at me like live things.
Only once did I take the service with the full face of the racket, and
then I seemed to be stopping a bullet. I returned it into the net.

"Game," said Mr. Chase.

I felt a worm, and no man. Phyllis, I thought, would probably judge my
entire character from this exhibition. A man, she would reflect, who
could be so feeble and miserable a failure at tennis, could not be
good for much in any department of life. She would compare me
instructively with my opponent, and contrast his dash and brilliance
with my own inefficiency. Somehow, the massacre was beginning to have
a bad effect on my character. My self-respect was ebbing. A little
more of this, and I should become crushed--a mere human jelly. It was
my turn to serve. Service is my strong point at tennis. I am
inaccurate but vigorous, and occasionally send in a quite unplayable
shot. One or two of these, even at the expense of a fault or so, and I
might be permitted to retain at least a portion of my self-respect.

I opened with two faults. The sight of Phyllis, sitting calm and cool
in her chair under the cedar, unnerved me. I served another fault. And
yet another.

"Here, I say, Garnet," observed Mr. Chase plaintively, "do put me out
of this hideous suspense. I'm becoming a mere bundle of quivering
ganglions."

I loath facetiousness in moments of stress. I frowned austerely, made
no reply, and served another fault, my fifth.

Matters had reached a crisis. Even if I had to lob it under hand, I
must send the ball over the net with this next stroke.

I restrained myself this time, eschewing the careless vigor which had
marked my previous efforts. The ball flew in a slow semicircle, and
pitched inside the correct court. At least, I told myself, I had not
served a fault.

What happened then I cannot exactly say. I saw my opponent spring
forward like a panther and whirl his racket. The next moment the back
net was shaking violently and the ball was rolling swiftly along the
ground on a return journey to the other court.

"Love--forty," said Mr. Chase. "Phyllis!"

"Yes?"

"That was the Doherty Slosh."

"I thought it must be," said Phyllis.

The game ended with another brace of faults.

In the third game I managed to score fifteen. By the merest chance I
returned one of his red-hot serves, and--probably through
surprise--he failed to send it back again.

In the fourth and fifth games I omitted to score.

We began the sixth game. An