It was a morning in the middle of April, and the Jackson family wereconsequently breakfasting in comparative silence. The cricket seasonhad not begun, and except during the cricket season they were in thehabit of devoting their powerful minds at breakfast almost exclusivelyto the task of victualling against the labours of the day. In May,June, July, and August the silence was broken. The three grown-upJacksons played regularly in first-class cricket, and there was alwayskeen competition among their brothers and sisters for the copy of the_Sportsman_ which was to be found on the hall table with theletters. Whoever got it usually gloated over it in silence till urgedwrathfully by the multitude to let them know what had happened; whenit would appear that Joe had notched his seventh century, or thatReggie had been run out when he was just getting set, or, as sometimesoccurred, that that ass Frank had dropped Fry or Hayward in the slipsbefore he had scored, with the result that the spared expert had madea couple of hundred and was still going strong.
In such a case the criticisms of the family circle, particularly ofthe smaller Jackson sisters, were so breezy and unrestrained that Mrs.
Jackson generally felt it necessary to apply the closure. Indeed,Marjory Jackson, aged fourteen, had on three several occasions beenfined pudding at lunch for her caustic comments on the batting of herbrother Reggie in important fixtures. Cricket was a tradition in thefamily, and the ladies, unable to their sorrow to play the gamethemselves, were resolved that it should not be their fault if thestandard was not kept up.
On this particular morning silence reigned. A deep gasp from somesmall Jackson, wrestling with bread-and-milk, and an occasional remarkfrom Mr. Jackson on the letters he was reading, alone broke it.
"Mike's late again," said Mrs. Jackson plaintively, at last.
"He's getting up," said Marjory. "I went in to see what he was doing,and he was asleep. So," she added with a satanic chuckle, "I squeezeda sponge over him. He swallowed an awful lot, and then he woke up, andtried to catch me, so he's certain to be down soon.""Marjory!""Well, he was on his back with his mouth wide open. I had to. He wassnoring like anything.""You might have choked him.""I did," said Marjory with satisfaction. "Jam, please, Phyllis, youpig."Mr. Jackson looked up.
"Mike will have to be more punctual when he goes to Wrykyn," he said.
"Oh, father, is Mike going to Wrykyn?" asked Marjory. "When?""Next term," said Mr. Jackson. "I've just heard from Mr. Wain," headded across the table to Mrs. Jackson. "The house is full, but he isturning a small room into an extra dormitory, so he can take Mikeafter all."The first comment on this momentous piece of news came from BobJackson. Bob was eighteen. The following term would be his last atWrykyn, and, having won through so far without the infliction of asmall brother, he disliked the prospect of not being allowed to finishas he had begun.
"I say!" he said. "What?""He ought to have gone before," said Mr. Jackson. "He's fifteen. Muchtoo old for that private school. He has had it all his own way there,and it isn't good for him.""He's got cheek enough for ten," agreed Bob.
"Wrykyn will do him a world of good.""We aren't in the same house. That's one comfort."Bob was in Donaldson's. It softened the blow to a certain extent thatMike should be going to Wain's. He had the same feeling for Mike thatmost boys of eighteen have for their fifteen-year-old brothers. He wasfond of him in the abstract, but preferred him at a distance.
Marjory gave tongue again. She had rescued the jam from Phyllis, whohad shown signs of finishing it, and was now at liberty to turn hermind to less pressing matters. Mike was her special ally, and anythingthat affected his fortunes affected her.
"Hooray! Mike's going to Wrykyn. I bet he gets into the first elevenhis first term.""Considering there are eight old colours left," said Bob loftily,"besides heaps of last year's seconds, it's hardly likely that a kidlike Mike'll get a look in. He might get his third, if he sweats."The aspersion stung Marjory.
"I bet he gets in before you, anyway," she said.
Bob disdained to reply. He was among those heaps of last year'sseconds to whom he had referred. He was a sound bat, though lackingthe brilliance of his elder brothers, and he fancied that his cap wasa certainty this season. Last year he had been tried once or twice.
This year it should be all right.
Mrs. Jackson intervened.
"Go on with your breakfast, Marjory," she said. "You mustn't say 'Ibet' so much."Marjory bit off a section of her slice of bread-and-jam.
"Anyhow, I bet he does," she muttered truculently through it.
There was a sound of footsteps in the passage outside. The dooropened, and the missing member of the family appeared. Mike Jacksonwas tall for his age. His figure was thin and wiry. His arms and legslooked a shade too long for his body. He was evidently going to bevery tall some day. In face, he was curiously like his brother Joe,whose appearance is familiar to every one who takes an interest infirst-class cricket. The resemblance was even more marked on thecricket field. Mike had Joe's batting style to the last detail. He wasa pocket edition of his century-making brother. "Hullo," he said,"sorry I'm late."This was mere stereo. He had made the same remark nearly every morningsince the beginning of the holidays.
"All right, Marjory, you little beast," was his reference to thesponge incident.
His third remark was of a practical nature.
"I say, what's under that dish?""Mike," began Mr. Jackson--this again was stereo--"you really mustlearn to be more punctual----"He was interrupted by a chorus.
"Mike, you're going to Wrykyn next term," shouted Marjory.
"Mike, father's just had a letter to say you're going to Wrykyn nextterm." From Phyllis.
"Mike, you're going to Wrykyn." From Ella.
Gladys Maud Evangeline, aged three, obliged with a solo of her owncomposition, in six-eight time, as follows: "Mike Wryky. Mike Wryky.
Mike Wryke Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Wryke Mike Wryke Mike Wryke.""Oh, put a green baize cloth over that kid, somebody," groaned Bob.
Whereat Gladys Maud, having fixed him with a chilly stare for someseconds, suddenly drew a long breath, and squealed deafeningly formore milk.
Mike looked round the table. It was a great moment. He rose to it withthe utmost dignity.
"Good," he said. "I say, what's under that dish?"* * * * *After breakfast, Mike and Marjory went off together to the meadow atthe end of the garden. Saunders, the professional, assisted by thegardener's boy, was engaged in putting up the net. Mr. Jacksonbelieved in private coaching; and every spring since Joe, the eldestof the family, had been able to use a bat a man had come down from theOval to teach him the best way to do so. Each of the boys in turn hadpassed from spectators to active participants in the net practice inthe meadow. For several years now Saunders had been the chosen man,and his attitude towards the Jacksons was that of the Faithful OldRetainer in melodrama. Mike was his special favourite. He felt that inhim he had material of the finest order to work upon. There wasnothing the matter with Bob. In Bob he would turn out a good, soundarticle. Bob would be a Blue in his third or fourth year, and probablya creditable performer among the rank and file of a county team lateron. But he was not a cricket genius, like Mike. Saunders would lieawake at night sometimes thinking of the possibilities that were inMike. The strength could only come with years, but the style was therealready. Joe's style, with improvements.
Mike put on his pads; and Marjory walked with the professional to thebowling crease.
"Mike's going to Wrykyn next term, Saunders," she said. "All the boyswere there, you know. So was father, ages ago.""Is he, miss? I was thinking he would be soon.""Do you think he'll get into the school team?""School team, miss! Master Mike get into a school team! He'll beplaying for England in another eight years. That's what he'll beplaying for.""Yes, but I meant next term. It would be a record if he did. Even Joeonly got in after he'd been at school two years. Don't you think hemight, Saunders? He's awfully good, isn't he? He's better than Bob,isn't he? And Bob's almost certain to get in this term."Saunders looked a little doubtful.
"Next term!" he said. "Well, you see, miss, it's this way. It's allthere, in a manner of speaking, with Master Mike. He's got as muchstyle as Mr. Joe's got, every bit. The whole thing is, you see, miss,you get these young gentlemen of eighteen, and nineteen perhaps, andit stands to reason they're stronger. There's a young gentleman,perhaps, doesn't know as much about what I call real playing as MasterMike's forgotten; but then he can hit 'em harder when he does hit 'em,and that's where the runs come in. They aren't going to play MasterMike because he'll be in the England team when he leaves school.
They'll give the cap to somebody that can make a few then and there.""But Mike's jolly strong.""Ah, I'm not saying it mightn't be, miss. I was only saying don'tcount on it, so you won't be disappointed if it doesn't happen. It'squite likely that it will, only all I say is don't count on it. I onlyhope that they won't knock all the style out of him before they'redone with him. You know these school professionals, miss.""No, I don't, Saunders. What are they like?""Well, there's too much of the come-right-out-at-everything about 'emfor my taste. Seem to think playing forward the alpha and omugger ofbatting. They'll make him pat balls back to the bowler which he'd cutfor twos and threes if he was left to himself. Still, we'll hope forthe best, miss. Ready, Master Mike? Play."As Saunders had said, it was all there. Of Mike's style there could beno doubt. To-day, too, he was playing more strongly than usual.
Marjory had to run to the end of the meadow to fetch one straightdrive. "He hit that hard enough, didn't he, Saunders?" she asked, asshe returned the ball.
"If he could keep on doing ones like that, miss," said theprofessional, "they'd have him in the team before you could sayknife."Marjory sat down again beside the net, and watched more hopefully.
The seeing off of Mike on the last day of the holidays was an imposingspectacle, a sort of pageant. Going to a public school, especially atthe beginning of the summer term, is no great hardship, moreparticularly when the departing hero has a brother on the verge of theschool eleven and three other brothers playing for counties; and Mikeseemed in no way disturbed by the prospect. Mothers, however, to theend of time will foster a secret fear that their sons will be bulliedat a big school, and Mrs. Jackson's anxious look lent a fine solemnityto the proceedings.
And as Marjory, Phyllis, and Ella invariably broke down when the timeof separation arrived, and made no exception to their rule on thepresent occasion, a suitable gloom was the keynote of the gathering.
Mr. Jackson seemed to bear the parting with fortitude, as did Mike'sUncle John (providentially roped in at the eleventh hour on his wayto Scotland, in time to come down with a handsome tip). To theircoarse-fibred minds there was nothing pathetic or tragic about theaffair at all. (At the very moment when the train began to glide outof the station Uncle John was heard to remark that, in his opinion,these Bocks weren't a patch on the old shaped Larranaga.) Among otherspresent might have been noticed Saunders, practising late cuts rathercoyly with a walking-stick in the background; the village idiot, whohad rolled up on the chance of a dole; Gladys Maud Evangeline's nurse,smiling vaguely; and Gladys Maud Evangeline herself, frankly boredwith the whole business.
The train gathered speed. The air was full of last messages. UncleJohn said on second thoughts he wasn't sure these Bocks weren't half abad smoke after all. Gladys Maud cried, because she had taken a suddendislike to the village idiot; and Mike settled himself in the cornerand opened a magazine.
He was alone in the carriage. Bob, who had been spending the last weekof the holidays with an aunt further down the line, was to board thetrain at East Wobsley, and the brothers were to make a state entryinto Wrykyn together. Meanwhile, Mike was left to his milk chocolate,his magazines, and his reflections.
