine to be
on his bicycle again. His forgotten body reacted with a rush to exercise
and fresh air. Generally he expected to make at least fifty miles in a
half-day but to-day was hot. Pedaling easily through Nutley he caught
sight of a young man playing tennis against two girls and stopped in the
shade of a maple to watch the game, still sitting on his wheel, his
right pedal locked over the curb-stone. Tennis was not so universal then
as now: Neale knew little about the game.
Presently a chance stroke sent the ball into the street. "Out!"
announced the young man, and turning ran back to retrieve it. As any
American would do anywhere in the world when a ball is in question,
Neale stooped, picked it up and was just going to toss it back when
amazement paralyzed his arm. Could this slim youth in immaculate
flannels possibly be Don Roberts? Don, the big boy who had played shinny
and vacant-lot baseball with him, whom he had never seen but with a
dirty shirt and unkempt hair! The elegant youth cried out, "Neale
Crittenden! I'll be blessed if it isn't old man Crit! That's luck! Come
on and meet my friends and we'll have a set of doubles."
He ushered Neale up to the net, where laying a patronizing hand on his
friend's shoulder, he presented him. "Ladies, my old friend, Crittenden.
We used to be boys together long ago. Neale, the Misses Underhill,
Nutley's peerless blondine duet, Polly and Natalie. Now, how about some
doubles? Neale can use my old racket."
"But I don't play," said Neale, alarmed at the idea. "No, I honestly
don't. I've never had a racket in my hand. I'll watch."
"Oh, fudge! That's all right. You'll learn. Nat and Neale, that's your
team. Polly, my dear, come over to this court and back up your Uncle
Don. No fair banging everything at Polly."
The essential rudiments were explained. Neale gripped the racket and the
game began. At first his partner politely kept her own court but as the
completeness of his ineptness became awfully apparent, she began
covering more and more territory, running across and snatching the ball
from in front of his hesitating racket. In vain, for Don continually
placed his return down her undefended alley. The set was soon over,
6--love.
"Now, Crit," said Don, jumping over the net, "we'll have sex against
sex."
The second set went better. Now that he was playing on Don's side, Don
gave him a little coaching. Neale learned to run in to the net and found
volleying much simpler than playing ground strokes. Natalie's low
returns often went through him and he did nothing with her service, but
not infrequently he managed to pat back Polly's gentle offerings. When
points were needed Don monopolized the court. The boys won,--a love set.
Don lit a cigarette and pretended to fan himself with his racket. "How
about lemonade for the victors?" he cried, but the girls demurred. It
was five o'clock, they had to go home and dress. They laughed over
nothing at all, shook hands with Neale, told a few friendly lies about
his progress, and walked off laughing over nothing at all, swinging
their rackets; white-shod, yellow-haired, pink-skinned.
"Dear little sweethearts, aren't they?" commented Don. "A little insipid
like most nice girls, but you have to take what you can get. Polly's a
dub at tennis, of course, uses her racket like a snow-shovel, but she's
not such a worse little flirt. Look here, Crit, old boy. I've got to
stay in this stinking hole all summer, cramming for deficient exams. The
old man won't let me go to the Water Gap till I can answer those damn
questions. And there isn't a soul to play with but those girls. It's
rotten for my game. Why don't you come out here? Come to-morrow. Of
course you can't play, but I'll teach you. I can teach anybody."
Neale blushed and accepted the magnificent offer.
"Well, ta, ta, old man, sorry you can't stay to supper."
Neale mounted his wheel with a very high heart. This was something like.
Something was beginning to happen in his life. Wasn't Don great? As he
rode home he decided that he would ask his father to let him go to
Princeton. Don was at Princeton.
But he didn't. Father read him Mother's latest letter, all about the
particular great-aunt she was visiting in Cambridge, and after they had
commented on this, Father looked at his evening paper sideways as he
ate, and Neale went over in his mind the events of the afternoon, and
the wonder of Don Roberts turning out such a splendid fellow, such a
good sport, such clothes, such a way with him. Neale thought about him a
great deal more than about the girls, and with vastly more admiration.
