“What did you do to the poor mule?” she asked, for she had detected the note of despondency in his voice as he told her the story of his failure, and she wanted to cheer him up.
“Oh, it was some rot or other,” he replied. “There was the old mule, with his ears going like the fans of a screw propeller, and his tail whisking mosquitoes into eternity by the thousand, and there was the basket with the eggs, and when the mule man went into the wineshop with the woman that had laid down the basket, what was there to be done?”
“You needn’t ask me; you saw for yourself. But after all you only got the length of painting the pavement a nice yellow—not vermilion. It’s no wonder that the judge laughed.”
“I suppose it isn’t. But you needn’t. I’m sorry I said anything about the mule. You may begin to think that I’m not serious in all that I say.”
“Are you serious?” she cried very seriously.
“I give you my word that I am. The scales have fallen from my eyes. I’ll never think of myself as a juggins again. Oh, confound this fellow! He’s looking for me. I think I’ll scratch for the rest of the day. I’ve no chance against Glenister. Yes, I’ll tell him——”
“Now’s your chance,” she said earnestly. “If you have made up your mind not to treat yourself in future as your trustees and the rest treated you in the past, you’ll play every ounce that’s in you in this tournament and ever afterwards.”
He looked at her.
“What’s a set or two—knocking a ball backwards and forwards across a net, when we’re talking together on a vital matter?” he said peevishly. “I want to have my talk out with you and—here he comes, I’ll tell him to go to——”
“To the court and wait for you,” she said, rising. “Now’s your chance. If there’s anything in what I’ve said to you or you’ve said to me, you’ll play as you never played before. Now just try the experiment.”