If the form-rooms had been lonely, the Great Hall was doubly, trebly,so. It was a vast room, stretching from side to side of the middleblock, and its ceiling soared up into a distant dome. At one end was adais and an organ, and at intervals down the room stood long tables.
The panels were covered with the names of Wrykynians who had wonscholarships at Oxford and Cambridge, and of Old Wrykynians who hadtaken first in Mods or Greats, or achieved any other recognisedsuccess, such as a place in the Indian Civil Service list. A silenttestimony, these panels, to the work the school had done in the world.
Nobody knew exactly how many the Hall could hold, when packed to itsfullest capacity. The six hundred odd boys at the school seemed toleave large gaps unfilled.
This morning there was a mere handful, and the place looked worse thanempty.
The Sixth Form were there, and the school prefects. The Great Picnichad not affected their numbers. The Sixth stood by their table in asolid group. The other tables were occupied by ones and twos. A buzzof conversation was going on, which did not cease when the mastersfiled into the room and took their places. Every one realised by thistime that the biggest row in Wrykyn history was well under way; andthe thing had to be discussed.
In the Masters' library Mr. Wain and Mr. Shields, the spokesmen of theCommon Room, were breaking the news to the headmaster.
The headmaster was a man who rarely betrayed emotion in his publiccapacity. He heard Mr. Shields's rambling remarks, punctuated by Mr.
Wain's "Exceedinglys," to an end. Then he gathered up his cap andgown.
"You say that the whole school is absent?" he remarked quietly.
Mr. Shields, in a long-winded flow of words, replied that that waswhat he did say.
"Ah!" said the headmaster.
There was a silence.
"'M!" said the headmaster.
There was another silence.
"Ye--e--s!" said the headmaster.
He then led the way into the Hall.
Conversation ceased abruptly as he entered. The school, like anaudience at a theatre when the hero has just appeared on the stage,felt that the serious interest of the drama had begun. There was adead silence at every table as he strode up the room and on to thedais.
There was something Titanic in his calmness. Every eye was on his faceas he passed up the Hall, but not a sign of perturbation could theschool read. To judge from his expression, he might have been unawareof the emptiness around him.
The master who looked after the music of the school, and incidentallyaccompanied the hymn with which prayers at Wrykyn opened, was waiting,puzzled, at the foot of the dais. It seemed improbable that thingswould go on as usual, and he did not know whether he was expected tobe at the organ, or not. The headmaster's placid face reassured him.
He went to his post.
The hymn began. It was a long hymn, and one which the school liked forits swing and noise. As a rule, when it was sung, the Hall re-echoed.
To-day, the thin sound of the voices had quite an uncanny effect. Theorgan boomed through the deserted room.
The school, or the remnants of it, waited impatiently while theprefect whose turn it was to read stammered nervously through thelesson. They were anxious to get on to what the Head was going to sayat the end of prayers. At last it was over. The school waited, allears.
The headmaster bent down from the dais and called to Firby-Smith, whowas standing in his place with the Sixth.
The Gazeka, blushing warmly, stepped forward.
"Bring me a school list, Firby-Smith," said the headmaster.
The Gazeka was wearing a pair of very squeaky boots that morning. Theysounded deafening as he walked out of the room.
The school waited.
Presently a distant squeaking was heard, and Firby-Smith returned,bearing a large sheet of paper.
The headmaster thanked him, and spread it out on the reading-desk.
Then, calmly, as if it were an occurrence of every day, he began tocall the roll.
"Abney."No answer.
"Adams."No answer.
"Allenby.""Here, sir," from a table at the end of the room. Allenby was aprefect, in the Science Sixth.
The headmaster made a mark against his name with a pencil.
"Arkwright."No answer.
He began to call the names more rapidly.
"Arlington. Arthur. Ashe. Aston.""Here, sir," in a shrill treble from the rider in motorcars.
The headmaster made another tick.
The list came to an end after what seemed to the school anunconscionable time, and he rolled up the paper again, and stepped tothe edge of the dais.
"All boys not in the Sixth Form," he said, "will go to theirform-rooms and get their books and writing-materials, and returnto the Hall."("Good work," murmured Mr. Seymour to himself. "Looks as if weshould get that holiday after all.")"The Sixth Form will go to their form-room as usual. I should liketo speak to the masters for a moment."He nodded dismissal to the school.
The masters collected on the da?s.
"I find that I shall not require your services to-day," said theheadmaster. "If you will kindly set the boys in your forms some workthat will keep them occupied, I will look after them here. It is alovely day," he added, with a smile, "and I am sure you will all enjoyyourselves a great deal more in the open air.""That," said Mr. Seymour to Mr. Spence, as they went downstairs, "iswhat I call a genuine sportsman.""My opinion neatly expressed," said Mr. Spence. "Come on the river. Orshall we put up a net, and have a knock?""River, I think. Meet you at the boat-house.""All right. Don't be long.""If every day were run on these lines, school-mastering wouldn't besuch a bad profession. I wonder if one could persuade one's form torun amuck as a regular thing.""Pity one can't. It seems to me the ideal state of things. Ensures thegreatest happiness of the greatest number.""I say! Suppose the school has gone up the river, too, and we meetthem! What shall we do?""Thank them," said Mr. Spence, "most kindly. They've done us well."The school had not gone up the river. They had marched in a solidbody, with the school band at their head playing Sousa, in thedirection of Worfield, a market town of some importance, distant aboutfive miles. Of what they did and what the natives thought of it all,no very distinct records remain. The thing is a tradition on thecountryside now, an event colossal and heroic, to be talked about inthe tap-room of the village inn during the long winter evenings. Thepapers got hold of it, but were curiously misled as to the nature ofthe demonstration. This was the fault of the reporter on the staff ofthe _Worfield Intelligencer and Farmers' Guide_, who saw in thething a legitimate "march-out," and, questioning a straggler as to thereason for the expedition and gathering foggily that the restorationto health of the Eminent Person was at the bottom of it, said so inhis paper. And two days later, at about the time when Retribution hadgot seriously to work, the _Daily Mail_ reprinted the account,with comments and elaborations, and headed it "Loyal Schoolboys." Thewriter said that great credit was due to the headmaster of Wrykyn forhis ingenuity in devising and organising so novel a thanksgivingcelebration. And there was the usual conversation between "arosy-cheeked lad of some sixteen summers" and "our representative,"in which the rosy-cheeked one spoke most kindly of the head-master,who seemed to be a warm personal friend of his.
