Read Online Nothing Serious by P.G. Wodehouse - Free Book Online Page A

This
is a racquet. This is the net. That is what we call a ball…”
    It was
toward the end of the lesson that a string-bean-like young man sauntered on to
the court, and the professional turned to him with the air of one seeking
sympathy.
    “Gentleman’s
never played tennis before, Mr Messmore.
    “Well,
he certainly isn’t playing it now,” replied Dwight Mess-more. “Ha, ha,
ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” he added, with scarcely veiled derision.
    Ambrose
felt the hot blood coursing in his cheeks, but all he could find to say was “Is
that so?” and the lesson proceeded to its end.
    It was
followed by others, every morning without respite, and at long last the
professional declared him competent to appear in —if one may use the term—a
serious game, at the same time counselling him not to begin too ambitiously.
There was a cripple he knew, said the professional, a poor fellow who had lost
both legs in a motor accident, who would be about Ambrose’s form, always
provided that the latter waited his opportunity and caught him on one of his
off days.
    But it
was with no cripple that Ambrose Gusset made his first appearance. With
incredible audacity he sought out Evangeline Tewkesbury and asked her for a
game.
    The fixture
came off next day before an audience consisting of Dwight Messmore, who, though
Ambrose gave him every opportunity of remembering another engagement elsewhere,
remained on the side lines throughout, convulsed with merriment and uttering,
in Ambrose’s opinion, far more catcalls than were necessary. Having learned
that morning that he had been selected to play in the Davis Cup team, whatever
that may be, the man was thoroughly above himself. As early as the middle of
the first set he was drawing audible comparisons between Ambrose and a cat on
hot bricks, seeming to feel that the palm for gracefulness should be awarded to
the latter.
    When
the game was over—6—0, 6—0—Ambrose inquired of Evangeline if she thought he
would ever be a good tennis player. The girl gave him a curious look and asked
if he had read any nice books lately. Ambrose mentioned a few, and she said
that she had enjoyed them, too, and wondered how authors managed to think up
these things. She was starting to touch on the new plays, when Ambrose, bluntly
bringing up once more a subject which he had a feeling that she was evading,
repeated his question.
    Again
the girl seemed to hesitate, and it was Dwight Messmore who took upon himself
the onus of reply, sticking his oar in with insufferable heartiness.
    “The
problem which you have propounded, my dear fellow,” he said, “is one which it
is not easy to answer. A ‘good’ tennis player, you say. Well, I feel sure that
you will always be a moral tennis player, a virtuous, upright tennis player,
but if you wish to know whether I think you will ever be able to make a game of
it with a child of six, I reply No. Abandon all hope of reaching such heights.
Console yourself with the reflection that you have great entertainment value.
You are what I should call an amusing tennis player, a tennis player who will
always be good for a laugh from the most discriminating audience. I can vouch
for this, for I have been filming you from time to time with my ciné-kodak, and
whenever I have run the result off at parties it has been the success of the
evening. My friends are hard critics, not easy to please, but you have won
them. ‘Show us Ambrose Gussett playing tennis,’ is their cry, and when I do so
they guffaw till their eyes bubble.”
    And
scooping Evangeline up he led her off, leaving Ambrose, as you may well
imagine, a prey to the most violent and disturbing emotions. If a patient had
described to him the symptoms which he was experiencing, he would have ordered
him cold compresses and a milk diet.
    You
will have no difficulty in guessing for yourself the trend his thoughts were
taking. He was a doctor, and a doctor is peculiarly situated. He must be a
dignified, venerable figure, to