"And the Rigour of the Game" Page #3

"And the Rigour of the Game" by Robert Barr is a thought-provoking exploration of the intersection between sports and life, delving into themes of competition, resilience, and personal growth. Through engaging narratives and insightful reflections, Barr examines how the principles and challenges faced in sports can mirror those encountered in everyday life. The book encourages readers to embrace the rigors of their own pursuits, offering inspiration to navigate both triumphs and setbacks with grace and determination.

• Short story

								

one wild thought of flying to the club and warning her son. A moment's
consideration put that idea out of the question. She called the
serving-maid, who came, as it seemed to the anxious woman, with
exasperating deliberation.

"Jane," she cried, "do you know where the Athletic Club is? Do you know
where Centre Street is?"

Jane knew neither club nor locality.

"I want a message taken there to Dick, and it must go quickly. Don't
you think you could run there----"

"It would be quicker to telegraph, ma'am," said Jane, who was not
anxious to run anywhere. "There's telegraph paper in Mr. Richard's
room, and the office is just round the corner."

"That's it, Jane; I'm glad you thought of it. Get me a telegraph form.
Do make haste."

She wrote with a trembling hand, as plainly as she could, so that her
son might have no difficulty in reading:--

"Richard Saunders, Athletic Club, Centre Street.

"Your father is coming to see you. He will be at the club before
half-an-hour."

"There is no need to sign it; he will know his mother's writing," said
Mrs. Saunders, as she handed the message and the money to Jane; and
Jane made no comment, for she knew as little of telegraphing as did her
mistress. Then the old woman, having done her best, prayed that the
telegram might arrive before her husband; and her prayer was answered,
for electricity is more speedy than an old man's legs.

Meanwhile Mr. Saunders strode along from the suburb to the city. His
stout stick struck the stone pavement with a sharp click that sounded
in the still, frosty, night air almost like a pistol shot. He would
show both his wife and his son that he was not too old to be master in
his own house. He talked angrily to himself as he went along, and was
wroth to find his anger lessening as he neared his destination. Anger
must be very just to hold its own during a brisk walk in evening air
that is cool and sweet.

Mr. Saunders was somewhat abashed to find the club building a much more
imposing edifice than he had expected. There was no low, groggy
appearance about the True Blue Athletic Club. It was brilliantly lit
from basement to attic. A group of men, with hands in pockets, stood on
the kerb as if waiting for something. There was an air of occasion
about the place. The old man inquired of one of the loafers if that was
the Athletic Club.

"Yes, it is," was the answer; "are you going in?"

"I intend to."

"Are you a member?"

"No."

"Got an invitation?"

"No."

"Then I suspect you won't go in. We've tried every dodge ourselves."

The possibility of not getting in had never occurred to the old
gentleman, and the thought that his son, safe within the sacred
precincts of a club, might defy him, flogged his flagging anger and
aroused his dogged determination.

"I'll try, at least," he said, going up the stone steps.

The men watched him with a smile on their lips. They saw him push the
electric button, whereupon the door opened slightly. There was a brief,
unheard parley; then the door swung wide open, and, when Mr. Saunders
entered, it shut again.

"Well, I'm blest!" said the man on the kerb; "I wonder how the old
duffer worked it. I wish I had asked him." None of the rest made any
comment; they were struck dumb with amazement at the success of the old
gentleman, who had even to ask if that were the club.

When the porter opened the door he repeated one of the questions asked
a moment before by the man on the kerb.

"Have you an invitation, sir?"

"No," answered the old man, deftly placing his stick so that the barely
opened door could not be closed until it was withdrawn. "No! I want to
see my son, Richard Saunders. Is he inside?"

The porter instantly threw open the door.

"Yes, sir," he said. "They're expecting you, sir. Kindly come this way,
sir."

The old man followed, wondering at the cordiality of his reception.
There must be some mistake. Expecting him? How could that be! He was
led into a most sumptuous parlour where a cluster of electric lamps in
the ceiling threw a soft radiance around the room.

"Be seated, sir. I will tell Mr. Hammond that you are here."

"But--stop a moment. I don't want to see Mr. Hammond. I have nothing to
do with Mr. Hammond. I want to see my son. Is it Mr. Hammond the
banker?"

"Yes, sir. He told me to bring you in here when you came and to let him
know at once."

The old man drew his hand across his brow, and ere he could reply the
porter had disappeared. He sat down in one of the exceedingly easy
leather chairs and gazed in bewilderment around the room. The fine
pictures on the wall related exclusively to sporting subjects. A trim
yacht, with its tall, slim masts and towering cloud of canvas at an
apparently dangerous angle, seemed sailing directly at the spectator.
Pugilists, naked to the waists, held their clinched fists in menacing
attitudes. Race-horses, in states of activity and at rest, were
interspersed here and there. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal
of black marble, and upon it rested a huge silver vase encrusted with
ornamentation. The old man did not know that this elaborate specimen of
the silversmith's art was referred to as the "Cup." Some one had hung a
placard on it, bearing, in crudely scrawled letters the words:--

               "Fare thee well, and if for ever
                Still for ever Fare thee well."

While the old man was wondering what all this meant, the curtain
suddenly parted and there entered an elderly gentleman somewhat
jauntily attired in evening dress with a rose at his buttonhole.
Saunders instantly recognised him as the banker, and he felt a
resentment at what he considered his foppish appearance, realising
almost at the same moment the rustiness of his own clothes, an everyday
suit, not too expensive even when new.

"How are you, Mr. Saunders?" cried the banker, cordially extending his
hand. "I am very pleased indeed to meet you. We got your telegram, but
thought it best not to give it to Dick. I took the liberty of opening
it myself. You see we can't be too careful about these little details.
I told the porter to look after you and let me know the moment you
came. Of course you are very anxious about your boy."

"I am," said the old man firmly. "That's why I'm here."

"Certainly, certainly. So are we all, and I presume I'm the most
anxious man of the lot. Now what you want to know is how he is getting
along?"

"Yes; I want to know the truth."

"Well, unfortunately, the truth is about as gloomy as it can be. He's
been going from bad to worse, and no man is more sorry than I am."

"Do you mean to tell me so?"
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