He was sure that David Copperfield's Steerforth was nothing to Don
Roberts. Once when he glanced up, he saw Father looking at him instead
of his newspaper.
"Well, Neale," he asked, "what are you up to these days?"
This was his opportunity, Neale knew it was, to introduce the subject of
Princeton, but he could not think of any way to do it. Instead he said
vaguely, "Oh, nothing much. Sort of hanging around." And then with a
great effort, he brought out, for once, a vital piece of news, "I'm
learning to play tennis."
"That's _good_," said Father. "It's a great game."
This seemed to be final. He looked back at his newspaper. But after a
while, as though something had occurred to him he asked, "Who's teaching
you? Where do you play?"
"I ran across Don Roberts, over in Nutley. They used to live here, on
Central Avenue. He used to go to Number Two School." He wanted to go on
and tell about Don's being in Princeton, but could not propel himself
past the full-stop, where an inadvertent cadence of his voice had
dropped him.
Next morning he found Don with a whitewash brush touching up the marking
of the court. For three hours they practised--a most exhausting three
hours! He thought he began to make a little progress. He knew he was
almost all in, when noon came, worn out far more by the mental strain of
struggling his way into a new technique, than by the physical effort,
although that had been enough to leave him blown and panting, as they
went into the house to have lunch.
The two boys were alone at the table. Don swaggered a little as he
served his guest. "No one at home," he explained. "Mother and the girls
are down at Asbury. The old man doesn't get back from the office till
the 5.45. I can hear his train whistle from here. He finds his loving
son deep in his books, you bet."
Through luncheon Don fired Neale's enthusiasm with stories of Big Bill
Edwards, Arthur Poe, Lady Jayne and other heroes of his Alma Mater.
Afterwards he strolled to the living-room, sat down at the piano, and
sang "The Orange and the Black,"--"There's a college we call Princeton."
Then lowering his voice, with many nods and knowing winks, he sang a
long song with the refrain, "Keep your eye on tricky little Sarah."
Neale's play on the streets and in vacant lots with perfectly
heterogeneous and casual little boys had given him quite enough of a
vocabulary to understand the words of this song; and odds and ends of
the older boys' talk overheard in the locker-room at Hadley made the
spirit of it by no means unfamiliar. But this was the first time that
either words or spirit had ever been more than one of the casual
by-products of boy-life. What put it in the center of his attention now
was his admiration of Don as the model of colorful, sophisticated life.
Evidently this was a part of such life. Neale applied his mind therefore
to the words and the spirit and learned to hum the air.
That evening Father read another uneventful letter from Mother; then
they sat in silence till, as father was filling his pipe, he remarked,
as if it had just come into his mind, "Oh, I thought you ought to have a
racket of your own, Neale. I got one. It's in the hall on the
coat-rack."
Neale bounded upstairs and carried his prize to his room. There was not
only a Sears racket, but three Wright and Ditson balls, Spalding's
"Tennis Guide," and a little pamphlet on "How to Play Lawn Tennis."
Neale dropped into his Morris chair and devoured both books before going
to bed.