The latter were not numerous, nor profound. He was excited. He hadbeen petitioning the home authorities for the past year to be allowedto leave his private school and go to Wrykyn, and now the thing hadcome about. He wondered what sort of a house Wain's was, and whetherthey had any chance of the cricket cup. According to Bob they had noearthly; but then Bob only recognised one house, Donaldson's. Hewondered if Bob would get his first eleven cap this year, and if hehimself were likely to do anything at cricket. Marjory had faithfullyreported every word Saunders had said on the subject, but Bob had beenso careful to point out his insignificance when compared with thehumblest Wrykynian that the professional's glowing prophecies had nothad much effect. It might be true that some day he would play forEngland, but just at present he felt he would exchange his place inthe team for one in the Wrykyn third eleven. A sort of mist envelopedeverything Wrykynian. It seemed almost hopeless to try and competewith these unknown experts. On the other hand, there was Bob. Bob, byall accounts, was on the verge of the first eleven, and he was nothingspecial.
While he was engaged on these reflections, the train drew up at asmall station. Opposite the door of Mike's compartment was standing aboy of about Mike's size, though evidently some years older. He had asharp face, with rather a prominent nose; and a pair of pince-nez gavehim a supercilious look. He wore a bowler hat, and carried a smallportmanteau.
He opened the door, and took the seat opposite to Mike, whom hescrutinised for a moment rather after the fashion of a naturalistexamining some new and unpleasant variety of beetle. He seemed aboutto make some remark, but, instead, got up and looked through the openwindow.
"Where's that porter?" Mike heard him say.
The porter came skimming down the platform at that moment.
"Porter.""Sir?""Are those frightful boxes of mine in all right?""Yes, sir.""Because, you know, there'll be a frightful row if any of them getlost.""No chance of that, sir.""Here you are, then.""Thank you, sir."The youth drew his head and shoulders in, stared at Mike again, andfinally sat down. Mike noticed that he had nothing to read, andwondered if he wanted anything; but he did not feel equal to offeringhim one of his magazines. He did not like the looks of himparticularly. Judging by appearances, he seemed to carry enough sidefor three. If he wanted a magazine, thought Mike, let him ask for it.
The other made no overtures, and at the next stop got out. Thatexplained his magazineless condition. He was only travelling a shortway.
"Good business," said Mike to himself. He had all the Englishman'slove of a carriage to himself.
The train was just moving out of the station when his eye was suddenlycaught by the stranger's bag, lying snugly in the rack.
And here, I regret to say, Mike acted from the best motives, which isalways fatal.
He realised in an instant what had happened. The fellow had forgottenhis bag.
Mike had not been greatly fascinated by the stranger's looks; but,after all, the most supercilious person on earth has a right to hisown property. Besides, he might have been quite a nice fellow when yougot to know him. Anyhow, the bag had better be returned at once. Thetrainwas already moving quite fast, and Mike's compartment was nearingthe end of the platform.
He snatched the bag from the rack and hurled it out of the window.
(Porter Robinson, who happened to be in the line of fire, escaped witha flesh wound.) Then he sat down again with the inward glow ofsatisfaction which comes to one when one has risen successfully to asudden emergency.
* * * * *The glow lasted till the next stoppage, which did not occur for a goodmany miles. Then it ceased abruptly, for the train had scarcely cometo a standstill when the opening above the door was darkened by a headand shoulders. The head was surmounted by a bowler, and a pair ofpince-nez gleamed from the shadow.
"Hullo, I say," said the stranger. "Have you changed carriages, orwhat?""No," said Mike.
"Then, dash it, where's my frightful bag?"Life teems with embarrassing situations. This was one of them.
"The fact is," said Mike, "I chucked it out.""Chucked it out! what do you mean? When?""At the last station."The guard blew his whistle, and the other jumped into the carriage.
"I thought you'd got out there for good," explained Mike. "I'm awfullysorry.""Where _is_ the bag?""On the platform at the last station. It hit a porter."Against his will, for he wished to treat the matter with fittingsolemnity, Mike grinned at the recollection. The look on PorterRobinson's face as the bag took him in the small of the back had beenfunny, though not intentionally so.
The bereaved owner disapproved of this levity; and said as much.
"Don't _grin_, you little beast," he shouted. "There's nothing tolaugh at. You go chucking bags that don't belong to you out of thewindow, and then you have the frightful cheek to grin about it.""It wasn't that," said Mike hurriedly. "Only the porter looked awfullyfunny when it hit him.""Dash the porter! What's going to happen about my bag? I can't get outfor half a second to buy a magazine without your flinging my thingsabout the platform. What you want is a frightful kicking."The situation was becoming difficult. But fortunately at this momentthe train stopped once again; and, looking out of the window, Mike sawa board with East Wobsley upon it in large letters. A moment laterBob's head appeared in the doorway.
"Hullo, there you are," said Bob.
His eye fell upon Mike's companion.
"Hullo, Gazeka!" he exclaimed. "Where did you spring from? Do you knowmy brother? He's coming to Wrykyn this term. By the way, rather luckyyou've met. He's in your house. Firby-Smith's head of Wain's, Mike."Mike gathered that Gazeka and Firby-Smith were one and the sameperson. He grinned again. Firby-Smith continued to look ruffled,though not aggressive.
"Oh, are you in Wain's?" he said.
"I say, Bob," said Mike, "I've made rather an ass of myself.""Naturally.""I mean, what happened was this. I chucked Firby-Smith's portmanteauout of the window, thinking he'd got out, only he hadn't really, andit's at a station miles back.""You're a bit of a rotter, aren't you? Had it got your name andaddress on it, Gazeka?""Yes.""Oh, then it's certain to be all right. It's bound to turn up sometime. They'll send it on by the next train, and you'll get it eitherto-night or to-morrow.""Frightful nuisance, all the same. Lots of things in it I wanted.""Oh, never mind, it's all right. I say, what have you been doing inthe holidays? I didn't know you lived on this line at all."From this point onwards Mike was out of the conversation altogether.
Bob and Firby-Smith talked of Wrykyn, discussing events of theprevious term of which Mike had never heard. Names came into theirconversation which were entirely new to him. He realised that schoolpolitics were being talked, and that contributions from him to thedialogue were not required. He took up his magazine again, listeningthe while. They were discussing Wain's now. The name Wyatt cropped upwith some frequency. Wyatt was apparently something of a character.
Mention was made of rows in which he had played a part in the past.
"It must be pretty rotten for him," said Bob. "He and Wain never geton very well, and yet they have to be together, holidays as well asterm. Pretty bad having a step-father at all--I shouldn't care to--andwhen your house-master and your step-father are the same man, it's abit thick.""Frightful," agreed Firby-Smith.
"I swear, if I were in Wyatt's place, I should rot about likeanything. It isn't as if he'd anything to look forward to when heleaves. He told me last term that Wain had got a nomination for him insome beastly bank, and that he was going into it directly after theend of this term. Rather rough on a chap like Wyatt. Good cricketerand footballer, I mean, and all that sort of thing. It's just the sortof life he'll hate most. Hullo, here we are."Mike looked out of the window. It was Wrykyn at last.
Mike was surprised to find, on alighting, that the platform wasentirely free from Wrykynians. In all the stories he had read thewhole school came back by the same train, and, having smashed in oneanother's hats and chaffed the porters, made their way to the schoolbuildings in a solid column. But here they were alone.
A remark of Bob's to Firby-Smith explained this. "Can't make out whynone of the fellows came back by this train," he said. "Heaps of themmust come by this line, and it's the only Christian train they run,""Don't want to get here before the last minute they can possiblymanage. Silly idea. I suppose they think there'd be nothing to do.""What shall _we_ do?" said Bob. "Come and have some tea atCook's?""All right."Bob looked at Mike. There was no disguising the fact that he would bein the way; but how convey this fact delicately to him?
"Look here, Mike," he said, with a happy inspiration, "Firby-Smith andI are just going to get some tea. I think you'd better nip up to theschool. Probably Wain will want to see you, and tell you all aboutthings, which is your dorm. and so on. See you later," he concludedairily. "Any one'll tell you the way to the school. Go straight on.
They'll send your luggage on later. So long." And his sole prop inthis world of strangers departed, leaving him to find his way forhimself.
There is no subject on which opinions differ so widely as this matterof finding the way to a place. To the man who knows, it is simplicityitself. Probably he really does imagine that he goes straight on,ignoring the fact that for him the choice of three roads, all more orless straight, has no perplexities. The man who does not know feels asif he were in a maze.
Mike started out boldly, and lost his way. Go in which direction hewould, he always seemed to arrive at a square with a fountain and anequestrian statue in its centre. On the fourth repetition of this feathe stopped in a disheartened way, and looked about him. He wasbeginning to feel bitter towards Bob. The man might at least haveshown him where to get some tea.
At this moment a ray of hope shone through the gloom. Crossing thesquare was a short, thick-set figure clad in grey flannel trousers, ablue blazer, and a straw hat with a coloured band. Plainly aWrykynian. Mike made for him.
"Can you tell me the way to the school, please," he said.
"Oh, you're going to the school," said the other. He had a pleasant,square-jawed face, reminiscent of a good-tempered bull-dog, and a pairof very deep-set grey eyes which somehow put Mike at his ease. Therewas something singularly cool and genial about them. He felt that theysaw the humour in things, and that their owner was a person who likedmost people and whom most people liked.
"You look rather lost," said the stranger. "Been hunting for it long?""Yes," said Mike.
"Which house do you want?""Wain's.""Wain's? Then you've come to the right man this time. What I don'tknow about Wain's isn't worth knowing.""Are you there, too?""Am I not! Term _and_ holidays. There's no close season for me.""Oh, are you Wyatt, then?" asked Mike.
"Hullo, this is fame. How did you know my name, as the ass in thedetective story always says to the detective, who's seen it in thelining of his hat? Who's been talking about me?""I heard my brother saying something about you in the train.""Who's your brother?""Jackson. He's in Donaldson's.""I know. A stout fellow. So you're the newest make of Jackson, latestmodel, with all the modern improvements? Are there any more of you?""Not brothers," said Mike.
"Pity. You can't quite raise a team, then? Are you a sort of youngTyldesley, too?""I played a bit at my last school. Only a private school, you know,"added Mike modestly.
"Make any runs? What was your best score?""Hundred and twenty-three," said Mike awkwardly. "It was only againstkids, you know." He was in terror lest he should seem to be bragging.
"That's pretty useful. Any more centuries?""Yes," said Mike, shuffling.
"How many?""Seven altogether. You know, it was really awfully rotten bowling. AndI was a good bit bigger than most of the chaps there. And my pateralways has a pro. down in the Easter holidays, which gave me a bit ofan advantage.""All the same, seven centuries isn't so dusty against any bowling. Weshall want some batting in the house this term. Look here, I was justgoing to have some tea. You come along, too.""Oh, thanks awfully," said Mike. "My brother and Firby-Smith have goneto a place called Cook's.""The old Gazeka? I didn't know he lived in your part of the world.
He's head of Wain's.""Yes, I know," said Mike. "Why is he called Gazeka?" he asked after apause.
"Don't you think he looks like one? What did you think of him?""I didn't speak to him much," said Mike cautiously. It is alwaysdelicate work answering a question like this unless one has some sortof an inkling as to the views of the questioner.
