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Updated: May 28, 2025
They did not even try a shot at him from behind a wall; considering him perfectly invulnerable, they deemed it a pity to waste good powder and lead that might be usefully employed on an agent or process server.
Here I met again an old Cretan friend, Server Pasha, sent to try the same silly, futile tactics which so failed in Crete, i.e. offering the insurgents elaborate paper reforms in exchange for actual submission.
"I will say nothing of the server," he remarked, "though it is said to have been wrought by the old mad Florentine, Benvenuto Cellini. But, Mr. Lovel, our ancestors drank sack you, who admire the drama, know where that's to be found. Here's success to your exertions at Fairport, sir!"
The players stand on opposite sides of the net; the one who first delivers the ball is called the server and the other the striker-out. At the end of each game they reverse places.
I put the matter before the Vicar, asking him if he thought his novelties were worth while in the face of the opposition of the village and the loss of his religious influence with the children. He would not go back from what, he said, he regarded as a matter of principle, and could not see that he was throwing away a unique opportunity, but he agreed to withdraw the unwelcome Server.
The server will shortly realize that you will take your time regardless of him, and he will slow up. I do not advocate stalling nothing is worse. It is a breach of ethics that is wholly uncalled for. Play the game naturally, and give your opponent full courtesy in all matters. If you do, you will receive it in return.
Say, come to look him over close, I might have known he was no ten-a-week process server. He's costumed neat but expensive, and his lily-white hands are manicured to the last notch. Nice lookin' youth he is, with a good head on him and a fine pair of shoulders. And for conversation he uses the kind of near-English accent you hear along the Harvard Gold Coast. Cul-chaw?
I think a ghastly pallor must have overspread my face as I stood motionless, grasping the server in my clenched hands. What do you think Blue-Eyes said? This is the way she "gave me fits." Looking up prettily to my aunt, she says: "Oh, madam, I am so sorry for your carpet." "Your dress!" exclaimed Aunt Jerusha. "Never mind that, madam. It can go to the laundry."
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The good Father, very lovingly drawn, casts his kind glance around as he passes on his Office with the veiled Pyx carried reverently. Before him goes Death, his Server, hastening the last mercy with eager steps. Under his arm is the tiny glass that has measured the whole of a mortality; the sands have lost their moving charm, and all their dazzle makes but a little shadow now.
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