The remarkable thing about the Great Picnic was its orderliness.
Considering that five hundred and fifty boys were ranging the countryin a compact mass, there was wonderfully little damage done toproperty. Wyatt's genius did not stop short at organising the march.
In addition, he arranged a system of officers which effectuallycontrolled the animal spirits of the rank and file. The prompt anddecisive way in which rioters were dealt with during the earlierstages of the business proved a wholesome lesson to others who wouldhave wished to have gone and done likewise. A spirit of martial lawreigned over the Great Picnic. And towards the end of the day fatiguekept the rowdy-minded quiet.
At Worfield the expedition lunched. It was not a market-day,fortunately, or the confusion in the narrow streets would have beenhopeless. On ordinary days Worfield was more or less deserted. It isastonishing that the resources of the little town were equal tosatisfying the needs of the picnickers. They descended on the placelike an army of locusts.
Wyatt, as generalissimo of the expedition, walked into the"Grasshopper and Ant," the leading inn of the town.
"Anything I can do for you, sir?" inquired the landlord politely.
"Yes, please," said Wyatt, "I want lunch for five hundred and fifty."That was the supreme moment in mine host's life. It was his bigsubject of conversation ever afterwards. He always told that as hisbest story, and he always ended with the words, "You could ha' knockedme down with a feather!"The first shock over, the staff of the "Grasshopper and Ant" bustledabout. Other inns were called upon for help. Private citizens ralliedround with bread, jam, and apples. And the army lunched sumptuously.
In the early afternoon they rested, and as evening began to fall, themarch home was started.
* * * * *At the school, net practice was just coming to an end when, faintly,as the garrison of Lucknow heard the first skirl of the pipes of therelieving force, those on the grounds heard the strains of the schoolband and a murmur of many voices. Presently the sounds grew moredistinct, and up the Wrykyn road came marching the vanguard of thecolumn, singing the school song. They looked weary but cheerful.
As the army drew near to the school, it melted away little by little,each house claiming its representatives. At the school gates only ahandful were left.
Bob Jackson, walking back to Donaldson's, met Wyatt at the gate, andgazed at him, speechless.
"Hullo," said Wyatt, "been to the nets? I wonder if there's time for aginger-beer before the shop shuts."
The headmaster was quite bland and business-like about it all. Therewere no impassioned addresses from the dais. He did not tell theschool that it ought to be ashamed of itself. Nor did he say that heshould never have thought it of them. Prayers on the Saturday morningwere marked by no unusual features. There was, indeed, a stir ofexcitement when he came to the edge of the dais, and cleared histhroat as a preliminary to making an announcement. Now for it, thoughtthe school.
This was the announcement.
"There has been an outbreak of chicken-pox in the town. All streetsexcept the High Street will in consequence be out of bounds tillfurther notice."He then gave the nod of dismissal.
The school streamed downstairs, marvelling.
The less astute of the picnickers, unmindful of the homely proverbabout hallooing before leaving the wood, were openly exulting. Itseemed plain to them that the headmaster, baffled by the magnitude ofthe thing, had resolved to pursue the safe course of ignoring italtogether. To lie low is always a shrewd piece of tactics, and thereseemed no reason why the Head should not have decided on it in thepresent instance.
Neville-Smith was among these premature rejoicers.
"I say," he chuckled, overtaking Wyatt in the cloisters, "this is allright, isn't it! He's funked it. I thought he would. Finds the job toobig to tackle."Wyatt was damping.
"My dear chap," he said, "it's not over yet by a long chalk. It hasn'tstarted yet.""What do you mean? Why didn't he say anything about it in Hall, then?""Why should he? Have you ever had tick at a shop?""Of course I have. What do you mean? Why?""Well, they didn't send in the bill right away. But it came allright.""Do you think he's going to do something, then?""Rather. You wait."Wyatt was right.
Between ten and eleven on Wednesdays and Saturdays old Bates, theschool sergeant, used to copy out the names of those who were in extralesson, and post them outside the school shop. The school inspectedthe list during the quarter to eleven interval.
To-day, rushing to the shop for its midday bun, the school was awareof a vast sheet of paper where usually there was but a small one. Theysurged round it. Buns were forgotten. What was it?
Then the meaning of the notice flashed upon them. The headmaster hadacted. This bloated document was the extra lesson list, swollen withnames as a stream swells with rain. It was a comprehensive document.
It left out little.
"The following boys will go in to extra lesson this afternoon and nextWednesday," it began. And "the following boys" numbered four hundred.