"He's all right," said Wyatt, answering for himself. "He's got a habitof talking to one as if he were a prince of the blood dropping agracious word to one of the three Small-Heads at the Hippodrome, butthat's his misfortune. We all have our troubles. That's his. Let's goin here. It's too far to sweat to Cook's."It was about a mile from the tea-shop to the school. Mike's firstimpression on arriving at the school grounds was of his smallness andinsignificance. Everything looked so big--the buildings, the grounds,everything. He felt out of the picture. He was glad that he had metWyatt. To make his entrance into this strange land alone would havebeen more of an ordeal than he would have cared to face.
"That's Wain's," said Wyatt, pointing to one of half a dozen largehouses which lined the road on the south side of the cricket field.
Mike followed his finger, and took in the size of his new home.
"I say, it's jolly big," he said. "How many fellows are there in it?""Thirty-one this term, I believe.""That's more than there were at King-Hall's.""What's King-Hall's?""The private school I was at. At Emsworth."Emsworth seemed very remote and unreal to him as he spoke.
They skirted the cricket field, walking along the path that dividedthe two terraces. The Wrykyn playing-fields were formed of a series ofhuge steps, cut out of the hill. At the top of the hill came theschool. On the first terrace was a sort of informal practice ground,where, though no games were played on it, there was a good deal ofpunting and drop-kicking in the winter and fielding-practice in thesummer. The next terrace was the biggest of all, and formed the firsteleven cricket ground, a beautiful piece of turf, a shade too narrowfor its length, bounded on the terrace side by a sharply sloping bank,some fifteen feet deep, and on the other by the precipice leading tothe next terrace. At the far end of the ground stood the pavilion, andbeside it a little ivy-covered rabbit-hutch for the scorers. OldWrykynians always claimed that it was the prettiest school ground inEngland. It certainly had the finest view. From the verandah of thepavilion you could look over three counties.
Wain's house wore an empty and desolate appearance. There were signsof activity, however, inside; and a smell of soap and warm water toldof preparations recently completed.
Wyatt took Mike into the matron's room, a small room opening out ofthe main passage.
"This is Jackson," he said. "Which dormitory is he in, Miss Payne?"The matron consulted a paper.
"He's in yours, Wyatt.""Good business. Who's in the other bed? There are going to be three ofus, aren't there?""Fereira was to have slept there, but we have just heard that he isnot coming back this term. He has had to go on a sea-voyage for hishealth.""Seems queer any one actually taking the trouble to keep Fereira inthe world," said Wyatt. "I've often thought of giving him Rough OnRats myself. Come along, Jackson, and I'll show you the room."They went along the passage, and up a flight of stairs.
"Here you are," said Wyatt.
It was a fair-sized room. The window, heavily barred, looked out overa large garden.
"I used to sleep here alone last term," said Wyatt, "but the house isso full now they've turned it into a dormitory.""I say, I wish these bars weren't here. It would be rather a rag toget out of the window on to that wall at night, and hop down into thegarden and explore," said Mike.
Wyatt looked at him curiously, and moved to the window.
"I'm not going to let you do it, of course," he said, "because you'dgo getting caught, and dropped on, which isn't good for one in one'sfirst term; but just to amuse you----"He jerked at the middle bar, and the next moment he was standing withit in his hand, and the way to the garden was clear.
"By Jove!" said Mike.
"That's simply an object-lesson, you know," said Wyatt, replacing thebar, and pushing the screws back into their putty. "I get out at nightmyself because I think my health needs it. Besides, it's my last term,anyhow, so it doesn't matter what I do. But if I find you trying tocut out in the small hours, there'll be trouble. See?""All right," said Mike, reluctantly. "But I wish you'd let me.""Not if I know it. Promise you won't try it on.""All right. But, I say, what do you do out there?""I shoot at cats with an air-pistol, the beauty of which is that evenif you hit them it doesn't hurt--simply keeps them bright andinterested in life; and if you miss you've had all the fun anyhow.
Have you ever shot at a rocketing cat? Finest mark you can have.
Society's latest craze. Buy a pistol and see life.""I wish you'd let me come.""I daresay you do. Not much, however. Now, if you like, I'll take youover the rest of the school. You'll have to see it sooner or later, soyou may as well get it over at once."
There are few better things in life than a public school summer term.
The winter term is good, especially towards the end, and there arepoints, though not many, about the Easter term: but it is in thesummer that one really appreciates public school life. The freedom ofit, after the restrictions of even the most easy-going private school,is intoxicating. The change is almost as great as that from publicschool to 'Varsity.
For Mike the path was made particularly easy. The only drawback togoing to a big school for the first time is the fact that one is madeto feel so very small and inconspicuous. New boys who have beenleading lights at their private schools feel it acutely for the firstweek. At one time it was the custom, if we may believe writers of ageneration or so back, for boys to take quite an embarrassing interestin the newcomer. He was asked a rain of questions, and was, generally,in the very centre of the stage. Nowadays an absolute lack of interestis the fashion. A new boy arrives, and there he is, one of a crowd.
Mike was saved this salutary treatment to a large extent, at first byvirtue of the greatness of his family, and, later, by his ownperformances on the cricket field. His three elder brothers wereobjects of veneration to most Wrykynians, and Mike got a certainamount of reflected glory from them. The brother of first-classcricketers has a dignity of his own. Then Bob was a help. He was onthe verge of the cricket team and had been the school full-back fortwo seasons. Mike found that people came up and spoke to him, anxiousto know if he were Jackson's brother; and became friendly when hereplied in the affirmative. Influential relations are a help in everystage of life.
It was Wyatt who gave him his first chance at cricket. There were netson the first afternoon of term for all old colours of the three teamsand a dozen or so of those most likely to fill the vacant places.
Wyatt was there, of course. He had got his first eleven cap in theprevious season as a mighty hitter and a fair slow bowler. Mike methim crossing the field with his cricket bag.
"Hullo, where are you off to?" asked Wyatt. "Coming to watch thenets?"Mike had no particular programme for the afternoon. Junior cricket hadnot begun, and it was a little difficult to know how to fill in thetime.
"I tell you what," said Wyatt, "nip into the house and shove on somethings, and I'll try and get Burgess to let you have a knock lateron."This suited Mike admirably. A quarter of an hour later he was sittingat the back of the first eleven net, watching the practice.
Burgess, the captain of the Wrykyn team, made no pretence of being abat. He was the school fast bowler and concentrated his energies onthat department of the game. He sometimes took ten minutes at thewicket after everybody else had had an innings, but it was to bowlthat he came to the nets.
He was bowling now to one of the old colours whose name Mike did notknow. Wyatt and one of the professionals were the other two bowlers.
Two nets away Firby-Smith, who had changed his pince-nez for a pair ofhuge spectacles, was performing rather ineffectively against some verybad bowling. Mike fixed his attention on the first eleven man.
He was evidently a good bat. There was style and power in his batting.
He had a way of gliding Burgess's fastest to leg which Mike admiredgreatly. He was succeeded at the end of a quarter of an hour byanother eleven man, and then Bob appeared.
It was soon made evident that this was not Bob's day. Nobody is at hisbest on the first day of term; but Bob was worse than he had any rightto be. He scratched forward at nearly everything, and when Burgess,who had been resting, took up the ball again, he had each stumpuprooted in a regular series in seven balls. Once he skied one ofWyatt's slows over the net behind the wicket; and Mike, jumping up,caught him neatly.
"Thanks," said Bob austerely, as Mike returned the ball to him. Heseemed depressed.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Wyatt went up to Burgess.
"Burgess," he said, "see that kid sitting behind the net?""With the naked eye," said Burgess. "Why?""He's just come to Wain's. He's Bob Jackson's brother, and I've a sortof idea that he's a bit of a bat. I told him I'd ask you if he couldhave a knock. Why not send him in at the end net? There's nobody therenow."Burgess's amiability off the field equalled his ruthlessness whenbowling.
"All right," he said. "Only if you think that I'm going to sweat tobowl to him, you're making a fatal error.""You needn't do a thing. Just sit and watch. I rather fancy this kid'ssomething special."* * * * *Mike put on Wyatt's pads and gloves, borrowed his bat, and walkedround into the net.
"Not in a funk, are you?" asked Wyatt, as he passed.
Mike grinned. The fact was that he had far too good an opinion ofhimself to be nervous. An entirely modest person seldom makes a goodbatsman. Batting is one of those things which demand first andforemost a thorough belief in oneself. It need not be aggressive, butit must be there.
Wyatt and the professional were the bowlers. Mike had seen enough ofWyatt's bowling to know that it was merely ordinary "slow tosh," andthe professional did not look as difficult as Saunders. The firsthalf-dozen balls he played carefully. He was on trial, and he meant totake no risks. Then the professional over-pitched one slightly on theoff. Mike jumped out, and got the full face of the bat on to it. Theball hit one of the ropes of the net, and nearly broke it.
"How's that?" said Wyatt, with the smile of an impresario on the firstnight of a successful piece.
"Not bad," admitted Burgess.
A few moments later he was still more complimentary. He got up andtook a ball himself.
Mike braced himself up as Burgess began his run. This time he was morethan a trifle nervous. The bowling he had had so far had been tame.
This would be the real ordeal.
As the ball left Burgess's hand he began instinctively to shape for aforward stroke. Then suddenly he realised that the thing was going tobe a yorker, and banged his bat down in the block just as the ballarrived. An unpleasant sensation as of having been struck by athunderbolt was succeeded by a feeling of relief that he had kept theball out of his wicket. There are easier things in the world thanstopping a fast yorker.
"Well played," said Burgess.
Mike felt like a successful general receiving the thanks of thenation.
The fact that Burgess's next ball knocked middle and off stumps out ofthe ground saddened him somewhat; but this was the last tragedy thatoccurred. He could not do much with the bowling beyond stopping it andfeeling repetitions of the thunderbolt experience, but he kept up hisend; and a short conversation which he had with Burgess at the end ofhis innings was full of encouragement to one skilled in readingbetween the lines.
"Thanks awfully," said Mike, referring to the square manner in whichthe captain had behaved in letting him bat.
"What school were you at before you came here?" asked Burgess.
"A private school in Hampshire," said Mike. "King-Hall's. At a placecalled Emsworth.""Get much cricket there?""Yes, a good lot. One of the masters, a chap called Westbrook, was anawfully good slow bowler."Burgess nodded.
"You don't run away, which is something," he said.
Mike turned purple with pleasure at this stately compliment. Then,having waited for further remarks, but gathering from the captain'ssilence that the audience was at an end, he proceeded to unbuckle hispads. Wyatt overtook him on his way to the house.
"Well played," he said. "I'd no idea you were such hot stuff. You're aregular pro.""I say," said Mike gratefully, "it was most awfully decent of yougetting Burgess to let me go in. It was simply ripping of you.""Oh, that's all right. If you don't get pushed a bit here you stay forages in the hundredth game with the cripples and the kids. Now you'veshown them what you can do you ought to get into the Under Sixteenteam straight away. Probably into the third, too.""By Jove, that would be all right.""I asked Burgess afterwards what he thought of your batting, and hesaid, 'Not bad.' But he says that about everything. It's his highestform of praise. He says it when he wants to let himself go and simplybutter up a thing. If you took him to see N. A. Knox bowl, he'd say hewasn't bad. What he meant was that he was jolly struck with yourbatting, and is going to play you for the Under Sixteen.""I hope so," said Mike.
