Every now and then a man would stagger into the room in very damp ducks or flannels, would tumble out of them, and would totter over to a shower where he would yell with inarticulate rage as the cold water struck him. Sometimes they were very pale, and sometimes very red in the face. But always they were perspiring and exhausted, and we could not help wondering what the dickens they had been doing to get themselves into that condition. Too much tea, perhaps!
We got into our own outfit—all nice and new and unspotted of the world. We had brought it along in a suit-case. We had white ducks and white shoes and a white shirt, low in the neck. We felt like a young girl high-school graduate just about to receive her diploma. Also we had a blazer. Possibly the reader does not know what a "blazer" is. We would hate to think so, but we will explain. A "blazer" is a striped sack-coat, which was originally designed as part of a costume to ride zebras in, or to prevent dangerous convicts from escaping—we are not sure which. Anyway, it makes the man who wears it look like a party-brick of ice-cream—you know the way they deposit the stuff in gorgeous layers.
Our blazer was composed of stripes of purple and black, each about two inches wide. We selected it because it was so quiet compared to the others. When we put it on that first day, however, we had an unpleasant consciousness that two or three gentlemen in our immediate neighborhood said something about "hell." Possibly a little theological controversy. Just the same, we never wore it again. We lost our taste for it.
Being both togged out in our tennis outfit, we stepped through the door leading to the courts. Personally we gave one wild look around and turned to Harry with a gasp of dismay.
"But where's the lawn?" we asked.
Harry seemed annoyed, but we couldn't help it. We had expected to see a wide smooth lawn, with shady elms and tea-trays and gentle curates and all the rest of it. We thought that was why the game was called "lawn tennis." What we actually saw was a great big backyard with a pounded clay floor. A series of dingy nets ran down the centre of it, and it was crossed and recrossed by a gridiron of half-obliterated lines.
It was easy to see what had obliterated the lines, for some eighteen or twenty active young men in badly rumpled attire were tearing up and down in clouds of dust, working like demons, jumping and rushing and dodging about, and all the while banging away with fury at balls which we afterwards discovered did not possess a particle of wool to cover them. It had all been knocked off. Gentle popping?—good lord!
Surrounding the courts was a lovely vista of other backyards with clothes hung out to dry. Extraordinary the amount of washing the people in that block seemed to do! Every day was wash-day in that neighborhood. During the weeks that followed we became thoroughly acquainted with the clothes of its inhabitants. We discovered who wore red flannel petticoats, and who leaned toward gay and passionate pyjamas. We also knew who wore—but perhaps we had better stop right here. There are things which no gentleman should discuss—certainly not in the cold light of public print. But it was astonishing how life-like they used to look—especially in a breeze.
Over that first game with Harry we would like to draw a veil, a good thick veil—say, several plies of sack-cloth. We did not shine, or, if we did, it was rather as a conflagration than a star. We turned red with the very first ball we hit—we knocked it on to a neighboring housetop—and we slowly became a richer and richer maroon during the progress of the match. Somehow or other we seemed to be too strong for the game. When we hit a ball, which wasn't often, we put it into the bleachers for a home run, or tore a hole in the net with it.
The rest of the time we fanned the atmosphere in a ferocious manner which was not without its humorous features. We didn't notice the humor ourself, but a number of our new fellow-members did. They stopped playing and crowded around to see us. They were very encouraging, but we were a little confused by their coaching. They kept counting us out on strikes, or when we got a hit would beseech us to stretch it into a three-bagger or slide into the home plate. They got us so worked up that we actually called "Ball!" like a baseball umpire when Harry served out of the proper court. Presumably we were waiting for four before taking our base. It was a very trying game—very!