Before twelve thousand calm and quiet spectators, a few white-clad individuals gave an exhibition of the science of tennis in New York on Saturday night. The tennis was good tennis, the audience saw skill, and conflict, and the desire to win. And incidentally they saw well-paid professionals.
The venture of Mr. C. C. Pyle and his partners in this crime against the untainted amateur spirit will not, it is predicted, meet with the success that had been predicted. There was no scrambling for the balls, players were not besieged for autographs. Mademoiselle Lenglen and Mr. Richards missed a trick by not sending tennis balls to the sick boy whose convalescence has recently been so materially aided by the receipt of a baseball from Mr. Ruth and a football from Mr. Grange. The Madison Square Garden audience showed no World Series fever and Mademoiselle Lenglen showed no temperament. Which in itself is enough to prove that there is no future in it.
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