intense he was; how anxious not to put a foot wrong.
“I’d welcome your suggestions, sir. I — er — that is, bearing in mind that there isn’t very long to work in.” ‘ “Let’s know what you’ve got up your sleeve,” Gideon told him.
Bligh’s eyes were shining — almost, thought Gideon, the eyes of a fanatic — and his lips quivered a little. He was so anxious not to sound too vehement, to show that he was completely objective.
“Well, sir, if we had a thousand men in the ground, stationed on the gangways at the end of each row — I had a word with the M.C.C. Secretary, sir, and a thousand would just about cover it. If our chaps squatted on the gangway steps, the moment the demonstration started they could each just take one man. Or woman. I mean — sir, I know it probably wouldn’t work like clockwork, but when you come to think, the demonstrators are bound to want to invade the pitch, so they’re likely to move towards the gangways, so as to reach the pitch, anyway — you see?”
He almost blushed at that remark, but collected himself again and rushed on: “Truly, sir, it shouldn’t be too difficult. And if we had a Black Maria at each of the exits — well, we could have the whole mob under lock and key within an hour, and the game would hardly have been interrupted!”
Gideon could see the picture as Bligh unfolded his plan; and the more clearly he saw it, the more he applauded. Bligh himself, having stopped, could hardly now contain his eagerness or his anxiety. And it came to Gideon that not only was this man good and thorough: he was absolutely dedicated. He had never known a man who deserved encouragement more.
Slowly, he nodded, and relief passed like sunlight over Bligh’s face.
“It could work like work, if all your deductions are right,” Gideon told him. “We’ll give it a go.” He wondered how Bligh managed to keep his elation under control, but he did. “You’ll need to have all the men there by three- thirty, mostly in plainclothes. Better have some earlier, in fact, in case we’ve guessed wrong about the timing. You can have the gates cordoned off by uniformed men. I’ll send instructions to the Divisions and we’ll use everyone we can from here. And thanks, Bligh — it could be a major success.”
“My God, I hope it is!” Bligh exploded, at last. “Thank you, sir!”
Gideon nodded dismissal, and Bligh went to the door as if he were sailing on a cloud. Then he turned, his expression completely altered,
“I only wish I’d been there to save the American, Rudge, from being hurt-they say he’ll have to scratch. But P.C. Donaldson did a very good best in the car park, sir.”
“Yes,” Gideon nodded. “Yes.” And then sat back and waited for Hobbs to bring Jacobus in.
That was the moment when the committee at the All England Tennis Club, sitting in the secretary’s office at Wimbledon, had gathered to discuss a special problem. For the first time in years, there had been no stoppages because of rain and all the competitions were well ahead of schedule. The record crowd of last year looked like being beaten comfortably, and there was still a week and two days to go. No one had expected a call to the secretary’s office and all were anxious to go and watch the games.
“There is just the one matter, gentlemen,” the secretary, Major Cartwright informed them. “It is in the form of a letter from one of the competitors — Mr, Barnaby Rudge, from Alabama.”
The sixteen men sitting round the table all showed a sudden interest. Two, collecting papers from the table, stopped and went still. The chairman said: “The man who had trouble in Number 3 Court?”
“That’s the kind of thing we really don’t want,” remarked a committee man.
“Wasn’t he hurt?” someone else asked. “Attacked, or something? These colour prejudices —”
“Perhaps you will read the letter, Major,” invited the chairman.
“It’s very short,” Cartwright stated, and held it up so that all could see the very large, black, schoolboyish handwriting. “It says: I respectfully request the Committee to enable me to play my next round on Monday next, when my injuries will be recovered.”
There was silence as Cartwright sat down. The chairman took the letter and read it aloud again; then murmured thoughtfully: “I wonder what rearrangement of matches it would mean?”
“Not too many, I think,” said Cartwright, at once.
“No more than if we’d had three days of rain,” offered another man.
“But we really must leave it to the Referee and his committee.” Cartwright looked towards a big, powerful- looking man: the Referee or Manager of the Tournament. “He has all the rearranging to do.”
“And think of the effect on the other competitors,” warned a small, bald-headed man.
“It would affect only Cyril Wallers, who’s due to play Rudge tomorrow,” stated the Referee, obviously fully briefed.
“Wallers has a doubles and a mixed doubles,” remarked the first objector.
“He might be able to get them played off first — might be glad to,” put in a man who hadn’t spoken. “I think we should try.” He looked at the Referee. “Can we, Ben?”
“If we make it clear that the match must be played on Monday,” the Referee said, judiciously, “I think we can do it quite comfortably. I’m sure Cyril Wallers would suggest that, if he knew it would help. There is a great deal of sympathy for Rudge among players and spectators alike and I feel this is most certainly a case where we should try. I’d like your approval, though, gentlemen?”
There was a pause, as the chairman looked first in one direction and then in the other, before saying: “I think we can make that unanimous, then. Thank you. You’ll let him know, Ben? Good. Now, with a little luck, we’ll have time to see the Lavis-Collis match on the Centre Court!”
Barnaby Rudge had an aura of radiance as he read the letter, delivered to him by hand only half-an-hour later. And Willison could hardly speak, he was so relieved. Half-an-hour later still, Barnaby was with the young doctor, who was examining the wrenched shoulder. It was so painful that it was almost ludicrous to think it might be better in time.
“But the X-ray shows there’s nothing broken,” Dr. Miller pointed out. “We’ll see what my magic can do.” He
