“How do you know?” Blynn was aware of something strange in the playing. “He isn’t moving much, but he’s doing rather well, just now.”
“Don’t you see?” she went on. “He’s all in. Look how white he is.... They ought to stop the game. It’s a pity!” She suffered in sympathy with every swing Clarke made to hold back defeat. “They oughtn’t to allow it.... Why doesn’t Edwin see he’s not trying for anything.”
Then followed the absurdest bit of tennis that two really good players ever put up before spectators. Double faults were common; wide balls; missed shots that Blynn himself could have handled. Clarke was plainly given three games. Score 5-5.
Once the men seemed to be disputing. Something that Morris said drove the smile from Clarke’s face, but not the pallor; and he came back for a few moments with his old-time form.
“Good work!” Morris called. The score was Clarke’s at 6-5. It began suddenly to grow dark from a threatening storm.
The men slackened again, each seeming to give way to the other. The shots were all going to the center of the court. No one seemed to be trying to get by the other. It was so amateurish that the men themselves occasionally laughed. Back and forth the ball sailed peacefully—neither man budged—until, in the nature of things, it dropped into the net or went out of bounds. Two automatons, fixed near the back line, with power to lean and swing arms, that was the picture they presented. Nevertheless, under these absurd conditions, the men were playing with dogged earnestness. The game was desperately disputed, Clarke finally winning the set at 7-5, and with it, the trophy.
“Tiddledywinks!” Gorgas summed up the game. “But glory be!” she turned a shining face to Blynn. “Wasn’t that the dandy thing to do? I’d not have spoken to him if he’d won that cup against a lame man. Look at Clarke. They’re carrying him off. He knows Ed let up. But, really, the way they played made it perfectly fair. It was anybody’s game. They might have spun a quarter for it.... And Neddie did so want to win.... He never said so; but I know. This is an awful swell cup, Allen Blynn. The winner always is somebody for a year, I tell you. Ed worked so hard to get in shape for this.... It’s a darn shame.... Here! get out and take a walk and tell me when Ed comes with the tea-things. I’m g-going to—stay in here a-lone for a-while.... Get out! I tell you.... Get out!”
While Blynn drew up the carriage hood as a precaution against the coming shower, he could hear her quietly having her disappointment out in little diminishing sobs. He looked at the sky; both storms threatened to be over soon.
Sprinkles of rain and Edwin with hot buttered muffins and a tray full of cups appeared at the same time.
“There’s plenty of tea and things,” he called merrily. “Everybody’s clearing out on account of the shower.... Wait till I gather in a few more hot muffins.”