"Bates must have got writer's cramp," said Clowes, as he read the hugescroll.
* * * * *Wyatt met Mike after school, as they went back to the house.
"Seen the 'extra' list?" he remarked. "None of the kids are in it, Inotice. Only the bigger fellows. Rather a good thing. I'm glad you gotoff.""Thanks," said Mike, who was walking a little stiffly. "I don't knowwhat you call getting off. It seems to me you're the chaps who gotoff.""How do you mean?""We got tanned," said Mike ruefully.
"What!""Yes. Everybody below the Upper Fourth."Wyatt roared with laughter.
"By Gad," he said, "he is an old sportsman. I never saw such a man. Helowers all records.""Glad you think it funny. You wouldn't have if you'd been me. I wasone of the first to get it. He was quite fresh.""Sting?""Should think it did.""Well, buck up. Don't break down.""I'm not breaking down," said Mike indignantly.
"All right, I thought you weren't. Anyhow, you're better off than Iam.""An extra's nothing much," said Mike.
"It is when it happens to come on the same day as the M.C.C. match.""Oh, by Jove! I forgot. That's next Wednesday, isn't it? You won't beable to play!""No.""I say, what rot!""It is, rather. Still, nobody can say I didn't ask for it. If one goesout of one's way to beg and beseech the Old Man to put one in extra,it would be a little rough on him to curse him when he does it.""I should be awfully sick, if it were me.""Well, it isn't you, so you're all right. You'll probably get my placein the team."Mike smiled dutifully at what he supposed to be a humorous sally.
"Or, rather, one of the places," continued Wyatt, who seemed to besufficiently in earnest. "They'll put a bowler in instead of me.
Probably Druce. But there'll be several vacancies. Let's see. Me.
Adams. Ashe. Any more? No, that's the lot. I should think they'd giveyou a chance.""You needn't rot," said Mike uncomfortably. He had his day-dreams,like everybody else, and they always took the form of playing for thefirst eleven (and, incidentally, making a century in record time). Tohave to listen while the subject was talked about lightly made him hotand prickly all over.
"I'm not rotting," said Wyatt seriously, "I'll suggest it to Burgessto-night.""You don't think there's any chance of it, really, do you?" said Mikeawkwardly.
"I don't see why not? Buck up in the scratch game this afternoon.
Fielding especially. Burgess is simply mad on fielding. I don't blamehim either, especially as he's a bowler himself. He'd shove a man intothe team like a shot, whatever his batting was like, if his fieldingwas something extra special. So you field like a demon this afternoon,and I'll carry on the good work in the evening.""I say," said Mike, overcome, "it's awfully decent of you, Wyatt."* * * * *Billy Burgess, captain of Wrykyn cricket, was a genial giant, whoseldom allowed himself to be ruffled. The present was one of the rareoccasions on which he permitted himself that luxury. Wyatt found himin his study, shortly before lock-up, full of strange oaths, like thesoldier in Shakespeare.
"You rotter! You rotter! You _worm_!" he observed crisply, asWyatt appeared.
"Dear old Billy!" said Wyatt. "Come on, give me a kiss, and let's befriends.""You----!""William! William!""If it wasn't illegal, I'd like to tie you and Ashe and thatblackguard Adams up in a big sack, and drop you into the river. AndI'd jump on the sack first. What do you mean by letting the team downlike this? I know you were at the bottom of it all."He struggled into his shirt--he was changing after a bath--and hisface popped wrathfully out at the other end.
"I'm awfully sorry, Bill," said Wyatt. "The fact is, in the excitementof the moment the M.C.C. match went clean out of my mind.""You haven't got a mind," grumbled Burgess. "You've got a cheap brownpaper substitute. That's your trouble."Wyatt turned the conversation tactfully.
"How many wickets did you get to-day?" he asked.
"Eight. For a hundred and three. I was on the spot. Young Jacksoncaught a hot one off me at third man. That kid's good.""Why don't you play him against the M.C.C. on Wednesday?" said Wyatt,jumping at his opportunity.
"What? Are you sitting on my left shoe?""No. There it is in the corner.""Right ho!... What were you saying?""Why not play young Jackson for the first?""Too small.""Rot. What does size matter? Cricket isn't footer. Besides, he isn'tsmall. He's as tall as I am.""I suppose he is. Dash, I've dropped my stud."Wyatt waited patiently till he had retrieved it. Then he returned tothe attack.
"He's as good a bat as his brother, and a better field.""Old Bob can't field for toffee. I will say that for him. Dropped asitter off me to-day. Why the deuce fellows can't hold catches whenthey drop slowly into their mouths I'm hanged if I can see.""You play him," said Wyatt. "Just give him a trial. That kid's agenius at cricket. He's going to be better than any of his brothers,even Joe. Give him a shot."Burgess hesitated.
"You know, it's a bit risky," he said. "With you three lunatics out ofthe team we can't afford to try many experiments. Better stick to themen at the top of the second."Wyatt got up, and kicked the wall as a vent for his feelings.
"You rotter," he said. "Can't you _see_ when you've got a goodman? Here's this kid waiting for you ready made with a style likeTrumper's, and you rave about top men in the second, chaps who playforward at everything, and pat half-volleys back to the bowler! Do yourealise that your only chance of being known to Posterity is as theman who gave M. Jackson his colours at Wrykyn? In a few years he'll beplaying for England, and you'll think it a favour if he nods to you inthe pav. at Lord's. When you're a white-haired old man you'll gododdering about, gassing to your grandchildren, poor kids, how you'discovered' M. Jackson. It'll be the only thing they'll respect youfor."Wyatt stopped for breath.