The prophecy was fulfilled. On the following Wednesday there was amatch between the Under Sixteen and a scratch side. Mike's name wasamong the Under Sixteen. And on the Saturday he was playing for thethird eleven in a trial game.
"This place is ripping," he said to himself, as he saw his name on thelist. "Thought I should like it."And that night he wrote a letter to his father, notifying him of thefact.
A succession of events combined to upset Mike during his firstfortnight at school. He was far more successful than he had any rightto be at his age. There is nothing more heady than success, and if itcomes before we are prepared for it, it is apt to throw us off ourbalance. As a rule, at school, years of wholesome obscurity make usready for any small triumphs we may achieve at the end of our timethere. Mike had skipped these years. He was older than the average newboy, and his batting was undeniable. He knew quite well that he wasregarded as a find by the cricket authorities; and the knowledge wasnot particularly good for him. It did not make him conceited, for hiswas not a nature at all addicted to conceit. The effect it had on himwas to make him excessively pleased with life. And when Mike waspleased with life he always found a difficulty in obeying Authorityand its rules. His state of mind was not improved by an interview withBob.
Some evil genius put it into Bob's mind that it was his duty to be, ifonly for one performance, the Heavy Elder Brother to Mike; to give himgood advice. It is never the smallest use for an elder brother toattempt to do anything for the good of a younger brother at school,for the latter rebels automatically against such interference in hisconcerns; but Bob did not know this. He only knew that he had receiveda letter from home, in which his mother had assumed without evidencethat he was leading Mike by the hand round the pitfalls of life atWrykyn; and his conscience smote him. Beyond asking him occasionally,when they met, how he was getting on (a question to which Mikeinvariably replied, "Oh, all right"), he was not aware of having doneanything brotherly towards the youngster. So he asked Mike to tea inhis study one afternoon before going to the nets.
Mike arrived, sidling into the study in the half-sheepish, half-defiantmanner peculiar to small brothers in the presence of their elders, andstared in silence at the photographs on the walls. Bob was changing intohis cricket things. The atmosphere was one of constraint and awkwardness.
The arrival of tea was the cue for conversation.
"Well, how are you getting on?" asked Bob.
"Oh, all right," said Mike.
Silence.
"Sugar?" asked Bob.
"Thanks," said Mike.
"How many lumps?""Two, please.""Cake?""Thanks."Silence.
Bob pulled himself together.
"Like Wain's?""Ripping.""I asked Firby-Smith to keep an eye on you," said Bob.
"What!" said Mike.
The mere idea of a worm like the Gazeka being told to keep an eye on_him_ was degrading.
"He said he'd look after you," added Bob, making things worse.
Look after him! Him!! M. Jackson, of the third eleven!!!
Mike helped himself to another chunk of cake, and spoke crushingly.
"He needn't trouble," he said. "I can look after myself all right,thanks."Bob saw an opening for the entry of the Heavy Elder Brother.
"Look here, Mike," he said, "I'm only saying it for your good----"I should like to state here that it was not Bob's habit to go aboutthe world telling people things solely for their good. He was onlydoing it now to ease his conscience.
"Yes?" said Mike coldly.
"It's only this. You know, I should keep an eye on myself if I wereyou. There's nothing that gets a chap so barred here as side.""What do you mean?" said Mike, outraged.
"Oh, I'm not saying anything against you so far," said Bob. "You'vebeen all right up to now. What I mean to say is, you've got on so wellat cricket, in the third and so on, there's just a chance you mightstart to side about a bit soon, if you don't watch yourself. I'm notsaying a word against you so far, of course. Only you see what Imean."Mike's feelings were too deep for words. In sombre silence he reachedout for the jam; while Bob, satisfied that he had delivered hismessage in a pleasant and tactful manner, filled his cup, and castabout him for further words of wisdom.
"Seen you about with Wyatt a good deal," he said at length.
"Yes," said Mike.
"Like him?""Yes," said Mike cautiously.
"You know," said Bob, "I shouldn't--I mean, I should take care whatyou're doing with Wyatt.""What do you mean?""Well, he's an awfully good chap, of course, but still----""Still what?""Well, I mean, he's the sort of chap who'll probably get into somethundering row before he leaves. He doesn't care a hang what he does.
He's that sort of chap. He's never been dropped on yet, but if you goon breaking rules you're bound to be sooner or later. Thing is, itdoesn't matter much for him, because he's leaving at the end of theterm. But don't let him drag you into anything. Not that he would tryto. But you might think it was the blood thing to do to imitate him,and the first thing you knew you'd be dropped on by Wain or somebody.
See what I mean?"Bob was well-intentioned, but tact did not enter greatly into hiscomposition.
"What rot!" said Mike.
"All right. But don't you go doing it. I'm going over to the nets. Isee Burgess has shoved you down for them. You'd better be going andchanging. Stick on here a bit, though, if you want any more tea. I'vegot to be off myself."Mike changed for net-practice in a ferment of spiritual injury. It wasmaddening to be treated as an infant who had to be looked after. Hefelt very sore against Bob.
A good innings at the third eleven net, followed by some strenuousfielding in the deep, soothed his ruffled feelings to a large extent;and all might have been well but for the intervention of Firby-Smith.
That youth, all spectacles and front teeth, met Mike at the door ofWain's.
"Ah, I wanted to see you, young man," he said. (Mike disliked beingcalled "young man.") "Come up to my study."Mike followed him in silence to his study, and preserved his silencetill Firby-Smith, having deposited his cricket-bag in a corner of theroom and examined himself carefully in a looking-glass that hung overthe mantelpiece, spoke again.
"I've been hearing all about you, young man." Mike shuffled.
"You're a frightful character from all accounts." Mike could not thinkof anything to say that was not rude, so said nothing.
"Your brother has asked me to keep an eye on you."Mike's soul began to tie itself into knots again. He was just at theage when one is most sensitive to patronage and most resentful of it.
"I promised I would," said the Gazeka, turning round and examininghimself in the mirror again. "You'll get on all right if you behaveyourself. Don't make a frightful row in the house. Don't cheek yourelders and betters. Wash. That's all. Cut along."Mike had a vague idea of sacrificing his career to the momentarypleasure of flinging a chair at the head of the house. Overcoming thisfeeling, he walked out of the room, and up to his dormitory to change.
* * * * *In the dormitory that night the feeling of revolt, of wanting todo something actively illegal, increased. Like Eric, he burned, notwith shame and remorse, but with rage and all that sort of thing.
He dropped off to sleep full of half-formed plans for assertinghimself. He was awakened from a dream in which he was batting againstFirby-Smith's bowling, and hitting it into space every time, by aslight sound. He opened his eyes, and saw a dark figure silhouettedagainst the light of the window. He sat up in bed.
"Hullo," he said. "Is that you, Wyatt?""Are you awake?" said Wyatt. "Sorry if I've spoiled your beautysleep.""Are you going out?""I am," said Wyatt. "The cats are particularly strong on the wing justnow. Mustn't miss a chance like this. Specially as there's a goodmoon, too. I shall be deadly.""I say, can't I come too?"A moonlight prowl, with or without an air-pistol, would just havesuited Mike's mood.
"No, you can't," said Wyatt. "When I'm caught, as I'm morally certainto be some day, or night rather, they're bound to ask if you've everbeen out as well as me. Then you'll be able to put your hand on yourlittle heart and do a big George Washington act. You'll find thatuseful when the time comes.""Do you think you will be caught?""Shouldn't be surprised. Anyhow, you stay where you are. Go to sleepand dream that you're playing for the school against Ripton. So long."And Wyatt, laying the bar he had extracted on the window-sill,wriggled out. Mike saw him disappearing along the wall.
* * * * *It was all very well for Wyatt to tell him to go to sleep, but it wasnot so easy to do it. The room was almost light; and Mike always foundit difficult to sleep unless it was dark. He turned over on his sideand shut his eyes, but he had never felt wider awake. Twice he heardthe quarters chime from the school clock; and the second time he gaveup the struggle. He got out of bed and went to the window. It was alovely night, just the sort of night on which, if he had been at home,he would have been out after moths with a lantern.
A sharp yowl from an unseen cat told of Wyatt's presence somewhere inthe big garden. He would have given much to be with him, but herealised that he was on parole. He had promised not to leave thehouse, and there was an end of it.
He turned away from the window and sat down on his bed. Then abeautiful, consoling thought came to him. He had given his word thathe would not go into the garden, but nothing had been said aboutexploring inside the house. It was quite late now. Everybody would bein bed. It would be quite safe. And there must be all sorts of thingsto interest the visitor in Wain's part of the house. Food, perhaps.
Mike felt that he could just do with a biscuit. And there were boundto be biscuits on the sideboard in Wain's dining-room.
He crept quietly out of the dormitory.
He had been long enough in the house to know the way, in spite of thefact that all was darkness. Down the stairs, along the passage to theleft, and up a few more stairs at the end The beauty of the positionwas that the dining-room had two doors, one leading into Wain's partof the house, the other into the boys' section. Any interruption thatthere might be would come from the further door.
To make himself more secure he locked that door; then, turning up theincandescent light, he proceeded to look about him.
Mr. Wain's dining-room repaid inspection. There were the remains ofsupper on the table. Mike cut himself some cheese and took somebiscuits from the box, feeling that he was doing himself well. Thiswas Life. There was a little soda-water in the syphon. He finished it.
As it swished into the glass, it made a noise that seemed to him likethree hundred Niagaras; but nobody else in the house appeared to havenoticed it.
He took some more biscuits, and an apple.
After which, feeling a new man, he examined the room.
And this was where the trouble began.
On a table in one corner stood a small gramophone. And gramophoneshappened to be Mike's particular craze.
All thought of risk left him. The soda-water may have got into hishead, or he may have been in a particularly reckless mood, as indeedhe was. The fact remains that _he_ inserted the first record thatcame to hand, wound the machine up, and set it going.
The next moment, very loud and nasal, a voice from the machineannounced that Mr. Godfrey Field would sing "The Quaint Old Bird."And, after a few preliminary chords, Mr. Field actually did so.
_"Auntie went to Aldershot in a Paris pom-pom hat."_Mike stood and drained it in.
_"... Good gracious_ (sang Mr. Field), _what was that?"_It was a rattling at the handle of the door. A rattling that turnedalmost immediately into a spirited banging. A voice accompanied thebanging. "Who is there?" inquired the voice. Mike recognised it as Mr.
Wain's. He was not alarmed. The man who holds the ace of trumps has noneed to be alarmed. His position was impregnable. The enemy was heldin check by the locked door, while the other door offered an admirableand instantaneous way of escape.
Mike crept across the room on tip-toe and opened the window. It hadoccurred to him, just in time, that if Mr. Wain, on entering the room,found that the occupant had retired by way of the boys' part of thehouse, he might possibly obtain a clue to his identity. If, on theother hand, he opened the window, suspicion would be diverted. Mikehad not read his "Raffles" for nothing.
