the attendant then inquired. "He said he'd take on Evans only till you came." Evans was the club professional.
"No, not yet," Sherwood forbade. The echoing rattle of another fast volley came from the court and loud and appreciative applause again broke out. "There's quite a gallery there. I'll watch the match for a while."
He climbed the stairs to the spectators' seats set over the back wall of the court. Evans, the professional, was just returning viciously. The ball flew like a bullet against the front wall; as it came back the amateur leaped, met it and struck it back with his racket. Evans dipped for it desperately; it ricocheted past him to the rear wall. The professional made one more trial to get the ball as it bounded back from behind him; but it bounced again on the floor, once, twice, and Latham had won.
The row of spectators rose in a clamour of congratulation.
"Hello, Geoff!" Latham hailed carelessly. "Want to begin now?"
Several of the men looked at their watches and started for the stairs.
