THUNDER from J©
ft n T STAND S
Richards^Q
CHAPTER X
Synopsis
Len Rollins, » tennis ace,
dreamed of helping win thev
Davis Cup for America. He fell
in love with Grace Worthing
ton who would only marry him
if he gave up tennis. He did—
partly because of his love for
Grace, partly because of a bad
ly sprained ankle. His ankle
healed unexpectedly and he
joined the Davis team. Grace
threatens to leave him. On the
eve of his sailing she is injured
in an automobile accident, but
he sails—knowing that the ac
cident is not serious. In the
tournament he cannot keep his
mind on the game. He has
heard that Grace is seeking a
divorce to remarry.
From below where he paused
momentarily to bite into a piece
of lemon, Len raised his head to
ward the umpire and laughed.
Slapping the racquet challeng
ingly against his flannel trouser
ed leg, he went out on the court.
So she wanted him to be a great
player, did she? Well, she'd read
in the papers about him tomor
row!
Lefevre seemed to sense a
change in his opponent. The wry,
almost pitying smile disappeared.
He knew, as did Len, that many
a Davis Cup match had been won
by the man with two sets against
him. Hadn't Cochet triumphed
over Big Bill Tilden in just such
a manner not so many years
ago? And as quickly and correct
ly as Lefevre sensed the change
in Len, Lea also sensed the
change in his opponent. The
Frenchman had tightened up,
was pressing, trying too hard.
There was no stopping Len. He
swept through Lefevre in that
third set with relentless and dev
astating accuracy. There was ac
claim from the boxes as the ref
eree made the announcement:
"Monsieur Rollins wins the third
set 6 —3. Score in sets now is
two to one in favor of Monsieur
Lefevre." He caught a faint ray
of hope in Swanstrom's eyes
when their glances met over the
sunbaked marquee as he and Le
fevre left the court.
When he returned to the court
following the rest period Len
sensed the change in the spec
tators, the ball boys, the lines
men, even the referee. There
was a lack of confidence in their
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God Lefevre. At first the change
was slight, then marked and
complete. An easy one-sided vic
tory was turning into a brilliant
and sensational uphill struggle.
The flicker of a frown creased
Lefevre's forehead. The French
Davis Cup star broke Len's ser
vice for two successive points,
but undaunted, Len smashed his
way to a lead of three games
with bullet-like aces and phenom
enal net play.
And now Lefevre was plainly
worried. He fretted about a peb
ble that had become uprooted on
the court. It was necessary for
him to tighten the laces of his
shoes. And once he glared at a
linesman who called in favor of
the American a shot which nick
ed the side-line. Len was making
splendid use of his height now
by the net at a time when Le
fevre's stroking had weakened in
strength and accuracy. Kill fol
lowed kill for telling points. Le
fevre then tried to drive him
back into the deep court with
long, floating lobs and passing
shots, but his efforts were futile.
Len Rollins was not to be stop
ped.
Len noticed, and it was the
first genuine thrill he had ex
perienced since he began the all
important match, Clark's hand
digging into Wheatley's shoulder,
yet Wheatley did not seem to no
tice. And Swanstrom and Hughes
sat forward, staring, breathing
unevenly as if they themselves
were playing. Len was serving
again, and if he won this game
it would square the match. If he
could take this game and set, it
might crush Lefevre's spirit.
Zing—zing—zing _ went the
ball. Crunching of rubber-soled
shoes over clay. Swishing of
flannel as legs darted here, there.
Cries of "Out!" "Good!" "Fault!"
in excited French from the lines
men and referee. The deadly
quiet of the stands except at the
conclusion of volleys which won
applause. And finally, toneless
ly from the referee's chair:
"Monsieur Rollins wins the
fourth set 6—2. The match
stands squared at two sets all."
The sun had drbpped some in
the sky and it was a little cooler
when the players returned to the
court. But it was a resolute Le
fevre Len faced now. Not the un
settled one of the last two. Rath
er, a man who realized his dan
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ger. His face was grim with de
termination.
But Len did not fear him.
The Frenchman won the first
game and they changed courts.
Len noticed the set expression on
the faces of his teammates. He
himself felt no strain. He would
win because he had to win.
Knowing that gave him strength.
The fourth game and the fifth
were over; they changed again.
Racquets flashed, feet scurried
over clay; there were cries from
the linesmen, bursts of applause
from the crowded stands.
Monsieur Rollins' game;
games are three all in the fifth
set . . . "
Len smiled, and winked at a
linesman as he went by.
Another game. Lefevre was
playing as if inspired, but the
Frenchman's inspiration sprang
from no such deep and demand
ing wells as did Len's.
"Monsieur Lefevre's game;
games are four three in favor of
Monsieur Lefevre." Back into
the referee's voice crept some of
the enthusiasm that had been
there previous to Len's stupen
dous rally. But Len merely took
a tighter grip upon the handle of
his racquet. A sizzlzing passing
shot which Lefevre courageously
but vainly attempted to reach.
The match was squared. Four
games each . . .
Their world now was the ten
nis court. The spectators might
have been on some distant plan
et. Lefevre knew only that the
man on the other side of the net
must not be allowed to win; and
Len just as keenly knew that Le
fevre must be driven to defeat.
Len stalked Lefevre now as a
beast of the jungle stalks its
prey. Not a move did the other
make that did not mirror itself
immediately in Len's mind. He
was close on the trail now, wait
ing for his quarry to falter. And
when he did—swift and sure
would be his death.
