THUNDER h»M .fl _ „
jft n TSTANDS
Richards^»= a O
1 *irr m ff
CHAPTER V
Synopsis
Len Rollins, tennis ace,
dreamed of fame and glory
when, as a member of the
Davis cup team he would play
for America. But he falls in
: love with Grace Worthlngton,
rich and socially prominent,
who is willing to defy her fam
ily and marry him—if he lives
up tennis. Fate intervenes.
He injures his ankle and the
doctors say he will never play
again. He and Grace are mar
ried and live blissfully on the
1 salary he earns as salesman in
t> a sporting goods shop. As his
« ankle heals he is tempted to
) return to the courts. He has
£ agreed to play in a tournament
i on the Sunday Grace's family
invites them both to the coun
; try for a week-end. Grace goes
j alone.
He could not sleep Saturday
night. Sunday morning he tried
to read, but Grace's condemning
ieyes were on every page. He
threw the book from ' him and
'■ turned on the radio. But the
.music failed to soothe him. He
kept wishing that Grace were
present so he could have it out
with her and have the subject
finally decided. He thought of
telephoning her but decided
against it; doing that would make
him appear guilty. Appear guil
t«
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Herman Guyer
Barrett Lankford
ty? Good God, he was guilty!
Guilty as hell!
It was an easy victory. So
much easier, he reflected as he
took his shower, than would be
his conquest over Grace. With
her, he wasn't even sure—
He stayed at home all of Sun
day evening, but she did not re
turn. Finally he went to bed and
fell into a restless, troubled sleep.
When he arrived home from
work the next day she was there.
And Richard Whyte was with
her.
"Hello." Her voice and the lips
she raised to his were cool.
"Dick drove me in from East
hampton. I made him stay to
dinner."
Len shook hands with Whyte.
"Of course. Glad to see you."
Studying Richard Whyte seated
in the big chair near the window,
Len was more acutely aware than
ever before of the other's good
looks, his poise, his social grace.
"I hear you're doing awfully
well," Whyte said. "Cracking the
business world the way you used
to crack a tennis ball."
Len could not explain to him
self just why he resented Whyte.
There was something in his tone,
perhaps. "I've had one or two
good breaks, I guess," he replied
with a smile.
Grace said :• "But he's still a
tennis player at heart and not a
business man, Dick. Aren't you,
darling?"
Len bit his lip. What the hell
was Grace doing—making sport
of him before this other man. He
was in the wrong; he knew that.
But he'd been wrong before about
things and she'd never acted this
way. Was this her idea of pun
ishing him?
Conversation during the simple
dinner was for the most part
friendly, but cool and restrained.
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At last they had cigarettes and
coffee in the living room. Then
Whyte took his leave. He thank
ed them for their hospitality,
complimented them on the charm
of the apartment and hoped
they'd be out at Easthampton
very soon.
Grace walked from the foyer
back into the living room and
switched on the radio. She sat
in the big chair which Whyte had
recently vacated. For some rea
son this bothered Len. But he
kept his voice level, unexcitfed,
when he spoke.
"I want you to know," he said,
"why I didn't tell you about my
being scheduled to play yesterday
afternoon. I meant to tell you
that same evening you told me
about the invitation to East
hampton. I let you know frankly
and honestly how I felt about go
ing out there. Then later I real
ized that if I mentioned anything
about tennis it would appear—"
She nodded without interest,
made no reply.
"All right," he went on, "all
right. So you don't believe me?"
She leaned forward in her
chair. "No. Absolutely not."
He felt anger surging through
him and groped for something to
say that would hurt her. "You're
leaning backward just because of
your silly prejudice toward some
thing I once loved as much as—"
He didn't finish the sentence, in
his own surprise and discomfort
at the words he had spoken.
Tears came into her eyes. He
jumped up and switched off the
radio. "Now we'll settle this thing
once and for all," he shouted. But
she rose and walked from the
room. He followed her. She went
into the bathroom, slammed and
locked the door.
He went back into the living
room. He couldn't remember
when he'd ever been so angry
about anything. Darn women,
anyway with their narrow single
track minds! Why he had ever
married was more than he could
understand. Throwing freedom
away in exchange for—what?
Why, for practically everything
he wanted to do he had to ques
tion himself first: "Will It be all
right with Grace?" or "Will
Grace be willing?" or say, "I'd
better make sure Grace hasn't
made other plans." That's way
it went constantly. Grace this,
Grace that, Grace the other
thing. Grace—
What the devil was she doing
in there? She wouldn't be a lit
tle fool. Of course not. An ar
gument—sure. But she wouldn't
—Bathroom. The word bothered
him. He didn't like it. It made
him think of razor blades and
iodine. Only yesterday in the
paper he had read —he was at
the bathroom door knocking on
it loudly.
"Are you all right?" He .rattled
the knob. "I'll smash the door
down if you don't answer."
"I'm—all right," came in a
small muffled voice.
"Then open the door or I'll —"
he threw himself aaginst it.
The lock turned over. He
twisted the knob. Opened the
door.
A great and overwhelming re
lief flooded him. There was
neither razor blade nor iodine
bottle in sight. She was merely
sitting on the black and white
hamper, sobbing quietly.
# • *
It was stock checking time at
the shop and Len was counting
and rearranging equipment.