The handle-rattling was resumed. This was good. So long as the frontalattack was kept up, there was no chance of his being taken in therear--his only danger.
He stopped the gramophone, which had been pegging away patiently at"The Quaint Old Bird" all the time, and reflected. It seemed a pity toevacuate the position and ring down the curtain on what was, to date,the most exciting episode of his life; but he must not overdo thething, and get caught. At any moment the noise might bringreinforcements to the besieging force, though it was not likely, forthe dining-room was a long way from the dormitories; and it mightflash upon their minds that there were two entrances to the room. Orthe same bright thought might come to Wain himself.
"Now what," pondered Mike, "would A. J. Raffles have done in a caselike this? Suppose he'd been after somebody's jewels, and found thatthey were after him, and he'd locked one door, and could get away bythe other."The answer was simple.
"He'd clear out," thought Mike.
Two minutes later he was in bed.
He lay there, tingling all over with the consciousness of havingplayed a masterly game, when suddenly a gruesome idea came to him, andhe sat up, breathless. Suppose Wain took it into his head to make atour of the dormitories, to see that all was well! Wyatt was stillin the garden somewhere, blissfully unconscious of what was going onindoors. He would be caught for a certainty!
For a moment the situation paralysed Mike. Then he began to be equalto it. In times of excitement one thinks rapidly and clearly. The mainpoint, the kernel of the whole thing, was that he must get into thegarden somehow, and warn Wyatt. And at the same time, he must keep Mr.
Wain from coming to the dormitory. He jumped out of bed, and dasheddown the dark stairs.
He had taken care to close the dining-room door after him. It was opennow, and he could hear somebody moving inside the room. Evidently hisretreat had been made just in time.
He knocked at the door, and went in.
Mr. Wain was standing at the window, looking out. He spun round at theknock, and stared in astonishment at Mike's pyjama-clad figure. Mike,in spite of his anxiety, could barely check a laugh. Mr. Wain was atall, thin man, with a serious face partially obscured by a grizzledbeard. He wore spectacles, through which he peered owlishly at Mike.
His body was wrapped in a brown dressing-gown. His hair was ruffled.
He looked like some weird bird.
"Please, sir, I thought I heard a noise," said Mike.
Mr. Wain continued to stare.
"What are you doing here?" said he at last.
"Thought I heard a noise, please, sir.""A noise?""Please, sir, a row.""You thought you heard----!"The thing seemed to be worrying Mr. Wain.
"So I came down, sir," said Mike.
The house-master's giant brain still appeared to be somewhat clouded.
He looked about him, and, catching sight of the gramophone, drewinspiration from it.
"Did you turn on the gramophone?" he asked.
"_Me_, sir!" said Mike, with the air of a bishop accused ofcontributing to the _Police News_.
"Of course not, of course not," said Mr. Wain hurriedly. "Of coursenot. I don't know why I asked. All this is very unsettling. What areyou doing here?""Thought I heard a noise, please, sir.""A noise?""A row, sir."If it was Mr. Wain's wish that he should spend the night playing MassaTambo to his Massa Bones, it was not for him to baulk the house-master'sinnocent pleasure. He was prepared to continue the snappy dialogue tillbreakfast time.
"I think there must have been a burglar in here, Jackson.""Looks like it, sir.""I found the window open.""He's probably in the garden, sir."Mr. Wain looked out into the garden with an annoyed expression, as ifits behaviour in letting burglars be in it struck him as unworthy of arespectable garden.
"He might be still in the house," said Mr. Wain, ruminatively.
"Not likely, sir.""You think not?""Wouldn't be such a fool, sir. I mean, such an ass, sir.""Perhaps you are right, Jackson.""I shouldn't wonder if he was hiding in the shrubbery, sir."Mr. Wain looked at the shrubbery, as who should say, _"Et tu,Brute!"_"By Jove! I think I see him," cried Mike. He ran to the window, andvaulted through it on to the lawn. An inarticulate protest from Mr.
Wain, rendered speechless by this move just as he had been beginningto recover his faculties, and he was running across the lawn into theshrubbery. He felt that all was well. There might be a bit of a row onhis return, but he could always plead overwhelming excitement.
Wyatt was round at the back somewhere, and the problem was how to getback without being seen from the dining-room window. Fortunately abelt of evergreens ran along the path right up to the house. Mikeworked his way cautiously through these till he was out of sight, thentore for the regions at the back.
The moon had gone behind the clouds, and it was not easy to find a waythrough the bushes. Twice branches sprang out from nowhere, and hitMike smartly over the shins, eliciting sharp howls of pain.
On the second of these occasions a low voice spoke from somewhere onhis right.
"Who on earth's that?" it said.
Mike stopped.
"Is that you, Wyatt? I say----""Jackson!"The moon came out again, and Mike saw Wyatt clearly. His knees werecovered with mould. He had evidently been crouching in the bushes onall fours.
"You young ass," said Wyatt. "You promised me that you wouldn't getout.""Yes, I know, but----""I heard you crashing through the shrubbery like a hundred elephants.
If you _must_ get out at night and chance being sacked, you mightat least have the sense to walk quietly.""Yes, but you don't understand."And Mike rapidly explained the situation.
"But how the dickens did he hear you, if you were in the dining-room?"asked Wyatt. "It's miles from his bedroom. You must tread like apoliceman.""It wasn't that. The thing was, you see, it was rather a rotten thingto do, I suppose, but I turned on the gramophone.""You--_what?_""The gramophone. It started playing 'The Quaint Old Bird.' Ripping itwas, till Wain came along."Wyatt doubled up with noiseless laughter.
"You're a genius," he said. "I never saw such a man. Well, what's thegame now? What's the idea?""I think you'd better nip back along the wall and in through thewindow, and I'll go back to the dining-room. Then it'll be all rightif Wain comes and looks into the dorm. Or, if you like, you might comedown too, as if you'd just woke up and thought you'd heard a row.""That's not a bad idea. All right. You dash along then. I'll getback."Mr. Wain was still in the dining-room, drinking in the beauties of thesummer night through the open window. He gibbered slightly when Mikereappeared.
"Jackson! What do you mean by running about outside the house in thisway! I shall punish you very heavily. I shall certainly report thematter to the headmaster. I will not have boys rushing about thegarden in their pyjamas. You will catch an exceedingly bad cold. Youwill do me two hundred lines, Latin and English. Exceedingly so. Iwill not have it. Did you not hear me call to you?""Please, sir, so excited," said Mike, standing outside with his handson the sill.
"You have no business to be excited. I will not have it. It isexceedingly impertinent of you.""Please, sir, may I come in?""Come in! Of course, come in. Have you no sense, boy? You are layingthe seeds of a bad cold. Come in at once."Mike clambered through the window.
"I couldn't find him, sir. He must have got out of the garden.""Undoubtedly," said Mr. Wain. "Undoubtedly so. It was very wrong ofyou to search for him. You have been seriously injured. Exceedinglyso"He was about to say more on the subject when Wyatt strolled into theroom. Wyatt wore the rather dazed expression of one who has beenaroused from deep sleep. He yawned before he spoke.
"I thought I heard a noise, sir," he said.
He called Mr. Wain "father" in private, "sir" in public. The presenceof Mike made this a public occasion.
"Has there been a burglary?""Yes," said Mike, "only he has got away.""Shall I go out into the garden, and have a look round, sir?" askedWyatt helpfully.
The question stung Mr. Wain into active eruption once more.
"Under no circumstances whatever," he said excitedly. "Stay where youare, James. I will not have boys running about my garden at night. Itis preposterous. Inordinately so. Both of you go to bed immediately. Ishall not speak to you again on this subject. I must be obeyedinstantly. You hear me, Jackson? James, you understand me? To bed atonce. And, if I find you outside your dormitory again to-night, youwill both be punished with extreme severity. I will not have this laxand reckless behaviour.""But the burglar, sir?" said Wyatt.
"We might catch him, sir," said Mike.
Mr. Wain's manner changed to a slow and stately sarcasm, in much thesame way as a motor-car changes from the top speed to its first.
"I was under the impression," he said, in the heavy way almostinvariably affected by weak masters in their dealings with theobstreperous, "I was distinctly under the impression that I hadordered you to retire immediately to your dormitory. It is possiblethat you mistook my meaning. In that case I shall be happy to repeatwhat I said. It is also in my mind that I threatened to punish youwith the utmost severity if you did not retire at once. In thesecircumstances, James--and you, Jackson--you will doubtless see thenecessity of complying with my wishes."They made it so.
Trevor and Clowes, of Donaldson's, were sitting in their study a weekafter the gramophone incident, preparatory to going on the river. Atleast Trevor was in the study, getting tea ready. Clowes was on thewindow-sill, one leg in the room, the other outside, hanging overspace. He loved to sit in this attitude, watching some one else work,and giving his views on life to whoever would listen to them. Cloweswas tall, and looked sad, which he was not. Trevor was shorter, andvery much in earnest over all that he did. On the present occasion hewas measuring out tea with a concentration worthy of a generalplanning a campaign.
"One for the pot," said Clowes.
"All right," breathed Trevor. "Come and help, you slacker.""Too busy.""You aren't doing a stroke.""My lad, I'm thinking of Life. That's a thing you couldn't do. I oftensay to people, 'Good chap, Trevor, but can't think of Life. Give him atea-pot and half a pound of butter to mess about with,' I say, 'andhe's all right. But when it comes to deep thought, where is he? Amongthe also-rans.' That's what I say.""Silly ass," said Trevor, slicing bread. "What particular rot were youthinking about just then? What fun it was sitting back and watchingother fellows work, I should think.""My mind at the moment," said Clowes, "was tensely occupied with theproblem of brothers at school. Have you got any brothers, Trevor?""One. Couple of years younger than me. I say, we shall want some morejam to-morrow. Better order it to-day.""See it done, Tigellinus, as our old pal Nero used to remark. Where ishe? Your brother, I mean.""Marlborough.""That shows your sense. I have always had a high opinion of yoursense, Trevor. If you'd been a silly ass, you'd have let your peoplesend him here.""Why not? Shouldn't have minded.""I withdraw what I said about your sense. Consider it unsaid. I have abrother myself. Aged fifteen. Not a bad chap in his way. Like theheroes of the school stories. 'Big blue eyes literally bubbling overwith fun.' At least, I suppose it's fun to him. Cheek's what I callit. My people wanted to send him here. I lodged a protest. I said,'One Clowes is ample for any public school.'""You were right there," said Trevor.
"I said, 'One Clowes is luxury, two excess.' I pointed out that I wasjust on the verge of becoming rather a blood at Wrykyn, and that Ididn't want the work of years spoiled by a brother who would think ita rag to tell fellows who respected and admired me----""Such as who?""----Anecdotes of a chequered infancy. There are stories about mewhich only my brother knows. Did I want them spread about the school?
No, laddie, I did not. Hence, we see my brother two terms ago, packingup his little box, and tooling off to Rugby. And here am I at Wrykyn,with an unstained reputation, loved by all who know me, revered by allwho don't; courted by boys, fawned upon by masters. People's facesbrighten when I throw them a nod. If I frown----""Oh, come on," said Trevor.
