This is the first time that the Knolly Estate has allowed the great man's memoirs to be published. What follows is the twenty ninth chapter of 'The African Adventure'.

Anyone For Tennis Part 7

We thought it only proper that we should allow Rhodes some time to retire to the house to spruce up and rid his person of birdie-bile. As Rhodes marched back to the house, Jameson turned to us.

You will excuse us for a few minutes, I hope? I would like to ask Mr Croton a few questions about ... erm ... about the, ah, landscape. Yes, geology of the area and all that.

'Not at all,' I replied, realising that he was up to no good. 'By the way, shouldn't you address him as 'Reverend Croton' or somesuch?'

Aha! interjected Croton, slowly making his way down from his precarious perch. That is a most common mistake. "Reverend" is simply my forename. My father and mother were both avid church-goers. I have a brother named Pew and a sister named Nave, he explained.

And what about the dog-collar? asked Bertie.

Oh, that? I just like the look ...

Bertie turned to me and blinked: I'VE PICKED A RIGHT ONE HERE.

By now, those members of the household that had time on their hands, along with off-duty members of the Regiment, had started to gather and make themselves comfortable around the court. Obviously, the news of this match had spread swiftly — or Elspeth had just bullied people along.

Bertie and I sat and took this opportunity to relax in the pleasant warmth of the African sun. Jameson and Croton walked slowly from the court, locked in deep conversation and executing lots of checking of watches, checking of pocket-compasses and noting in small books.

The Countess's parting call rang clear in my mind: Beware the umpire. Indeed. Daft as he appeared, Croton was clearly in the employ of that rapscallion Rhodes and no doubt his umpiring would take that relationship into account.

Before I could dwell on this for any length of time, there came a distraction. From the corner of my eye, I saw a glint of reflected sunlight and some slight movement from within a large bush. Not wishing to draw the attention of the crowd, I nudged Bertie and blinked him a message: THERE'S A FELLOW IN THE FOLIAGE.

We sat in silence and caught a glimpse of the occupant of the twitching bush.

Bertie blinked: 'PON MY SOUL! ATSOV TULARI!

I blinked at Bertie to stay put as I strolled nonchalantly around to Tulari's hideout. He turned, saw me and did not look at all surprised. He smiled and whispered quietly:

Hello mister English. I not Tulari — I da Silva, how you is do? Please to shhhh. I on your side. Portuguese. Plan of Rhodes and his friend very bad for us all in Africa. We wish to stop him too. Please ... you play your game to distract him as long as possible. Maybe I stop him with my friend? He pulled back his jacket and lovingly tapped a revolver.

An assassination attempt! My mind raced with the repercussions of such an act. As much as the British Government was embarrassed by Rhodes, they would surely be compelled to act if he were to be assassinated. The prime suspects would undoubtedly be other imperial forces. The result? Armed conflict between nations. War on a scale never before seen.

Oh dear, I thought.

Quick! He come!

Tulari — or rather, da Silva — indicated that Rhodes was on his way back from the house. With him came Elspeth, looking every inch the country gentlewoman, and behind her Mrs T with a trolley of some sorts.

'Please, Mr da Silva, no guns. NO GUNS!' I hissed.

He smiled and winked.

No guns. I try. You go to game now. I watch Rhodes more.

I sauntered back to Bertie, who had been keenly observing Jameson and Croton.

NO NEWS FROM ME, KNOLLY, he blinked.

NEVER MIND, I replied.

'ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, KNOLLY? LOOKS LIKE YOU HAVE SEEN A GHOST.'

'LATER, BERTIE. LATER.'

We went back out to the court, where Rhodes bore a huge tray upon which stood a pitcher of fruit drink and five glasses.

'Mrs Twistleton sent this lot out for us. Says it's going to be hot and we'd better have some fluids.'

He carefully handed a glass each to Bertie and me. We drank it down quickly and it seemed to hit the spot. We waved cheerfully to Mrs T, who had found herself a spot in the shade.

Elspeth, standing by the umpire's chair, gave Croton a poke with her parasol. Back in his perch, Croton rang a little bell.

All right! Let's warm up and we can get this over with!

We took to the court with hairy rubber balls in hand. During the knock-up, it became clear that this match would be a clash of styles as well as a clash of ideals. Rhodes and Jameson had technique through training, but little in the way of mobility, strength and agility. Bertie and I were their exact opposites. Were there not so much at stake, it was the sort of game that one might enjoy as an observer or as a participant.

