Tennis

Richards-Tilden. Mrs. Vincent Richards was in a pet. It was her birthday and it seemed to her that, even if he was up against long Will Tilden in the final of the Metropolitan grass court championship, her blond, child-faced young husband might have remembered to get her some keepsake. On the way out to the Crescent Athletic Club courts in Brooklyn, she told him as much, calmly but with frigid point.

Vincent scarcely heard her. He was moodily eyeing a grey sky and puddles in the road. Vaguely he answered: "You'll have one before the day is over," and fell silent again.

Later, dripping and smiling, no longer vague, he came up to her with a heavy metal object in his hand. "Here," he said, giving her "Rattlesnake," the bronze Indian's head executed by the late Artist Frederick Remington (valued at $3,500), which has stood since 1921 as the Metropolitan grass court trophy. Richards had won it twice before, and now, after a turbulent scene with long Will Tilden, it was his forever. Mrs. Richards was her happy self once more and they went gaily off for a birthday dinner.

As for long Will Tilden, these five years kingpin of terrestrial tennis, there was little gaiety in him that evening. It was the third successive time this summer that Richards had trounced him. In the match that afternoon, Tilden's stroking had been sodden and erratic; now frantic, now listless. After a week of brilliance, he had had a sorry relapse, which even the time-worn expedient of playing in his. sock feet to absorb, Anteus-like, some grip and vigor from the moist earth, had failed to dispel. Richards had pressed matters with even fury, dancing securely on his spikes. Tilden, leaping and slipping like a tipsy stork, had withstood him scarely at all. Some people were saying that the theatre* had "gotten" long Will Tilden. Others said: "Nonsense, he will take care of himself when the Davis Cup matches and national championship come along." Some said he was clowning too much, his tournament intensity dissipated by other interests. Others said: "Never think it. Will Tilden is a man of 43; his follies are over, even if he does eat flapjacks at Hollywood now and then. Tennis is his game, his life. He'll not be 'through' for many a moon." Wills-Browne. The fresh-healed threat in Helen Wills' right side--her appendix scar--softened last week and put her adulators at their ease. Her match in the final of the East Hampton invitation tournament against nut-brown Mary Browne was the first test of her condition since her operation in England, and she passed it with never a quiver. Her old bulletlike serve sang true; her sly placements sped exactly. Mary Browne was buckled down to business, but the two sets took Helen Wills only 45 minutes: 6-3, 6-2. Lenglen. Not long ago, Harold ("Red") Grange wound sinuously, ably through tough tacklers while thousands screamed frenzied delight. C. C. Pyle, "Red's" manager, was pleased. "Red" was a good bet--but how long would this Wheaton iceman last? There were other "stars," men and women of taste, gentility who could keep fickle sports-lovers' interest--Tilden, Jones, Wills . . . Last week Mr. Pyle secured a prize beyond his dreams--a sporting primadonna. Suzanne Lenglen, temperamental world's champion tennis player, artiste of the courts, signed a $110,000 contract for a four-months' exhibition tour this autumn through the U. S., Canada, Cuba, Mexico, after which she will appear in a tennis film. She hopes that tennis will soon be like golf in permitting amateurs to compete with professionals in open meets without jeopardizing their amateur standing. Said Mr. Pyle: "I do not anticipate the slightest trouble . . ."

*Tilden's most visible means of livelihood in recent months has been acting small parts in That Smith Boy and other plays.