The hard protective husk of his little boyhood was so newly sloughed
off, that his adolescence had as yet received scarcely a mark upon its
new freshness to impression. Ready now, responsive with an inward quiver
to a whole range of experience to which he had been blind and deaf
before, he was catching up from the chance materials about him, the
stuff with which to construct his new world. And here was material ready
to his hand. The editor, an enthusiast, an idealist of sportsmanship had
put a great deal in his little treatise beside his copious advice as to
the proper grip on the racket and the laying out of a court. Without the
slightest self-consciousness (because he had the not-to-be-imitated
single-heartedness of the sincere devotee) he had charged every section
of his treatise with the spirit of the game, the spirit of sport, not of
border warfare. So matter-of-factly was this message conveyed that even
the adolescent soul, half-crusader, half-Hun, did not guess that it was
being preached to. The word "honor" was never mentioned, yet Neale
understood perfectly the significance of what he read, under the caption
"Tournaments:" "The committee should provide adequate linesmen, for
while the contestants themselves can generally tell whether a ball is
good or not, yet close decisions occur in every match and it is
obviously unfair to force a player to penalize himself (as he naturally
would feel bound to do) by giving his opponent the benefit of the doubt
on all uncertain cases." He nodded approvingly over the phrase, "as he
naturally would feel bound to do." It did not strike him as a new idea,
but merely a clearer statement of something he had always felt was in
the air about sports. Yes, that was how a college man would act, how Don
would act.
Again, among the illustrations he was struck by a photograph of the
winner and runner-up shaking hands after the Newport tournament. Neale
looked long at the expression of cordial congratulation and admiration
on the loser's face. He moved uneasily in his chair at the recollection
of a nine of disgruntled urchins muttering after a defeat, "Aw, you
bunch of stiffs, wait till we get you on our own diamond." Neale had
been one of those who muttered, one of those so stung by defeat that the
idea of admiring the better playing which had beaten them would have
been inconceivable to him. Neale knew himself well enough to know the
fierceness of his lust for victory. He knew it was going to be a job to
tame that lust to this civilized code. But he would try. Morally on
tip-toe, he resolved to be worthy of Don's friendship.
When he turned the last page, relaxed the intense concentration with
which he had been absorbing the essence and spirit of the book, and
stood up to stretch and yawn before going to bed, he felt that he had
learned a lot. And he had. Silently, with the incalculable silence of
natural processes, an ideal had crystallized in his heart around a
standard of conduct.
And yet this was all under the surface. As he dropped off to sleep, his
mind retained as the chief lesson of the book a mass of stimulating
suggestions about rolling strokes, the reverse twist service, and the
advice for a solitary beginner to practise against a brick wall.
He knew where such a wall could be found; in a vacant lot on Poplar
Street, just off Summit Avenue. He often had played hand-ball there in
the old days. Next morning he went there after breakfast, postponing his
ride to Nutley till after lunch. The result was so good that thereafter
he spent every morning there.
The summer days went by. Neale progressed far in his imitation of Don
and Don's manner and standards. He learned after practising with a box
of his own, to accept the cigarettes Don constantly offered him. To be
like Don, he learned to call the girls by their first names without
choking, although he never could bring himself to squeeze their hands or
pat their shoulders or stroke their hair as Don did so casually; and he
did manage to pick up a fair game of tennis.
When he challenged Natalie to singles and beat her 7-5, Don looked at
him with a new expression, and a few days later announced great news.
"It's all arranged. Tournament here next Saturday, lemonade, lawn party,
picnic-supper, dance. The old man's agreed not to butt in and spoil
things. I've got four fellows from here, Peterson, and a friend of his
from Montclair. You and I make eight. Just right for a day's tournament
on one court."
"But I don't play well enough," protested Neale.
"You'll be put out in the first round of course," Don admitted, "but I
need you to make the even eight, and you can chase balls and make
yourself useful. Entry fee's a dollar. That'll buy a Pim racket as a
prize. I _need_ a new racket."
The great day came and Neale, flustered and tense, was put out in the
first round according to schedule. It didn't surprise him, although deep
in his heart he had had a fluttering hope--but no matter. What happened
to him was of no consequence. Don came through easily, of course. After
lunch Neale sat with Natalie and together they gasped and clapped and
cried, "played!" as Don captured his match in the semi-finals.
"Isn't he splendid?" said Natalie. Neale nodded, too much moved to
speak.
The finals were called. Neale focussed himself on the game, blind to
anything else. Don was matched against the Peterson boy, a high-school
lad from Montclair. Don got the first set. Good. The second set
unexpectedly went to deuce. What had happened! Neale leaned forward, his
eyes hot from staring, and tried to make out the meaning of what he saw.
