"Never mind," I said, "supposing someone did?"
"Well, then, there would be his brother," he replied.
I had forgotten that.
"Well, we won't argue about how many of them there are," I said.
"Suppose someone killed the lot, should we hear less of Renshaw?"
"Never," he replied emphatically. "Renshaw will always be a name
wherever tennis is spoken of."
I dread to think what the result might have been had his answer
been other than it was.
The next year he dropped tennis completely and became an ardent
amateur photographer, whereupon all his friends implored him to
return to tennis, and sought to interest him in talk about services
and returns and volleys, and in anecdotes concerning Renshaw. But
he would not heed them.
Whatever he saw, wherever he went, he took. He took his friends,
and made them his enemies. He took babies, and brought despair to
fond mothers' hearts. He took young wives, and cast a shadow on
the home. Once there was a young man who loved not wisely, so his
friends thought, but the more they talked against her the more he
clung to her. Then a happy idea occurred to the father.
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