Bread and jam and cake monopolised Clowes's attention for the nextquarter of an hour. At the end of that period, however, he returned tohis subject.
"After the serious business of the meal was concluded, and a simplehymn had been sung by those present," he said, "Mr. Clowes resumed hisvery interesting remarks. We were on the subject of brothers atschool. Now, take the melancholy case of Jackson Brothers. My heartbleeds for Bob.""Jackson's all right. What's wrong with him? Besides, naturally, youngJackson came to Wrykyn when all his brothers had been here.""What a rotten argument. It's just the one used by chaps' people, too.
They think how nice it will be for all the sons to have been at thesame school. It may be all right after they're left, but while they'rethere, it's the limit. You say Jackson's all right. At present,perhaps, he is. But the term's hardly started yet.""Well?""Look here, what's at the bottom of this sending young brothers to thesame school as elder brothers?""Elder brother can keep an eye on him, I suppose.""That's just it. For once in your life you've touched the spot. Inother words, Bob Jackson is practically responsible for the kid.
That's where the whole rotten trouble starts.""Why?""Well, what happens? He either lets the kid rip, in which case he mayfind himself any morning in the pleasant position of having to explainto his people exactly why it is that little Willie has just receivedthe boot, and why he didn't look after him better: or he spends allhis spare time shadowing him to see that he doesn't get into trouble.
He feels that his reputation hangs on the kid's conduct, so he broodsover him like a policeman, which is pretty rotten for him and maddensthe kid, who looks on him as no sportsman. Bob seems to be trying thefirst way, which is what I should do myself. It's all right, so far,but, as I said, the term's only just started.""Young Jackson seems all right. What's wrong with him? He doesn'tstick on side any way, which he might easily do, considering hiscricket.""There's nothing wrong with him in that way. I've talked to himseveral times at the nets, and he's very decent. But his getting intotrouble hasn't anything to do with us. It's the masters you've got toconsider.""What's up? Does he rag?""From what I gather from fellows in his form he's got a genius forragging. Thinks of things that don't occur to anybody else, and doesthem, too.""He never seems to be in extra. One always sees him about onhalf-holidays.""That's always the way with that sort of chap. He keeps on wrigglingout of small rows till he thinks he can do anything he likes withoutbeing dropped on, and then all of a sudden he finds himself up to theeyebrows in a record smash. I don't say young Jackson will landhimself like that. All I say is that he's just the sort who does. He'sasking for trouble. Besides, who do you see him about with all thetime?""He's generally with Wyatt when I meet him.""Yes. Well, then!""What's wrong with Wyatt? He's one of the decentest men in theschool.""I know. But he's working up for a tremendous row one of these days,unless he leaves before it comes off. The odds are, if Jackson's sothick with him, that he'll be roped into it too. Wyatt wouldn't landhim if he could help it, but he probably wouldn't realise what he wasletting the kid in for. For instance, I happen to know that Wyattbreaks out of his dorm. every other night. I don't know if he takesJackson with him. I shouldn't think so. But there's nothing to preventJackson following him on his own. And if you're caught at that game,it's the boot every time."Trevor looked disturbed.
"Somebody ought to speak to Bob.""What's the good? Why worry him? Bob couldn't do anything. You'd onlymake him do the policeman business, which he hasn't time for, andwhich is bound to make rows between them. Better leave him alone.""I don't know. It would be a beastly thing for Bob if the kid did getinto a really bad row.""If you must tell anybody, tell the Gazeka. He's head of Wain's, andhas got far more chance of keeping an eye on Jackson than Bob has.""The Gazeka is a fool.""All front teeth and side. Still, he's on the spot. But what's thegood of worrying. It's nothing to do with us, anyhow. Let's staggerout, shall we?"* * * * *Trevor's conscientious nature, however, made it impossible for him todrop the matter. It disturbed him all the time that he and Clowes wereon the river; and, walking back to the house, he resolved to see Bobabout it during preparation.
He found him in his study, oiling a bat.
"I say, Bob," he said, "look here. Are you busy?""No. Why?""It's this way. Clowes and I were talking----""If Clowes was there he was probably talking. Well?""About your brother.""Oh, by Jove," said Bob, sitting up. "That reminds me. I forgot to getthe evening paper. Did he get his century all right?""Who?" asked Trevor, bewildered.
"My brother, J. W. He'd made sixty-three not out against Kent in thismorning's paper. What happened?""I didn't get a paper either. I didn't mean that brother. I meant theone here.""Oh, Mike? What's Mike been up to?""Nothing as yet, that I know of; but, I say, you know, he seems agreat pal of Wyatt's.""I know. I spoke to him about it.""Oh, you did? That's all right, then.""Not that there's anything wrong with Wyatt.""Not a bit. Only he is rather mucking about this term, I hear. It'shis last, so I suppose he wants to have a rag.""Don't blame him.""Nor do I. Rather rot, though, if he lugged your brother into a row byaccident.""I should get blamed. I think I'll speak to him again.""I should, I think.""I hope he isn't idiot enough to go out at night with Wyatt. If Wyattlikes to risk it, all right. That's his look out. But it won't do forMike to go playing the goat too.""Clowes suggested putting Firby-Smith on to him. He'd have morechance, being in the same house, of seeing that he didn't come amucker than you would.""I've done that. Smith said he'd speak to him.""That's all right then. Is that a new bat?""Got it to-day. Smashed my other yesterday--against the school house."Donaldson's had played a friendly with the school house during thelast two days, and had beaten them.
"I thought I heard it go. You were rather in form.""Better than at the beginning of the term, anyhow. I simply couldn'tdo a thing then. But my last three innings have been 33 not out, 18,and 51.
"I should think you're bound to get your first all right.""Hope so. I see Mike's playing for the second against the O.W.s.""Yes. Pretty good for his first term. You have a pro. to coach you inthe holidays, don't you?""Yes. I didn't go to him much this last time. I was away a lot. ButMike fairly lived inside the net.""Well, it's not been chucked away. I suppose he'll get his first nextyear. There'll be a big clearing-out of colours at the end of thisterm. Nearly all the first are leaving. Henfrey'll be captain, Iexpect.""Saunders, the pro. at home, always says that Mike's going to be thestar cricketer of the family. Better than J. W. even, he thinks. Iasked him what he thought of me, and he said, 'You'll be making a lotof runs some day, Mr. Bob.' There's a subtle difference, isn't there?
I shall have Mike cutting me out before I leave school if I'm notcareful.""Sort of infant prodigy," said Trevor. "Don't think he's quite up toit yet, though."He went back to his study, and Bob, having finished his oiling andwashed his hands, started on his Thucydides. And, in the stress ofwrestling with the speech of an apparently delirious Athenian general,whose remarks seemed to contain nothing even remotely resembling senseand coherence, he allowed the question of Mike's welfare to fade fromhis mind like a dissolving view.
The beginning of a big row, one of those rows which turn a schoolupside down like a volcanic eruption and provide old boys withsomething to talk about, when they meet, for years, is not unlike thebeginning of a thunderstorm.
You are walking along one seemingly fine day, when suddenly there is ahush, and there falls on you from space one big drop. The next momentthe thing has begun, and you are standing in a shower-bath. It is justthe same with a row. Some trivial episode occurs, and in an instantthe place is in a ferment. It was so with the great picnic at Wrykyn.
The bare outlines of the beginning of this affair are included in aletter which Mike wrote to his father on the Sunday following the OldWrykynian matches.
This was the letter:
"DEAR FATHER,--Thanks awfully for your letter. I hope you are quitewell. I have been getting on all right at cricket lately. My scoressince I wrote last have been 0 in a scratch game (the sun got in myeyes just as I played, and I got bowled); 15 for the third against aneleven of masters (without G. B. Jones, the Surrey man, and Spence);28 not out in the Under Sixteen game; and 30 in a form match. Ratherdecent. Yesterday one of the men put down for the second against theO.W.'s second couldn't play because his father was very ill, so Iplayed. Wasn't it luck? It's the first time I've played for thesecond. I didn't do much, because I didn't get an innings. They stopthe cricket on O.W. matches day because they have a lot of rottenGreek plays and things which take up a frightful time, and half thechaps are acting, so we stop from lunch to four. Rot I call it. So Ididn't go in, because they won the toss and made 215, and by the timewe'd made 140 for 6 it was close of play. They'd stuck me in eighthwicket. Rather rot. Still, I may get another shot. And I made rather adecent catch at mid-on. Low down. I had to dive for it. Bob played forthe first, but didn't do much. He was run out after he'd got ten. Ibelieve he's rather sick about it.
"Rather a rummy thing happened after lock-up. I wasn't in it, but afellow called Wyatt (awfully decent chap. He's Wain's step-son, onlythey bar one another) told me about it. He was in it all right.
There's a dinner after the matches on O.W. day, and some of the chapswere going back to their houses after it when they got into a row witha lot of brickies from the town, and there was rather a row. There wasa policeman mixed up in it somehow, only I don't quite know where hecomes in. I'll find out and tell you next time I write. Love toeverybody. Tell Marjory I'll write to her in a day or two.
"Your loving son,"MIKE.
"P.S.--I say, I suppose you couldn't send me five bob, could you? I'mrather broke.
"P.P.S.--Half-a-crown would do, only I'd rather it was five bob."And, on the back of the envelope, these words: "Or a bob would bebetter than nothing."* * * * *The outline of the case was as Mike had stated. But there were certaindetails of some importance which had not come to his notice when hesent the letter. On the Monday they were public property.
The thing had happened after this fashion. At the conclusion of theday's cricket, all those who had been playing in the four elevenswhich the school put into the field against the old boys, togetherwith the school choir, were entertained by the headmaster to supper inthe Great Hall. The banquet, lengthened by speeches, songs, andrecitations which the reciters imagined to be songs, lasted, as arule, till about ten o'clock, when the revellers were supposed to goback to their houses by the nearest route, and turn in. This was theofficial programme. The school usually performed it with certainmodifications and improvements.
About midway between Wrykyn, the school, and Wrykyn, the town, therestands on an island in the centre of the road a solitary lamp-post. Itwas the custom, and had been the custom for generations back, for thediners to trudge off to this lamp-post, dance round it for someminutes singing the school song or whatever happened to be the popularsong of the moment, and then race back to their houses. Antiquity hadgiven the custom a sort of sanctity, and the authorities, if theyknew--which they must have done--never interfered.
But there were others.
Wrykyn, the town, was peculiarly rich in "gangs of youths." Like thevast majority of the inhabitants of the place, they seemed to have nowork of any kind whatsoever to occupy their time, which they used,accordingly, to spend prowling about and indulging in a mild,brainless, rural type of hooliganism. They seldom proceeded topractical rowdyism and never except with the school. As a rule, theyamused themselves by shouting rude chaff. The school regarded themwith a lofty contempt, much as an Oxford man regards the townee. Theschool was always anxious for a row, but it was the unwritten law thatonly in special circumstances should they proceed to active measures.