Peterson didn't hit the ball as hard as Don did, but his long, bony arm
pulled off the most impossible of "gets." Deuce, vantage, deuce,
vantage. Don put on more steam, served doubles, lost his service.
Peterson won his own service, and the sets were even. Don's face was a
blank. He walked to his place, hitched up his trousers, pulled the brim
of his white felt sports-hat low over his eyes, set his jaw and faced
his opponent. Neale's anxious eyes had not left him for a second.
The last set was astounding, paralyzing to the spectators. Don had gone
to pieces and the high-school boy had pulled himself together. His
gawky, graceless body and long arms seemed to cover the whole court. Don
served with murderous force, his rising fury burning with a sensible
heat all around him as he raced and plunged and stroked the ball.
Peterson broke through his service again--four-two. Don struck out
dazzling drives, but many of them landed in the net. He got by Peterson
with wily stroke after stroke--only so many of them landed in the
alleys; four-three; five-three. Peterson kept on steadily, with his
stiff, mechanical, chopped returns, his intent eyes gleaming in his
impassive face. He had Don forty-love. Neale's heart was bursting. Don
rushed to the net. Peterson lobbed to the base-line, and it was all
over. Don was beaten.
* * * * *
In a flash Neale found an excuse for his hero, "Every one has his
off-days ... but...."
Though half-forewarned by the look on Don's face, he could not turn his
eyes away from the dashing figure in white flannels, which stood there
frozen in mid-flight as the fatal ball fell inside the back-line. Then
with a furious swing of his arm Don flung his racket from him as if he
wished to break it into a thousand pieces. By good luck it did not hit
one of the girl spectators, but fell with a little crash of broken twigs
into the midst of a lilac bush. He took a step or two after this, as if
he meant to leave the court at once. With an effort, he turned about,
walked up to the net where the Peterson boy stood panting, and gave him
in silence, a limp hand-shake.
Then he pushed through the spectators, and went into the house calling
over his shoulder that Polly was to award the prize. Neale did not dare
to look at Natalie; the moment was too awful.
The Peterson boy did not stay to flaunt his triumph. Pleading an
impending thunder-storm as an excuse (the sky was as a matter of fact
very black and lowering), he scorched off on his wheel back to Montclair
with the spoils of victory bound to his handle-bars. With his departure,
the atmosphere of gloom among Don's friends began to lift. When the
storm broke, as it did shortly, they all hurried indoors. The girls set
about getting supper with a great clatter of chafing-dishes, and much
screaming, with each clap of thunder. By the time the cheese was melted,
Don reappeared in blue serge and negligee silk shirt. Coming down stairs
he passed Neale standing apart with his back against the newel post.
"Oh, drop your grouch, Crit, old man," he said. "Forget it! Of course
Nordhoff's a pretty rotten umpire. I suppose he thought he'd give the
kid a chance, but he needn't have stung me on _all_ the close ones."
On this, he passed lightly to the supper-table, where later, on being
loudly called, Neale followed him, starting up from his moody silence as
though he had forgotten where he was. It was his first supper out with
young people, the first time he had eaten welsh-rabbit; the first time
he had seen anything prepared over a chafing-dish; the first time he had
encountered the traditional young people's menu of that
date--welsh-rabbit, fruit cake, nut-fudge made on the spot, all washed
down with ginger-ale. It might have been bread and milk for all Neale
knew. What he saw was the photograph in the Tennis Guide of Davis
shaking hands with Whitman.
Presently loyalty flared up. If Don fell short of the standard perhaps
the standard was wrong.... It would not do, even as he thought of this
excuse, he knew it would not do. He was aware of a streak of iron in his
soul. An idol might sweep away the warmth and color of life by its
fall--let them go then! No warping of standards could keep it on its
pedestal. But the real sorrow in his heart drove him to try to find
excuses for Don. Great Scott! it _was_ hard to lose! How could you blame
anybody for not coming up to such a terribly high standard? Anybody on
earth would naturally feel sore at being beaten in such a....