"All right," said Burgess, "I'll think it over. Frightful gift of thegab you've got, Wyatt.""Good," said Wyatt. "Think it over. And don't forget what I said aboutthe grandchildren. You would like little Wyatt Burgess and the otherlittle Burgesses to respect you in your old age, wouldn't you? Verywell, then. So long. The bell went ages ago. I shall be locked out."* * * * *On the Monday morning Mike passed the notice-board just as Burgessturned away from pinning up the list of the team to play the M.C.C. Heread it, and his heart missed a beat. For, bottom but one, just abovethe W. B. Burgess, was a name that leaped from the paper at him. Hisown name.
If the day happens to be fine, there is a curious, dream-likeatmosphere about the opening stages of a first eleven match.
Everything seems hushed and expectant. The rest of the school havegone in after the interval at eleven o'clock, and you are alone on thegrounds with a cricket-bag. The only signs of life are a fewpedestrians on the road beyond the railings and one or two blazer andflannel-clad forms in the pavilion. The sense of isolation is tryingto the nerves, and a school team usually bats 25 per cent. betterafter lunch, when the strangeness has worn off.
Mike walked across from Wain's, where he had changed, feeling quitehollow. He could almost have cried with pure fright. Bob had shoutedafter him from a window as he passed Donaldson's, to wait, so thatthey could walk over together; but conversation was the last thingMike desired at that moment.
He had almost reached the pavilion when one of the M.C.C. team camedown the steps, saw him, and stopped dead.
"By Jove, Saunders!" cried Mike.
"Why, Master Mike!"The professional beamed, and quite suddenly, the lost, hopelessfeeling left Mike. He felt as cheerful as if he and Saunders had metin the meadow at home, and were just going to begin a little quietnet-practice.
"Why, Master Mike, you don't mean to say you're playing for the schoolalready?"Mike nodded happily.
"Isn't it ripping," he said.
Saunders slapped his leg in a sort of ecstasy.
"Didn't I always say it, sir," he chuckled. "Wasn't I right? I used tosay to myself it 'ud be a pretty good school team that 'ud leave youout.""Of course, I'm only playing as a sub., you know. Three chaps are inextra, and I got one of the places.""Well, you'll make a hundred to-day, Master Mike, and then they'llhave to put you in.""Wish I could!""Master Joe's come down with the Club," said Saunders.
"Joe! Has he really? How ripping! Hullo, here he is. Hullo, Joe?"The greatest of all the Jacksons was descending the pavilion stepswith the gravity befitting an All England batsman. He stopped short,as Saunders had done.
"Mike! You aren't playing!""Yes.""Well, I'm hanged! Young marvel, isn't he, Saunders?""He is, sir," said Saunders. "Got all the strokes. I always said it,Master Joe. Only wants the strength."Joe took Mike by the shoulder, and walked him off in the direction ofa man in a Zingari blazer who was bowling slows to another of theM.C.C. team. Mike recognised him with awe as one of the three bestamateur wicket-keepers in the country.
"What do you think of this?" said Joe, exhibiting Mike, who grinnedbashfully. "Aged ten last birthday, and playing for the school. Youare only ten, aren't you, Mike?""Brother of yours?" asked the wicket-keeper.
"Probably too proud to own the relationship, but he is.""Isn't there any end to you Jacksons?" demanded the wicket-keeper inan aggrieved tone. "I never saw such a family.""This is our star. You wait till he gets at us to-day. Saunders is ouronly bowler, and Mike's been brought up on Saunders. You'd better winthe toss if you want a chance of getting a knock and lifting youraverage out of the minuses.""I _have_ won the toss," said the other with dignity. "Do youthink I don't know the elementary duties of a captain?"* * * * *The school went out to field with mixed feelings. The wicket was hardand true, which would have made it pleasant to be going in first. Onthe other hand, they would feel decidedly better and fitter forcenturies after the game had been in progress an hour or so. Burgesswas glad as a private individual, sorry as a captain. For himself, thesooner he got hold of the ball and began to bowl the better he likedit. As a captain, he realised that a side with Joe Jackson on it, notto mention the other first-class men, was not a side to which he wouldhave preferred to give away an advantage. Mike was feeling that by nopossibility could he hold the simplest catch, and hoping that nothingwould come his way. Bob, conscious of being an uncertain field, wasfeeling just the same.
The M.C.C. opened with Joe and a man in an Oxford Authentic cap. Thebeginning of the game was quiet. Burgess's yorker was nearly too muchfor the latter in the first over, but he contrived to chop it away,and the pair gradually settled down. At twenty, Joe began to open hisshoulders. Twenty became forty with disturbing swiftness, and Burgesstried a change of bowling.
It seemed for one instant as if the move had been a success, for Joe,still taking risks, tried to late-cut a rising ball, and snickedit straight into Bob's hands at second slip. It was the easiestof slip-catches, but Bob fumbled it, dropped it, almost held it asecond time, and finally let it fall miserably to the ground. It wasa moment too painful for words. He rolled the ball back to the bowlerin silence.
One of those weary periods followed when the batsman's defence seemsto the fieldsmen absolutely impregnable. There was a sickeninginevitableness in the way in which every ball was played with the verycentre of the bat. And, as usual, just when things seemed mosthopeless, relief came. The Authentic, getting in front of his wicket,to pull one of the simplest long-hops ever seen on a cricket field,missed it, and was l.b.w. And the next ball upset the newcomer's legstump.