A curious dislike for school-and-town rows and most misplaced severityin dealing with the offenders when they took place, were among the fewflaws in the otherwise admirable character of the headmaster ofWrykyn. It was understood that one scragged bargees at one's own risk,and, as a rule, it was not considered worth it.
But after an excellent supper and much singing and joviality, one'sviews are apt to alter. Risks which before supper seemed great, show atendency to dwindle.
When, therefore, the twenty or so Wrykynians who were dancing roundthe lamp-post were aware, in the midst of their festivities, that theywere being observed and criticised by an equal number of townees, andthat the criticisms were, as usual, essentially candid and personal,they found themselves forgetting the headmaster's prejudices andfeeling only that these outsiders must be put to the sword as speedilyas possible, for the honour of the school.
Possibly, if the town brigade had stuck to a purely verbal form ofattack, all might yet have been peace. Words can be overlooked.
But tomatoes cannot.
No man of spirit can bear to be pelted with over-ripe tomatoes for anylength of time without feeling that if the thing goes on much longerhe will be reluctantly compelled to take steps.
In the present crisis, the first tomato was enough to set mattersmoving.
As the two armies stood facing each other in silence under the dim andmysterious rays of the lamp, it suddenly whizzed out from the enemy'sranks, and hit Wyatt on the right ear.
There was a moment of suspense. Wyatt took out his handkerchief andwiped his face, over which the succulent vegetable had spread itself.
"I don't know how you fellows are going to pass the evening," he saidquietly. "My idea of a good after-dinner game is to try and find thechap who threw that. Anybody coming?"For the first five minutes it was as even a fight as one could havewished to see. It raged up and down the road without a pause, now in asolid mass, now splitting up into little groups. The science was onthe side of the school. Most Wrykynians knew how to box to a certainextent. But, at any rate at first, it was no time for science. To bescientific one must have an opponent who observes at least the moreimportant rules of the ring. It is impossible to do the latest ducksand hooks taught you by the instructor if your antagonist butts you inthe chest, and then kicks your shins, while some dear friend of his,of whose presence you had no idea, hits you at the same time on theback of the head. The greatest expert would lose his science in suchcircumstances.
Probably what gave the school the victory in the end was therighteousness of their cause. They were smarting under a sense ofinjury, and there is nothing that adds a force to one's blows and arecklessness to one's style of delivering them more than a sense ofinjury.
Wyatt, one side of his face still showing traces of the tomato, ledthe school with a vigour that could not be resisted. He very seldomlost his temper, but he did draw the line at bad tomatoes.
Presently the school noticed that the enemy were vanishing little bylittle into the darkness which concealed the town. Barely a dozenremained. And their lonely condition seemed to be borne in upon theseby a simultaneous brain-wave, for they suddenly gave the fight up, andstampeded as one man.
The leaders were beyond recall, but two remained, tackled low by Wyattand Clowes after the fashion of the football-field.
* * * * *The school gathered round its prisoners, panting. The scene of theconflict had shifted little by little to a spot some fifty yards fromwhere it had started. By the side of the road at this point was agreen, depressed looking pond. Gloomy in the daytime, it lookedunspeakable at night. It struck Wyatt, whose finer feelings had beenentirely blotted out by tomato, as an ideal place in which to bestowthe captives.
"Let's chuck 'em in there," he said.
The idea was welcomed gladly by all, except the prisoners. A move wasmade towards the pond, and the procession had halted on the brink,when a new voice made itself heard.
"Now then," it said, "what's all this?"A stout figure in policeman's uniform was standing surveying them withthe aid of a small bull's-eye lantern.
"What's all this?""It's all right," said Wyatt.
"All right, is it? What's on?"One of the prisoners spoke.
"Make 'em leave hold of us, Mr. Butt. They're a-going to chuck us inthe pond.""Ho!" said the policeman, with a change in his voice. "Ho, are they?
Come now, young gentleman, a lark's a lark, but you ought to knowwhere to stop.""It's anything but a lark," said Wyatt in the creamy voice he usedwhen feeling particularly savage. "We're the Strong Right Arm ofJustice. That's what we are. This isn't a lark, it's an execution.""I don't want none of your lip, whoever you are," said Mr. Butt,understanding but dimly, and suspecting impudence by instinct.
"This is quite a private matter," said Wyatt. "You run along on yourbeat. You can't do anything here.""Ho!""Shove 'em in, you chaps.""Stop!" From Mr. Butt.
"Oo-er!" From prisoner number one.
There was a sounding splash as willing hands urged the first of thecaptives into the depths. He ploughed his way to the bank, scrambledout, and vanished.
Wyatt turned to the other prisoner.
"You'll have the worst of it, going in second. He'll have churned upthe mud a bit. Don't swallow more than you can help, or you'll gogetting typhoid. I expect there are leeches and things there, but ifyou nip out quick they may not get on to you. Carry on, you chaps."It was here that the regrettable incident occurred. Just as the secondprisoner was being launched, Constable Butt, determined to asserthimself even at the eleventh hour, sprang forward, and seized thecaptive by the arm. A drowning man will clutch at a straw. A man aboutto be hurled into an excessively dirty pond will clutch at a stoutpoliceman. The prisoner did.
Constable Butt represented his one link with dry land. As he camewithin reach he attached himself to his tunic with the vigour andconcentration of a limpet.
At the same moment the executioners gave their man the final heave.
The policeman realised his peril too late. A medley of noises made thepeaceful night hideous. A howl from the townee, a yell from thepoliceman, a cheer from the launching party, a frightened squawk fromsome birds in a neighbouring tree, and a splash compared with whichthe first had been as nothing, and all was over.
The dark waters were lashed into a maelstrom; and then two streamingfigures squelched up the further bank.
[Illustration: THE DARK WATERS WERE LASHED INTO A MAELSTROM]
The school stood in silent consternation. It was no occasion for lightapologies.
"Do you know," said Wyatt, as he watched the Law shaking the waterfrom itself on the other side of the pond, "I'm not half sure that wehadn't better be moving!"
Your real, devastating row has many points of resemblance with aprairie fire. A man on a prairie lights his pipe, and throws away thematch. The flame catches a bunch of dry grass, and, before any one canrealise what is happening, sheets of fire are racing over the country;and the interested neighbours are following their example. (I havealready compared a row with a thunderstorm; but both comparisons maystand. In dealing with so vast a matter as a row there must be nostint.)The tomato which hit Wyatt in the face was the thrown-away match. Butfor the unerring aim of the town marksman great events would neverhave happened. A tomato is a trivial thing (though it is possible thatthe man whom it hits may not think so), but in the present case, itwas the direct cause of epoch-making trouble.
The tomato hit Wyatt. Wyatt, with others, went to look for thethrower. The remnants of the thrower's friends were placed in thepond, and "with them," as they say in the courts of law, PoliceConstable Alfred Butt.
Following the chain of events, we find Mr. Butt, having prudentlychanged his clothes, calling upon the headmaster.
The headmaster was grave and sympathetic; Mr. Butt fierce andrevengeful.
The imagination of the force is proverbial. Nurtured on motor-cars andfed with stop-watches, it has become world-famous. Mr. Butt gave freerein to it.
"Threw me in, they did, sir. Yes, sir.""Threw you in!""Yes, sir. _Plop_!" said Mr. Butt, with a certain sad relish.
"Really, really!" said the headmaster. "Indeed! This is--dear me! Ishall certainly--They threw you in!--Yes, I shall--certainly----"Encouraged by this appreciative reception of his story, Mr. Buttstarted it again, right from the beginning.
"I was on my beat, sir, and I thought I heard a disturbance. I says tomyself, ''Allo,' I says, 'a frakkus. Lots of them all gatheredtogether, and fighting.' I says, beginning to suspect something,'Wot's this all about, I wonder?' I says. 'Blow me if I don't thinkit's a frakkus.' And," concluded Mr. Butt, with the air of oneconfiding a secret, "and it _was_ a frakkus!""And these boys actually threw you into the pond?""_Plop_, sir! Mrs. Butt is drying my uniform at home at this verymoment as we sit talking here, sir. She says to me, 'Why, whatever_'ave_ you been a-doing? You're all wet.' And," he added, againwith the confidential air, "I _was_ wet, too. Wringin' wet."The headmaster's frown deepened.
"And you are certain that your assailants were boys from the school?""Sure as I am that I'm sitting here, sir. They all 'ad their caps ontheir heads, sir.""I have never heard of such a thing. I can hardly believe that it ispossible. They actually seized you, and threw you into the water----""_Splish_, sir!" said the policeman, with a vividness of imageryboth surprising and gratifying.
The headmaster tapped restlessly on the floor with his foot.
"How many boys were there?" he asked.
"Couple of 'undred, sir," said Mr. Butt promptly.
"Two hundred!""It was dark, sir, and I couldn't see not to say properly; but if youask me my frank and private opinion I should say couple of 'undred.""H'm--Well, I will look into the matter at once. They shall bepunished.""Yes, sir.""Ye-e-s--H'm--Yes--Most severely.""Yes, sir.""Yes--Thank you, constable. Good-night.""Good-night, sir."The headmaster of Wrykyn was not a motorist. Owing to thisdisadvantage he made a mistake. Had he been a motorist, he would haveknown that statements by the police in the matter of figures must bedivided by any number from two to ten, according to discretion. As itwas, he accepted Constable Butt's report almost as it stood. Hethought that he might possibly have been mistaken as to the exactnumbers of those concerned in his immersion; but he accepted thestatement in so far as it indicated that the thing had been the workof a considerable section of the school, and not of only one or twoindividuals. And this made all the difference to his method of dealingwith the affair. Had he known how few were the numbers of thoseresponsible for the cold in the head which subsequently attackedConstable Butt, he would have asked for their names, and an extralesson would have settled the entire matter.
As it was, however, he got the impression that the school, as a whole,was culpable, and he proceeded to punish the school as a whole.
It happened that, about a week before the pond episode, a certainmember of the Royal Family had recovered from a dangerous illness,which at one time had looked like being fatal. No official holiday hadbeen given to the schools in honour of the recovery, but Eton andHarrow had set the example, which was followed throughout the kingdom,and Wrykyn had come into line with the rest. Only two days before theO.W.'s matches the headmaster had given out a notice in the hall thatthe following Friday would be a whole holiday; and the school, alwaysready to stop work, had approved of the announcement exceedingly.
The step which the headmaster decided to take by way of avenging Mr.
Butt's wrongs was to stop this holiday.
He gave out a notice to that effect on the Monday.
The school was thunderstruck. It could not understand it. The pondaffair had, of course, become public property; and those who had hadnothing to do with it had been much amused. "There'll be a frightfulrow about it," they had said, thrilled with the pleasant excitement ofthose who see trouble approaching and themselves looking on from acomfortable distance without risk or uneasiness. They were notmalicious. They did not want to see their friends in difficulties. Butthere is no denying that a row does break the monotony of a schoolterm. The thrilling feeling that something is going to happen is thesalt of life....
And here they were, right in it after all. The blow had fallen, andcrushed guilty and innocent alike.
* * * * *The school's attitude can be summed up in three words. It was onevast, blank, astounded "Here, I say!"Everybody was saying it, though not always in those words. Whencondensed, everybody's comment on the situation came to that.