But Lefevre throughout the
ninth game, though it was
deuced seven times, did not fal
ter. It was Len instead who fin
ally left an opening. And the
Frenchman took quick advan
tage . . . "Monsieur Lefevre leads
five games to four. Change,
please." The crescendo of the
referee's voice was startling.
One game, the mere matter of
ten points at the most, remained
between the squaring of the
match and defeat. But Len would
not fail; he would win. He had
to win.
Lefevre was serving. Back and
forth. Doggedly Len pursued.
Eventually one of them would
crack. And this time it would be
the Frenchman. With a scorch
ing drive Len made the score
thirty-forty. And on the next
return throwing caution to the
winds he rushed to the net.
Jumping high in the air he kill
ed Lefevre's lob with an overhead
smash which evened the match.
The announcement came again,
concern once more evident in the
French accent: "Games are five
all in the fifth and deciding
set . . . "
Clark and Wheatley were hug
ging each other; Hughes and
Swanstrom were standing. Prom
the stands came long and tumul
tuous applause. The partisan
French spectators now cheered
wildly the blond young Ameri
can's magnificent Uphill struggle.
And now Len had the advan
tage. He was serving. Not once
during the afternoon had his
terrific "screw" ball deserted him.
And it did not desert him now.
His first shot was a brilliant ace.
The frown that creased Lefevre's
forehead deepened. The expect
ant hush that settled over the
gallery after the spontaneous tu
mult was balm to Len's ears.
The next service, though, Le
fevre returned expertly along the
sideline. It was, Len knew as he
started for it, practically unget
table. But he must not fail. Some
how he reached side court just
as the ball was bounding past,
threw his racquet at it viciously
from the backhand, and knew
happy amazement as it hurtled
back safely into the French
man's court.
He had been drawn out of po
sition by the seemingly impossi
ble recovery. And now the area
left open in which Lefevre would
put the ball away yawned terri
fyingly as he wheeled. There
was no alternative. This was the
time for daring and not finesse.
He bounded toward the net. The
bravado of the maneuver mom
entarily unsettled Lefevre. The
lob, which floated over the Amer
ican's head, missed the base line
by a foot.
The shrill sing-song voice from
above . . . "Thirty-love."
Len stood, panting hard, be
hind his own base line. He took
a long, resuscitating breath, a
fresh grip on the racquet. Then,
like a spring, his body coiled and
released, swiftly uncoiled. The
ball went wide. The second ball
found the box. The invincible
Frenchman made it good, how
ever, and after a spirited volley
won the point.
"Thirty-fifteen."
Again up on toe—and that ter
rific spinning service nicking the
white line so the chalk flew high
in the air. Lefevre bit his lip as
the ball bounded off the retain
ing wall and rolled away . . .
"Forty-fifteen" and after a
long volley—"FOrty-thirty."
A daring cut of a trap-shot.
Len watched, almost amused, as
the French star heartbreaklngly
tried for it—and missed . . .
The drone of the referee:
"Monsieur Rollins leads in the
fifth set, six games to five ..."
Lefevre must fight now with
his back to the wall. True, the
Frenchman was serving. But
Len preferred it so. The psychol
ogy was all in Len's favor. The
man in the hole was serving.
Splendid! Lefevre had to make
his services good, or . ...
The first ball came and Len
drove it off his forehand to the
far base line. He laughed confi
dently to himself as he rushed in,
picked up the return at his feet
on the half-volley, sent it spin
ning along the sideline. Took it
again on the short volley, this
time off his backhand, slashed
the ball at the Frenchman's feet.
The return came back too high,
perfectly angled for a kill.
"Love-fifteen ..."
Four more points. Four little
points. Please Ood! His body
trembled, but his hand was firm
and sure on the handle of the
racquet.
A double fault! Lefevre saw
him smile. The next ball came
at him savagely. He drove It
back and Lefevre's return just
inside the sideline, he could not
rpflph
"Fifteen-thirty!"
How quiet it was! Lefevre's
service came again, a twisting,
treacherous ball this time that
bounced high. But returned it
safely. The French ace took it
prettily on his backhand, sending
the ball to the deep corner. But
Len was there and angled the
ball to the other corner. Le
fevre got off a blasting drive
which nicked the line. Len just
managed to reach it; his return
was weak. Lefevre, eyes gleam
ing, came quickly /forward with
panther-like grace. He swung
from above, his racquet a mere
flash in the sunshine.
The ball had all but passed
Len before he had an opportunity
to gauge or time its flight. In
stinctively he thrust out his rac
quet, wrist stiff. He felt the vi
bration of the ball squarely strik
ing his racquet; it made a sing
ing noise as it left the gut and
dropped inches within the base
line. Sudden thunder from the
stands. There was no favorite
now. Here was drama, tennis
history in the making!
One point. One point more.
One little point between him and
the Davis Cup—"l wish you great
things, Len, in your chosen field"
—Suppose, just suppose Grace
should suddenly step out upon
the court from the packed stands
and ask him to lay aside his rac
quet? Would he . . .
But here it was; The service
which might bring victory and
all that such a victory would
mean. He was confident. His
legs did not feel tired, even af
ter these five torrid sets. His
arms felt strong, his eyes clear,
his wrist sure.
(Concluded Next Week)
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Thursday. October 3. 1940