The school revived. Bowlers and field were infused with a new life.
Another wicket--two stumps knocked out of the ground by Burgess--helpedthe thing on. When the bell rang for the end of morning school, fivewickets were down for a hundred and thirteen.
But from the end of school till lunch things went very wrong indeed.
Joe was still in at one end, invincible; and at the other was thegreat wicket-keeper. And the pair of them suddenly began to force thepace till the bowling was in a tangled knot. Four after four, allround the wicket, with never a chance or a mishit to vary themonotony. Two hundred went up, and two hundred and fifty. Then Joereached his century, and was stumped next ball. Then came lunch.
The rest of the innings was like the gentle rain after thethunderstorm. Runs came with fair regularity, but wickets fell atintervals, and when the wicket-keeper was run out at length for alively sixty-three, the end was very near. Saunders, coming in last,hit two boundaries, and was then caught by Mike. His second hit hadjust lifted the M.C.C. total over the three hundred.
* * * * *Three hundred is a score that takes some making on any ground, but ona fine day it was not an unusual total for the Wrykyn eleven. Someyears before, against Ripton, they had run up four hundred andsixteen; and only last season had massacred a very weak team of OldWrykynians with a score that only just missed the fourth hundred.
Unfortunately, on the present occasion, there was scarcely time,unless the bowling happened to get completely collared, to make theruns. It was a quarter to four when the innings began, and stumps wereto be drawn at a quarter to seven. A hundred an hour is quick work.
Burgess, however, was optimistic, as usual. "Better have a go forthem," he said to Berridge and Marsh, the school first pair.
Following out this courageous advice, Berridge, after hitting threeboundaries in his first two overs, was stumped half-way through thethird.
After this, things settled down. Morris, the first-wicket man, was athoroughly sound bat, a little on the slow side, but exceedingly hardto shift. He and Marsh proceeded to play themselves in, until itlooked as if they were likely to stay till the drawing of stumps.
A comfortable, rather somnolent feeling settled upon the school. Along stand at cricket is a soothing sight to watch. There was anabsence of hurry about the batsmen which harmonised well with thedrowsy summer afternoon. And yet runs were coming at a fair pace. Thehundred went up at five o'clock, the hundred and fifty at half-past.
Both batsmen were completely at home, and the M.C.C. third-changebowlers had been put on.
Then the great wicket-keeper took off the pads and gloves, and thefieldsmen retired to posts at the extreme edge of the ground.
"Lobs," said Burgess. "By Jove, I wish I was in."It seemed to be the general opinion among the members of the Wrykyneleven on the pavilion balcony that Morris and Marsh were in luck. Theteam did not grudge them their good fortune, because they had earnedit; but they were distinctly envious.
Lobs are the most dangerous, insinuating things in the world.
Everybody knows in theory the right way to treat them. Everybody knowsthat the man who is content not to try to score more than a singlecannot get out to them. Yet nearly everybody does get out to them.
It was the same story to-day. The first over yielded six runs, allthrough gentle taps along the ground. In the second, Marsh hit anover-pitched one along the ground to the terrace bank. The next ballhe swept round to the leg boundary. And that was the end of Marsh. Hesaw himself scoring at the rate of twenty-four an over. Off the lastball he was stumped by several feet, having done himself credit byscoring seventy.
The long stand was followed, as usual, by a series of disasters.
Marsh's wicket had fallen at a hundred and eighty. Ellerby left at ahundred and eighty-six. By the time the scoring-board registered twohundred, five wickets were down, three of them victims to the lobs.
Morris was still in at one end. He had refused to be tempted. He wasjogging on steadily to his century.
Bob Jackson went in next, with instructions to keep his eye on thelob-man.
For a time things went well. Saunders, who had gone on to bowl againafter a rest, seemed to give Morris no trouble, and Bob put himthrough the slips with apparent ease. Twenty runs were added, when thelob-bowler once more got in his deadly work. Bob, letting alone a ballwide of the off-stump under the impression that it was going to breakaway, was disagreeably surprised to find it break in instead, and hitthe wicket. The bowler smiled sadly, as if he hated to have to dothese things.
Mike's heart jumped as he saw the bails go. It was his turn next.
"Two hundred and twenty-nine," said Burgess, "and it's ten past six.
No good trying for the runs now. Stick in," he added to Mike. "That'sall you've got to do."All!... Mike felt as if he was being strangled. His heart was racinglike the engines of a motor. He knew his teeth were chattering. Hewished he could stop them. What a time Bob was taking to get back tothe pavilion! He wanted to rush out, and get the thing over.
At last he arrived, and Mike, fumbling at a glove, tottered out intothe sunshine. He heard miles and miles away a sound of clapping, and athin, shrill noise as if somebody were screaming in the distance. As amatter of fact, several members of his form and of the junior day-roomat Wain's nearly burst themselves at that moment.
At the wickets, he felt better. Bob had fallen to the last ball of theover, and Morris, standing ready for Saunders's delivery, looked socalm and certain of himself that it was impossible to feel entirelywithout hope and self-confidence. Mike knew that Morris had madeninety-eight, and he supposed that Morris knew that he was very nearhis century; yet he seemed to be absolutely undisturbed. Mike drewcourage from his attitude.
Morris pushed the first ball away to leg. Mike would have liked tohave run two, but short leg had retrieved the ball as he reached thecrease.
The moment had come, the moment which he had experienced only indreams. And in the dreams he was always full of confidence, andinvariably hit a boundary. Sometimes a drive, sometimes a cut, butalways a boundary.
