Last year, owing to the pressure of other engagements, we did not
mark out the tennis-lawn at "Sunnyside." This year the matter has
been taken out of our hands by the military powers.
Nevin was the first to think of it.
"What about a game of tennis?" he suggested one bright morning in May.
"Keep us from going to seed."
It was his second day of leave after three months in the Ypres
salient, so the change may have been too sudden for him.
"That's a toppin' notion," echoed Bob; "let's raid 'old Beetle's'
museum and dig out the posts."
So Captain Richard Nevin, R.E., and Second-Lieutenant Robert Simpson,
R.G.A., took the affair into their own hands.
Having seen the same forces cooperating on previous occasions, I
determined to keep clear of them. Besides, I am only "old Beetle."
They found the posts in the tool-shed, and, borne upon the initial
enthusiasm of their venture, began to sink a sort of winze on each
side of the lawn. Up to this point they were perfectly amicable.
Then Nevin, who is a thoughtful person, said suddenly, "I suppose you
made quite sure that the line of these posts will cross the centre of
the court?" And then, before Bob could retort, added, "Of course you
ought to have made absolutely certain of that. As it is we had better
leave this and find the corner irons."
Corner irons that have remained undisturbed for some twenty-four
months have a way of concealing themselves. At the end of ten minutes
the seekers began to show signs of impatience. Such terms as "angles,"
"bases," "centres," interspersed with "futilass," "sodamsure,"
"knowseverything" were cast upon a hazardous breeze.
Eventually they found one of the angles. To the ordinary layman this
would have meant the beginning of the end. But Captain Richard Nevin
and Second-Lieutenant Robert Simpson are made of different stuff. They
scorn the easy path. They have stores of deep knowledge to draw upon
which place their calculations beyond the ken of ordinary mortals.
After they had made a searching examination of the exhumed angle, Bob
pulled out a pencil, prostrated himself behind it and then proceeded
to gaze ecstatically over the top.
I moved my chair slightly south, and pretended to regard the
apple-blossom, and when Nevin went into the house and brought out
something which dimly resembled a ship's sextant I had the extreme
presence of mind not to make any inquiries.
Margery drifted up with a pink duster.
"What ever are they doing?" she asked.
"Hush!" I whispered; "Bob has just got the range of a supply train on
the far side of the rockery, and if Nevin (Nevin is the Crown Prince
of Wurtemberg) doesn't get the longitude of Bob's battery in the next
minute or so it's all up with his day's rations."
Suddenly Bob rose and made some calculations on an old envelope.
"That means three rounds battery fire," I said, "and the Prince loses
his lunch."
Not satisfied with this success, Bob went indoors and looted the hall
of three walking-sticks and Margery's new sunshade.
"What's he going to do now?" said Margery, with one eye on the
sunshade.
He walked to the far end of the lawn and manoeuvred in a small circle.
"The water-jackets are boiling," I replied, "and they've run out of
cold water. He's divining with the sunshade. Look!"
Bob suddenly drove the sunshade into the ground. There was a sharp
crack and--well, he found another iron. Of course he tried to explain
to Margery that it was an absolute accident and he only wanted to get
a sighting post; but that was mere self-effacement, and I said so.
Things began to happen quickly after this, and if Private James
Thompson had not put in an unexpected appearance they might have
completed the job without any further difference of opinion.
In the merry days before war was thrust upon us, James Thompson was
an architect of distinction. Obviously an architect of distinction can
reduce the difficulty of laying out a tennis-court to an elementary
and puerile absurdity. For half-an-hour the demonstration was
carried on in the garden, and, after Private Thompson had twice been
threatened with arrest for using insubordinate language to a superior,
it was decided to finish the discussion in my study, assisted by the
softening influence of the Tantalus.
Not for a hundred pounds would I have ventured into the study.
I picked up _The Gardening Gazette_ and engrossed myself in an
interesting piece of scandal about the slug family.
Suddenly Margery appeared at the double.
"Do you know," I exclaimed excitedly, "it was the wireworm after all."
"Come on," Margery panted irrelevantly, "buck up and we can finish it
before they come out again."
In her hand she held a tape-measure and an official diagram of a
tennis-court.
Five minutes later the experts emerged from the house.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Nevin aggressively, "what have you been up to?"
"Oh," I replied, flicking over a page on weed-killers, "Margery and I
thought we had better find the remainder of the tennis-court while you
were having a rest. Margery's gone for a ball of string, and if Bob
fetches the marker you can mark the court out now."
Nevin's retort was addressed solely to Private James Thompson, who
had in an unfortunate moment given way to laughter of an unmilitary
character.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE AMATEUR DETECTIVE.
{Cartoon, four panels, each with two gentlemen gazing skyward, bombs
exploding nearby. One is using binoculars.}