'Go on, Bertie. You have first tap,' I said as I threw a ball his way. 'I suggest you give it the old heave-ho and see what happens. Oh, and — much as it would delight me — do try not to hit our opponents with the ball. You remember what happened when old Willso inadvertently got in the way as he turned his back on one of your faster serves?'

Yes! We never did get that ball back, did we? said Bertie with a daft grin.

He promised to be good in that respect.

Croton called, Play up!

'Here we go, then. Ready, all?'

I settled into an active prone position, waiting for the return of serve, when heard four distinct sounds. They were: WHOOSH-THUNG-DUPP-FZZZZZ.

'WHOOSH' as Bertie's racquet made a perfect, pacy, powerful arc through the air. 'THUNG' as his racquet made contact with the ball. 'DUPP' as the ball hit the manicured turf within the serving-box. 'FZZZZZ' as the ball sped into the loose netting surrounding the court.

The crowd applauded.

Fifteen-love by our reckoning. But there was no movement from either of our opponents. Some seconds passed before Rhodes called out:

Come on, man! What are you waiting for? Put the ball into play!

Bertie and I looked at each other and then looked up at Croton for some guidance.

Errrmmm. Leg bye? offered the old fruitcake.

You cannot be serious! shouted Bertie.

There followed an epic argument, during which time Bertie and I tried to use good, old-fashioned logic to point out that yes, Bertie had served the ball and yes, it was in and yes, it was good. Jamseon took some time to compose his reply.

Wasn't.

Then how do you explain the small dent in the turf where the ball hit and the tennis ball lodged in the netting behind you? Elspeth interjected, pointing with her parasol.

They looked sheepish.

Oh. All right, then. Fifteen-love, said Rhodes.

And thus the match continued. Bertie and I played the game in the Corinthian spirit; Rhodes and Jameson were cheating blaggards with the umpire in their pocket, vehemently disputing every decision and using delaying and diversional tactics in attempts to upset our rhythm.

We won the first set by a margin of 6 games to 4. Bertie and I took a while to hit our stride and we had to learn to pace ourselves somewhat against these wily devils. We found that we were expending more energy than our usual efforts, mainly due to resistance offered by voluminous jungle shorts that became even more voluminous while running around.

Our opponents won the second set by a margin of 6 games to 3, based largely on a series of preposterous calls from Croton. My thoughts carelessly drifted back to my encounter with our Portuguese friend; this provided a major distraction. I imagined da Silva in that nearby bush, revolver aimed and ready to do the dastardly deed. Bertie could see that I was not with it, but thought that the poor umpiring was the cause. If only.

To this day, Bertie believes that our opponents conditioned the refreshments with some narcotic. This theory may have some legs. Neither Bertie nor I can remember a single point or incident from the third set; Elspeth later showed us the scorebook which showed that we won by a margin of 6 games to 2. We also exhibited some strange behaviour: according to Croton's notes in the margins of said scorebook, '... during lapses of play, Mr Harrison-Harrison appeared to be occupied in a determined effort to count the number of blades of grass upon the surface of the court, and Mr Knolly did use his racquet as a banjo to entertain us with renditions of bawdy ballads.' Fortunately, we had the presence of mind to avoid the refreshments thereafter.

A well-contested and frenetic rally early in the fourth set saw all of us within four paces of each other, executing volley after volley (most of which were in self-defence). Unfortunately, Bertie and I came a little too close and we managed to entangle the webbing from our jungle shorts in the net. This restricted our range of movement somewhat and even further
restricted our choice of shot. Croton stated that there was no rule of which he knew that allowed stoppage time for the extrication of self from mesh-type material. Thus, we lost that set by 6 games to 1.

By far the biggest disruption came just after the end of this fourth set, when Croton checked his watch, rang a little bell and called LUNCH! He then dove swiftly from his chair, executing a perfect forward roll as he hit the ground, springing up and running as fast as his ancient little ancient legs could carry him back to the house.

We all stood and watched. Jameson cursed under his breath and Rhodes threw down his racquet in disgust. Clearly, Croton had let them down. Elspeth, though, was highly amused

We are willing to continue without an umpire, said Bertie, unravelling himself from the net. How 'bout it?

There was a long delay in proceedings as Rhodes and Jameson whispered in a confidential manner to each other. At the end of it, Jameson just shrugged, picked up a ball and prepared to serve. With the match about to enter its final stages, we saw a small dust cloud in the distance. It seemed to be getting closer. As it did, we heard a sound like thunder. It was hooves. It was a rider who bore a message. A very important message. A message that was more important than a very important message indeed. A message that was important enough to interrupt a tennis match.

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