"To leg, sir," said the umpire.
"Don't be in a funk," said a voice. "Play straight, and you can't getout."It was Joe, who had taken the gloves when the wicket-keeper went on tobowl.
Mike grinned, wryly but gratefully.
Saunders was beginning his run. It was all so home-like that for amoment Mike felt himself again. How often he had seen those two littleskips and the jump. It was like being in the paddock again, withMarjory and the dogs waiting by the railings to fetch the ball if hemade a drive.
Saunders ran to the crease, and bowled.
Now, Saunders was a conscientious man, and, doubtless, bowled the verybest ball that he possibly could. On the other hand, it was Mike'sfirst appearance for the school, and Saunders, besides beingconscientious, was undoubtedly kind-hearted. It is useless tospeculate as to whether he was trying to bowl his best that ball. Ifso, he failed signally. It was a half-volley, just the right distanceaway from the off-stump; the sort of ball Mike was wont to send nearlythrough the net at home....
The next moment the dreams had come true. The umpire was signalling tothe scoring-box, the school was shouting, extra-cover was trotting tothe boundary to fetch the ball, and Mike was blushing and wonderingwhether it was bad form to grin.
From that ball onwards all was for the best in this best of allpossible worlds. Saunders bowled no more half-volleys; but Mikeplayed everything that he did bowl. He met the lobs with a bat likea barn-door. Even the departure of Morris, caught in the slips offSaunders's next over for a chanceless hundred and five, did not disturbhim. All nervousness had left him. He felt equal to the situation.
Burgess came in, and began to hit out as if he meant to knock off theruns. The bowling became a shade loose. Twice he was given full tossesto leg, which he hit to the terrace bank. Half-past six chimed, and twohundred and fifty went up on the telegraph board. Burgess continued tohit. Mike's whole soul was concentrated on keeping up his wicket.
There was only Reeves to follow him, and Reeves was a victim to thefirst straight ball. Burgess had to hit because it was the only gamehe knew; but he himself must simply stay in.
The hands of the clock seemed to have stopped. Then suddenly he heardthe umpire say "Last over," and he settled down to keep those sixballs out of his wicket.
The lob bowler had taken himself off, and the Oxford Authentic hadgone on, fast left-hand.
The first ball was short and wide of the off-stump. Mike let it alone.
Number two: yorker. Got him! Three: straight half-volley. Mike playedit back to the bowler. Four: beat him, and missed the wicket by aninch. Five: another yorker. Down on it again in the old familiar way.
All was well. The match was a draw now whatever happened to him. Hehit out, almost at a venture, at the last ball, and mid-off, jumping,just failed to reach it. It hummed over his head, and ran like astreak along the turf and up the bank, and a great howl of delightwent up from the school as the umpire took off the bails.
Mike walked away from the wickets with Joe and the wicket-keeper.
"I'm sorry about your nose, Joe," said the wicket-keeper in tones ofgrave solicitude.
"What's wrong with it?""At present," said the wicket-keeper, "nothing. But in a few years I'mafraid it's going to be put badly out of joint."
Mike got his third eleven colours after the M.C.C. match. As he hadmade twenty-three not out in a crisis in a first eleven match, thismay not seem an excessive reward. But it was all that he expected. Onehad to take the rungs of the ladder singly at Wrykyn. First one wasgiven one's third eleven cap. That meant, "You are a promising man,and we have our eye on you." Then came the second colours. They mightmean anything from "Well, here you are. You won't get any higher, soyou may as well have the thing now," to "This is just to show that westill have our eye on you."Mike was a certainty now for the second. But it needed more than oneperformance to secure the first cap.
"I told you so," said Wyatt, naturally, to Burgess after the match.
"He's not bad," said Burgess. "I'll give him another shot."But Burgess, as has been pointed out, was not a person who ever becamegushing with enthusiasm.
* * * * *So Wilkins, of the School House, who had played twice for the firsteleven, dropped down into the second, as many a good man had donebefore him, and Mike got his place in the next match, against theGentlemen of the County. Unfortunately for him, the visiting team,however gentlemanly, were not brilliant cricketers, at any rate as faras bowling was concerned. The school won the toss, went in first, andmade three hundred and sixteen for five wickets, Morris making anotherplacid century. The innings was declared closed before Mike had achance of distinguishing himself. In an innings which lasted forone over he made two runs, not out; and had to console himself forthe cutting short of his performance by the fact that his averagefor the school was still infinity. Bob, who was one of those luckyenough to have an unabridged innings, did better in this match, makingtwenty-five. But with Morris making a hundred and seventeen, andBerridge, Ellerby, and Marsh all passing the half-century, this scoredid not show up excessively.
We now come to what was practically a turning-point in Mike's careerat Wrykyn. There is no doubt that his meteor-like flights at crickethad an unsettling effect on him. He was enjoying life amazingly, and,as is not uncommon with the prosperous, he waxed fat and kicked.
Fortunately for him--though he did not look upon it in that light atthe time--he kicked the one person it was most imprudent to kick. Theperson he selected was Firby-Smith. With anybody else the thing mighthave blown over, to the detriment of Mike's character; but Firby-Smith,having the most tender affection for his dignity, made a fuss.
It happened in this way. The immediate cause of the disturbance was aremark of Mike's, but the indirect cause was the unbearablypatronising manner which the head of Wain's chose to adopt towardshim. The fact that he was playing for the school seemed to make nodifference at all. Firby-Smith continued to address Mike merely as thesmall boy.
