Judge Prior’s coachman, who was waiting at the station for an express package, turned his horse and galloped back up Malvern’s only street, shouting out:
“We’ve won. Master John and Mr. Merton’s won the tennis match.”
And then the people set to work to prepare a demonstration.
The Hilltown people thought they had never seen young men so disagreeable as were the Big Four after luncheon. They seated themselves like sentinels at the four corners of the court, and whenever any one ventured to jeer at Malvern’s representative they would burst into such an enthusiasm of cheering as to drown the jeers and deafen the spectators.
There was no one in the singles but Slade and Merton, the Pineville representative having decided to drop out. Merton was nervous, and Slade was determined to win. Both played as they had never played before, but Slade’s service, which was his strong point, was nothing after the one to which Grace had accustomed Merton. And in spite of Slade’s most strenuous efforts the games kept coming slowly and slightly in Merton’s favor.
They were two sets all and were beginning the final set, when Barnes arose and disappeared in the crowd. But those of the quartette who were left made noise enough to keep Merton playing his best. It became a more and more bitter fight as the end drew near. Grace was so excited that not even his sprained ankle could keep him quiet, and Thatcher had great difficulty in restraining a desire to shout. At last Merton got “’vantage,” with only one point to win, but he missed the next ball and back went the score to “deuce” again. Three times this happened, and three times the college men half rose from the ground expecting to cheer, and then sank back again. “If he does that again,” said Grace, “I’ll have nervous prostration!” But he didn’t do it again. He smashed the next ball back into Slade’s court far out of his way, and then pulled down his sleeves as unconcernedly as if he had been playing a practice game.
The next moment Prior and the others had lifted him up on their shoulders, and were tramping around the field with him shouting, “What’s the matter with Malvern?” and “We are the people!” and many other such highly ridiculous and picturesque cries of victory.
And then there came a shout from the entrance to the grounds, and up the carriageway rode Barnes mounted on top of an old-fashioned, yellow-bodied stage-coach that he had found in some Hilltown livery-stable and decorated from top to bottom with the Malvern colors. He had four horses in hand, and he was waving his whip and shouting as if a pack of wolves or Indians were in close pursuit.
The boys clambered up on top of the coach and began blowing the horns and affixing the new brooms that Barnes had thoughtfully furnished for them. They were in such a hurry to start that they forgot the prizes; and if Grace had not reminded the boys, they would have gone home content without the tokens of victory.
The faces of Mr. Percy Clay and the other contributors to the silver cups when they saw the prizes handed up to that “Malvern gang,” as they now called them, were most pitiful.