Even as he tried falteringly thus to lower his ideal to fit his
affection, he was aware of something stern and relentless within him.
The gallant face of the defeated player in the photograph stood out
beside Don's startled, angry resentment at a wound to his vanity. Nine
generations of Puritan forebears would not let Neale abandon his ideal
because it hurt him.
He passed into a condition of acute amazement at the others. How could
they take it so light-heartedly? Perhaps they didn't care. Or perhaps
they felt themselves obliged to pretend since they were still in Don's
house. Yes, of course, he ought to pretend too.
Smarting, he sprang up at a new word of command. "How about a little
rag-time?" Don was crying in his role of master of ceremonies. "Polly,
you to the piano. Get the old banjo, Dick. Clear the floor, boys. Oh,
pitch the rugs out of the window, a little rain won't hurt 'em." For
through the open windows came the steady voice of a summer downpour.
The musicians struck up "Whistling Rufus," couples were formed and
racketed noisily to and fro from the dining-room to the sitting-room and
back, with much bumping and giggling at the congested doorway. Neale
danced absent-mindedly with a girl whose name he could not remember, and
whom he exchanged for a similarly anonymous girl when the tune changed
to the "Georgia Camp-meeting." He went on thus, setting his body to do
the decent thing, while his spirit lay prostrate within him.
They were dancing harder than ever now, racing long-leggedly from one
end of the room to the other, the boys carrying the girls bodily off
their feet at some of the turns, the girls abandoning themselves like
romping children to the whirlwind of the insistent rhythm, which they
marked by shouting out as they danced, "Oh, la la, la, la-la, la la la!
There'll be a _hot_ time in the _old_ town _to-night_!" Neale danced on
with the rest. Under his grimly silent exterior, something fine and high
and deeply wounded, cried out silently to the others, and received no
answer.
The music ended with a crash, the exhausted couples sank into chairs,
gasping and fanning each other. Neale's heart leaped to see, half-way up
the stairs, Natalie sitting alone as if she had not been dancing. Why,
of course. There was Natalie! He had forgotten her. She had understood.
The tragedy of the afternoon must have gone home to her. _She_ was a
good sport! With a warm glow he hurried up to where she sat, and sank
down beside her, his stifling sense of isolation gone.
She lifted the sweet, flower-like mask of her youth to him, her eyes
gleaming in the half-light of the stairs. But at the moment, Neale had
forgotten whether she was a girl or a boy. She was a good sport. That
was what he needed. He started to speak, but a shout of laughter burst
out of the room below them. They looked down. In the center of the
vociferously amused circle of spectators, Don was making fun of his late
adversary's gawky manners and poor eye-sight. He had a racket in his
hand, and glaring through it with a burlesque of Peterson's intent
short-sighted gaze, he was mimicking the school-boy's strained awkward
position at the net.
Neale fell back appalled, and looked to Natalie for sympathy and
understanding.
Natalie had also leaned forward, and as they turned towards each other,
her face was so close to his that he could see the peach-like bloom on
her cheeks.
All the pretty face was quivering with mirth. "Isn't Don the _wittiest_
man!"
Neale got up stiffly and walked down the stairs without a word. Nobody
in the crowd of laughing boys and girls paid the least attention to his
silent passage through them. He went out on the porch, the beating
downpour of the rain suddenly loud in his ears. Oh, all the better! He'd
like getting soaked.
He found his wheel on the side-porch, mounted it without troubling to
light his lamp or turn up his coat collar, and delighting in the clammy
discomfort of the streaming water, pedaled stolidly over the nine miles
to his home.
Alone in his room he took off his steaming clothes, rubbed down and got
into pajamas and a bath-robe.
"Crittenden," he said sternly, "the world is no place for you. You're a
lone wolf. A lone wolf."