* * * * *There is something rather pathetic in the indignation of a school. Itmust always, or nearly always, expend itself in words, and in privateat that. Even the consolation of getting on to platforms and shoutingat itself is denied to it. A public school has no Hyde Park.
There is every probability--in fact, it is certain--that, but for onemalcontent, the school's indignation would have been allowed to simmerdown in the usual way, and finally become a mere vague memory.
The malcontent was Wyatt. He had been responsible for the starting ofthe matter, and he proceeded now to carry it on till it blazed up intothe biggest thing of its kind ever known at Wrykyn--the Great Picnic.
* * * * *Any one who knows the public schools, their ironbound conservatism,and, as a whole, intense respect for order and authority, willappreciate the magnitude of his feat, even though he may not approveof it. Leaders of men are rare. Leaders of boys are almost unknown. Itrequires genius to sway a school.
It would be an absorbing task for a psychologist to trace the variousstages by which an impossibility was changed into a reality. Wyatt'scoolness and matter-of-fact determination were his chief weapons. Hispopularity and reputation for lawlessness helped him. A conversationwhich he had with Neville-Smith, a day-boy, is typical of the way inwhich he forced his point of view on the school.
Neville-Smith was thoroughly representative of the average Wrykynian.
He could play his part in any minor "rag" which interested him, andprobably considered himself, on the whole, a daring sort of person.
But at heart he had an enormous respect for authority. Before he cameto Wyatt, he would not have dreamed of proceeding beyond words in hisrevolt. Wyatt acted on him like some drug.
Neville-Smith came upon Wyatt on his way to the nets. The noticeconcerning the holiday had only been given out that morning, and hewas full of it. He expressed his opinion of the headmaster freely andin well-chosen words. He said it was a swindle, that it was all rot,and that it was a beastly shame. He added that something ought to bedone about it.
"What are you going to do?" asked Wyatt.
"Well," said Neville-Smith a little awkwardly, guiltily conscious thathe had been frothing, and scenting sarcasm, "I don't suppose one canactually _do_ anything.""Why not?" said Wyatt.
"What do you mean?""Why don't you take the holiday?""What? Not turn up on Friday!""Yes. I'm not going to."Neville-Smith stopped and stared. Wyatt was unmoved.
"You're what?""I simply sha'n't go to school.""You're rotting.""All right.""No, but, I say, ragging barred. Are you just going to cut off, thoughthe holiday's been stopped?""That's the idea.""You'll get sacked.""I suppose so. But only because I shall be the only one to do it. Ifthe whole school took Friday off, they couldn't do much. They couldn'tsack the whole school.""By Jove, nor could they! I say!"They walked on, Neville-Smith's mind in a whirl, Wyatt whistling.
"I say," said Neville-Smith after a pause. "It would be a bit of arag.""Not bad.""Do you think the chaps would do it?""If they understood they wouldn't be alone."Another pause.
"Shall I ask some of them?" said Neville-Smith.
"Do.""I could get quite a lot, I believe.""That would be a start, wouldn't it? I could get a couple of dozenfrom Wain's. We should be forty or fifty strong to start with.""I say, what a score, wouldn't it be?""Yes.""I'll speak to the chaps to-night, and let you know.""All right," said Wyatt. "Tell them that I shall be going anyhow. Ishould be glad of a little company."* * * * *The school turned in on the Thursday night in a restless, excited way.
There were mysterious whisperings and gigglings. Groups kept formingin corners apart, to disperse casually and innocently on the approachof some person in authority.
An air of expectancy permeated each of the houses.
Morning school at Wrykyn started at nine o'clock. At that hour therewas a call-over in each of the form-rooms. After call-over the formsproceeded to the Great Hall for prayers.
A strangely desolate feeling was in the air at nine o'clock on theFriday morning. Sit in the grounds of a public school any afternoon inthe summer holidays, and you will get exactly the same sensation ofbeing alone in the world as came to the dozen or so day-boys whobicycled through the gates that morning. Wrykyn was a boarding-schoolfor the most part, but it had its leaven of day-boys. The majority ofthese lived in the town, and walked to school. A few, however, whosehomes were farther away, came on bicycles. One plutocrat did thejourney in a motor-car, rather to the scandal of the authorities, who,though unable to interfere, looked askance when compelled by thewarning toot of the horn to skip from road to pavement. A form-masterhas the strongest objection to being made to skip like a young ram bya boy to whom he has only the day before given a hundred lines forshuffling his feet in form.
It seemed curious to these cyclists that there should be nobody about.
Punctuality is the politeness of princes, but it was not a leadingcharacteristic of the school; and at three minutes to nine, as ageneral rule, you might see the gravel in front of the buildingsfreely dotted with sprinters, trying to get in in time to answer theirnames.
It was curious that there should be nobody about to-day. A wave ofreform could scarcely have swept through the houses during the night.
And yet--where was everybody?
Time only deepened the mystery. The form-rooms, like the gravel, wereempty.
The cyclists looked at one another in astonishment. What could itmean?
It was an occasion on which sane people wonder if their brains are notplaying them some unaccountable trick.
"I say," said Willoughby, of the Lower Fifth, to Brown, the only otheroccupant of the form-room, "the old man _did_ stop the holidayto-day, didn't he?""Just what I was going to ask you," said Brown. "It's jolly rum. Idistinctly remember him giving it out in hall that it was going to bestopped because of the O.W.'s day row.""So do I. I can't make it out. Where _is_ everybody?""They can't _all_ be late.""Somebody would have turned up by now. Why, it's just striking.""Perhaps he sent another notice round the houses late last night,saying it was on again all right. I say, what a swindle if he did.
Some one might have let us know. I should have got up an hour later.""So should I.""Hullo, here _is_ somebody."It was the master of the Lower Fifth, Mr. Spence. He walked brisklyinto the room, as was his habit. Seeing the obvious void, he stoppedin his stride, and looked puzzled.
"Willoughby. Brown. Are you the only two here? Where is everybody?""Please, sir, we don't know. We were just wondering.""Have you seen nobody?""No, sir.""We were just wondering, sir, if the holiday had been put on again,after all.""I've heard nothing about it. I should have received some sort ofintimation if it had been.""Yes, sir.""Do you mean to say that you have seen _nobody_, Brown?""Only about a dozen fellows, sir. The usual lot who come on bikes,sir.""None of the boarders?""No, sir. Not a single one.""This is extraordinary."Mr. Spence pondered.
"Well," he said, "you two fellows had better go along up to Hall. Ishall go to the Common Room and make inquiries. Perhaps, as you say,there is a holiday to-day, and the notice was not brought to me."Mr. Spence told himself, as he walked to the Common Room, thatthis might be a possible solution of the difficulty. He was not ahouse-master, and lived by himself in rooms in the town. It wasjust conceivable that they might have forgotten to tell him of thechange in the arrangements.
But in the Common Room the same perplexity reigned. Half a dozenmasters were seated round the room, and a few more were standing. Andthey were all very puzzled.
A brisk conversation was going on. Several voices hailed Mr. Spence ashe entered.
"Hullo, Spence. Are you alone in the world too?""Any of your boys turned up, Spence?""You in the same condition as we are, Spence?"Mr. Spence seated himself on the table.
"Haven't any of your fellows turned up, either?" he said.
"When I accepted the honourable post of Lower Fourth master in thisabode of sin," said Mr. Seymour, "it was on the distinct understandingthat there was going to be a Lower Fourth. Yet I go into my form-roomthis morning, and what do I find? Simply Emptiness, and Pickersgill II.
whistling 'The Church Parade,' all flat. I consider I have been hardlytreated.""I have no complaint to make against Brown and Willoughby, asindividuals," said Mr. Spence; "but, considered as a form, I call themshort measure.""I confess that I am entirely at a loss," said Mr. Shields precisely.
"I have never been confronted with a situation like this since Ibecame a schoolmaster.""It is most mysterious," agreed Mr. Wain, plucking at his beard.
"Exceedingly so."The younger masters, notably Mr. Spence and Mr. Seymour, had begun tolook on the thing as a huge jest.
"We had better teach ourselves," said Mr. Seymour. "Spence, do ahundred lines for laughing in form."The door burst open.
"Hullo, here's another scholastic Little Bo-Peep," said Mr. Seymour.
"Well, Appleby, have you lost your sheep, too?""You don't mean to tell me----" began Mr. Appleby.
"I do," said Mr. Seymour. "Here we are, fifteen of us, all good menand true, graduates of our Universities, and, as far as I can see, ifwe divide up the boys who have come to school this morning on fairshare-and-share-alike lines, it will work out at about two-thirds of aboy each. Spence, will you take a third of Pickersgill II.?""I want none of your charity," said Mr. Spence loftily. "You don'tseem to realise that I'm the best off of you all. I've got two in myform. It's no good offering me your Pickersgills. I simply haven'troom for them.""What does it all mean?" exclaimed Mr. Appleby.
"If you ask me," said Mr. Seymour, "I should say that it meant thatthe school, holding the sensible view that first thoughts are best,have ignored the head's change of mind, and are taking their holidayas per original programme.""They surely cannot----!""Well, where are they then?""Do you seriously mean that the entire school has--has_rebelled_?""'Nay, sire,'" quoted Mr. Spence, "'a revolution!'""I never heard of such a thing!""We're making history," said Mr. Seymour.
"It will be rather interesting," said Mr. Spence, "to see how the headwill deal with a situation like this. One can rely on him to do thestatesman-like thing, but I'm bound to say I shouldn't care to be inhis place. It seems to me these boys hold all the cards. You can'texpel a whole school. There's safety in numbers. The thing iscolossal.""It is deplorable," said Mr. Wain, with austerity. "Exceedingly so.""I try to think so," said Mr. Spence, "but it's a struggle. There's aNapoleonic touch about the business that appeals to one. Disorder on asmall scale is bad, but this is immense. I've never heard of anythinglike it at any public school. When I was at Winchester, my last yearthere, there was pretty nearly a revolution because the captain ofcricket was expelled on the eve of the Eton match. I remember makinginflammatory speeches myself on that occasion. But we stopped on theright side of the line. We were satisfied with growling. But this----!"Mr. Seymour got up.
"It's an ill wind," he said. "With any luck we ought to get the dayoff, and it's ideal weather for a holiday. The head can hardly ask usto sit indoors, teaching nobody. If I have to stew in my form-room allday, instructing Pickersgill II., I shall make things exceedinglysultry for that youth. He will wish that the Pickersgill progeny hadstopped short at his elder brother. He will not value life. In themeantime, as it's already ten past, hadn't we better be going up toHall to see what the orders of the day _are_?""Look at Shields," said Mr. Spence. "He might be posing for a statueto be called 'Despair!' He reminds me of Macduff. _Macbeth_, Activ., somewhere near the end. 'What, all my pretty chickens, at onefell swoop?' That's what Shields is saying to himself.""It's all very well to make a joke of it, Spence," said Mr. Shieldsquerulously, "but it is most disturbing. Most.""Exceedingly," agreed Mr. Wain.
The bereaved company of masters walked on up the stairs that led tothe Great Hall.