The following, _verbatim_, was the tactful speech which headdressed to him on the evening of the M.C.C. match, having summonedhim to his study for the purpose.
"Well," he said, "you played a very decent innings this afternoon, andI suppose you're frightfully pleased with yourself, eh? Well, mind youdon't go getting swelled head. See? That's all. Run along."Mike departed, bursting with fury.
The next link in the chain was forged a week after the Gentlemen ofthe County match. House matches had begun, and Wain's were playingAppleby's. Appleby's made a hundred and fifty odd, shaping badly forthe most part against Wyatt's slows. Then Wain's opened their innings.
The Gazeka, as head of the house, was captain of the side, and he andWyatt went in first. Wyatt made a few mighty hits, and was then caughtat cover. Mike went in first wicket.
For some ten minutes all was peace. Firby-Smith scratched away at hisend, getting here and there a single and now and then a two, and Mikesettled down at once to play what he felt was going to be the inningsof a lifetime. Appleby's bowling was on the feeble side, with Raikes,of the third eleven, as the star, supported by some small change. Mikepounded it vigorously. To one who had been brought up on Saunders,Raikes possessed few subtleties. He had made seventeen, and wasthoroughly set, when the Gazeka, who had the bowling, hit one in thedirection of cover-point. With a certain type of batsman a single is athing to take big risks for. And the Gazeka badly wanted that single.
"Come on," he shouted, prancing down the pitch.
Mike, who had remained in his crease with the idea that nobody evenmoderately sane would attempt a run for a hit like that, moved forwardin a startled and irresolute manner. Firby-Smith arrived, shouting"Run!" and, cover having thrown the ball in, the wicket-keeper removedthe bails.
These are solemn moments.
The only possible way of smoothing over an episode of this kind is forthe guilty man to grovel.
Firby-Smith did not grovel.
"Easy run there, you know," he said reprovingly.
The world swam before Mike's eyes. Through the red mist he could seeFirby-Smith's face. The sun glinted on his rather prominent teeth. ToMike's distorted vision it seemed that the criminal was amused.
"Don't _laugh_, you grinning ape!" he cried. "It isn't funny."[Illustration: "DON'T _LAUGH_, YOU GRINNING APE"]
He then made for the trees where the rest of the team were sitting.
Now Firby-Smith not only possessed rather prominent teeth; he was alsosensitive on the subject. Mike's shaft sank in deeply. The fact thatemotion caused him to swipe at a straight half-volley, miss it, and bebowled next ball made the wound rankle.
He avoided Mike on his return to the trees. And Mike, feeling now alittle apprehensive, avoided him.
The Gazeka brooded apart for the rest of the afternoon, chewing theinsult. At close of play he sought Burgess.
Burgess, besides being captain of the eleven, was also head of theschool. He was the man who arranged prefects' meetings. And only aprefects' meeting, thought Firby-Smith, could adequately avenge hislacerated dignity.
"I want to speak to you, Burgess," he said.
"What's up?" said Burgess.
"You know young Jackson in our house.""What about him?""He's been frightfully insolent.""Cheeked you?" said Burgess, a man of simple speech.
"I want you to call a prefects' meeting, and lick him."Burgess looked incredulous.
"Rather a large order, a prefects' meeting," he said. "It has to be apretty serious sort of thing for that.""Frightful cheek to a school prefect is a serious thing," saidFirby-Smith, with the air of one uttering an epigram.
"Well, I suppose--What did he say to you?"Firby-Smith related the painful details.
Burgess started to laugh, but turned the laugh into a cough.
"Yes," he said meditatively. "Rather thick. Still, I mean--A prefects'
meeting. Rather like crushing a thingummy with a what-d'you-call-it.
Besides, he's a decent kid.""He's frightfully conceited.""Oh, well--Well, anyhow, look here, I'll think it over, and let youknow to-morrow. It's not the sort of thing to rush through withoutthinking about it."And the matter was left temporarily at that.
Burgess walked off the ground feeling that fate was not using himwell.
Here was he, a well-meaning youth who wanted to be on good terms withall the world, being jockeyed into slaughtering a kid whose batting headmired and whom personally he liked. And the worst of it was that hesympathised with Mike. He knew what it felt like to be run out justwhen one had got set, and he knew exactly how maddening the Gazeka'smanner would be on such an occasion. On the other hand, officially hewas bound to support the head of Wain's. Prefects must stand togetheror chaos will come.
He thought he would talk it over with somebody. Bob occurred to him.
It was only fair that Bob should be told, as the nearest of kin.
And here was another grievance against fate. Bob was a person he didnot particularly wish to see just then. For that morning he had postedup the list of the team to play for the school against Geddington, oneof the four schools which Wrykyn met at cricket; and Bob's name didnot appear on that list. Several things had contributed to thatmelancholy omission. In the first place, Geddington, to judge from theweekly reports in the _Sportsman_ and _Field_, were strong thisyear at batting. In the second place, the results of the last fewmatches, and particularly the M.C.C. match, had given Burgess theidea that Wrykyn was weak at bowling. It became necessary, therefore,to drop a batsman out of the team in favour of a bowler. And eitherMike or Bob must be the man.
Burgess was as rigidly conscientious as the captain of a school elevenshould be. Bob was one of his best friends, and he would have givenmuch to be able to put him in the team; but he thought the thing over,and put the temptation sturdily behind him. At batting there was notmuch to choose between the two, but in fielding there was a great deal.