Perched ten feet above the
floor he took the boxes Weir
handed up to him, stacking them
on the stock room shelves. An
other row and the ladder would
have to be moved. He considered
changing it even before starting
the next shelf, but decided to
reach the distance. By stretch
ing, arm fully extended, he could
manage. The first box was
placed. The second one slid as
he tried to put it on top of the
first.
It happened even before he had
time to prepare himself, to re
gain his equilibrium. The sharp
intake of Weir's breath and his
own short cry were simultaneous
with the scraping of the ladder
as it went out from under him.
One thought flashed penetrating
ly clear in his mind as he felt
himself whirling through space—
the ankle! His hands flayed for
something to hold to; his feet,
legs and body prepared them
selves for the shock they knew
must come on collision with the
hard cement of the stock room
floor.
And then miraculously he was
standing there, shaken, white
faced, breathlessly amazed that
he was safe, and Weir was in
quiring solicitously if he was hurt.
He shook his head, still puz
zled at the marvel that he had
managed to land upright. That
he had landed, the full weight
and force of his six feet and one
hundred and eighty pounds, al
most upon the weak left foot.
And the ankle had not given
way!
Unbelievingly, his breathing
not yet regular, he trotted around,
experimenting. Why, the ankle
felt fine! Showed not the least
bit of strain under the terrific
jolt it had just withstood.
"That the foot that was in
jured?" Weir queried, his voice a
little strained, his face flushed
from the fright of having seen
young Rollins come hurtling
through space.
Len nodded.- "Yes. Funny, isn't
it? They told me if anything
like this ever happened it would
—but it's funny. Very damn'
funny! I wonder" —he shrugged.
"Shall —shall we finish up?"
* • *
Dr. Leopold Weingrat was a
short, totally bald man with large
owlish eyes. The specialist listen
ed carefully while Len told him
everything: about the accident,
the removal of the bandages,
what the hospital doctors had
said about his never being able
to play again, of his fall from the
ladder. Not once did Dr. Wein
grat interrupt, but when Len had
finished speaking he nodded
thoughtfully. "So o-o —" he
said, then ordered Len to take off
his shoe and sock.
The doctor placed the foot up
on an ottoman under a dazzling
white light. His fingers moved
swiftly, surely, over the skin and
flesh and bone. He slapped gent
ly, twisted. "Hurt?" he grunted.
Len shook his head. "That?"
Another twist. "That?" Still
another twist, the other way. Five
minutes of this, then he growled,
"We'll X-ray it—that is best. So
far—" he shrugged his heavy
shoulders.
"So far—what, Doctor?"
"All right. Perfectly all right.
But I can't be sure, young man—
yet." He wagged a finger. "But
I'm not often wrong, young man.
No, not often." He crossed the
room and wheeled the X-ray ma
chine into position. Four pictures
were taken—one from each side,
one from the top and another
from the bottom. "Come tomor
row at this time," Dr. Weingrat
said unemotionally, "'and I'll let
you know."
"So," Dr. Weingrat greeted Len
when he was ushered in next
day, "on time, eh? Sit down."
He came to Len with pieces of
something that looked like photo
graph film in his hand. Then he
punctuated his speech with flour
ishes of the hand that held the
X-ray revelations.
"'Young man," his voice was
gruff, but kind. "Your case is
a very strange one. There is a
small bone in the ankle—" there
followed a detailed scientific and
technical explanation which Len
somehow survived.
"... and therefore," Dr. Wein
grat concluded, while Len hung
breathlessly on every terse word
as it came from the specialist's
thick lips, "there is no reason.
none at all, why you shouldn't
play tennis If you want to. That
ankle you need never worry
about again, it is as strong as—
well, strong as that of a young
horse!"
The room was spinning. Len,
trying to keep his voice from
cracking, merely said, "I'll leave
my name and address with the
nurse so you'll know where to
send the bill."
And then, in a daze he found
his way out into the street. Peo
ple were passing by and automo
biles were humming along Park
Avenue, losing themselves in the
ramp that ran around the Grand
Central Building. But Len was
not entirely conscious of his sur
roundings. The people, the traf
fic, the sounds of the city, the
heat of the day, his own moving
body were vague. He was on a
court, wide with perfectly chalk
lines running parallel and others
intersecting at given distances.
And over green grass gleaming
white-clad figures were swinging
racquets as a white ball flew over
a correctly sloping net, and there
was applause that sounded like
rain beating heavily on a tin
roof. And one of the players was
himself.
• » •
During the next month Len
played at different clubs against
men who were ranked in the first
ten. Topnotch competition quick
ly brought back his game. He
was, in fact, better than he had
ever been before. Since his en
forced retirement his stroking and
service seemed to have improved
both in power and skill. The
newspapers gave him columns of
space and mentioned him fre
quently in connection with the
Davis Cup team.
There was a change in his re
lationship to Grace—subtle, but
definite. She dined alone now
when he was late, instead of
waiting for him and often was
not home when he came in. No
longer did she storm or plead
with him about running off
week-ends leaving her alone. It
seemed, after that first stormy
scene when he had told her about
Dr. Weingrat's diagnosis, that
she had resigned herself to the
inevitable.
But it was Frank Wheatley
first opened Len's eyes and then
Len blamed Grace and not him
self. He went directly home fol
lowing a match to have it out
with her, but she was not there.
By the time she did arrive, he
had exaggerated the truth a
hundredfold.
(Continued Next Week)
Some Grafting
Willie—Daddy, do they raise
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Father—No, son. Sometimes a
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