Mike was good. Bob was bad. So out Bob had gone, and Neville-Smith, afair fast bowler at all times and on his day dangerous, took his place.
These clashings of public duty with private inclination are thedrawbacks to the despotic position of captain of cricket at a publicschool. It is awkward having to meet your best friend after you havedropped him from the team, and it is difficult to talk to him as ifnothing had happened.
Burgess felt very self-conscious as he entered Bob's study, and wasrather glad that he had a topic of conversation ready to hand.
"Busy, Bob?" he asked.
"Hullo," said Bob, with a cheerfulness rather over-done in his anxietyto show Burgess, the man, that he did not hold him responsible inany way for the distressing acts of Burgess, the captain. "Take apew. Don't these studies get beastly hot this weather. There's someginger-beer in the cupboard. Have some?""No, thanks. I say, Bob, look here, I want to see you.""Well, you can, can't you? This is me, sitting over here. The tall,dark, handsome chap.""It's awfully awkward, you know," continued Burgess gloomily; "thatass of a young brother of yours--Sorry, but he _is_ an ass,though he's your brother----""Thanks for the 'though,' Billy. You know how to put a thing nicely.
What's Mike been up to?""It's that old fool the Gazeka. He came to me frothing with rage, andwanted me to call a prefects' meeting and touch young Mike up."Bob displayed interest and excitement for the first time.
"Prefects' meeting! What the dickens is up? What's he been doing?
Smith must be drunk. What's all the row about?"Burgess repeated the main facts of the case as he had them fromFirby-Smith.
"Personally, I sympathise with the kid," he added, "Still, the Gazeka_is_ a prefect----"Bob gnawed a pen-holder morosely.
"Silly young idiot," he said.
"Sickening thing being run out," suggested Burgess.
"Still----""I know. It's rather hard to see what to do. I suppose if the Gazekainsists, one's bound to support him.""I suppose so.""Awful rot. Prefects' lickings aren't meant for that sort of thing.
They're supposed to be for kids who steal buns at the shop or muckabout generally. Not for a chap who curses a fellow who runs him out.
I tell you what, there's just a chance Firby-Smith won't press thething. He hadn't had time to get over it when he saw me. By now he'llhave simmered down a bit. Look here, you're a pal of his, aren't you?
Well, go and ask him to drop the business. Say you'll curse yourbrother and make him apologise, and that I'll kick him out of the teamfor the Geddington match."It was a difficult moment for Bob. One cannot help one's thoughts, andfor an instant the idea of going to Geddington with the team, as hewould certainly do if Mike did not play, made him waver. But herecovered himself.
"Don't do that," he said. "I don't see there's a need for anything ofthat sort. You must play the best side you've got. I can easily talkthe old Gazeka over. He gets all right in a second if he's treated theright way. I'll go and do it now."Burgess looked miserable.
"I say, Bob," he said.
"Yes?""Oh, nothing--I mean, you're not a bad sort." With which glowingeulogy he dashed out of the room, thanking his stars that he had wonthrough a confoundedly awkward business.
Bob went across to Wain's to interview and soothe Firby-Smith.
He found that outraged hero sitting moodily in his study like Achillesin his tent.
Seeing Bob, he became all animation.
"Look here," he said, "I wanted to see you. You know, that frightfulyoung brother of yours----""I know, I know," said Bob. "Burgess was telling me. He wantskicking.""He wants a frightful licking from the prefects," emended theaggrieved party.
"Well, I don't know, you know. Not much good lugging the prefects intoit, is there? I mean, apart from everything else, not much of a catchfor me, would it be, having to sit there and look on. I'm a prefect,too, you know."Firby-Smith looked a little blank at this. He had a great admirationfor Bob.
"I didn't think of you," he said.
"I thought you hadn't," said Bob. "You see it now, though, don't you?"Firby-Smith returned to the original grievance.
"Well, you know, it was frightful cheek.""Of course it was. Still, I think if I saw him and cursed him, andsent him up to you to apologise--How would that do?""All right. After all, I did run him out.""Yes, there's that, of course. Mike's all right, really. It isn't asif he did that sort of thing as a habit.""No. All right then.""Thanks," said Bob, and went to find Mike.
* * * * *The lecture on deportment which he read that future All-Englandbatsman in a secluded passage near the junior day-room left the latterrather limp and exceedingly meek. For the moment all the jauntinessand exuberance had been drained out of him. He was a puncturedballoon. Reflection, and the distinctly discouraging replies of thoseexperts in school law to whom he had put the question, "What d'youthink he'll do?" had induced a very chastened frame of mind.
He perceived that he had walked very nearly into a hornets' nest, andthe realisation of his escape made him agree readily to all theconditions imposed. The apology to the Gazeka was made withoutreserve, and the offensively forgiving, say-no-more-about-it-but-takecare-in-future air of the head of the house roused no spark ofresentment in him, so subdued was his fighting spirit. All he wantedwas to get the thing done with. He was not inclined to be critical.
And, most of all, he felt grateful to Bob. Firby-Smith, in the courseof his address, had not omitted to lay stress on the importance ofBob's intervention. But for Bob, he gave him to understand, he, Mike,would have been prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. Mikecame away with a confused picture in his mind of a horde of furiousprefects bent on his slaughter, after the manner of a stage "excitedcrowd," and Bob waving them back. He realised that Bob had done him agood turn. He wished he could find some way of repaying him.
Curiously enough, it was an enemy of Bob's who suggested theway--Burton, of Donaldson's. Burton was a slippery young gentleman,fourteen years of age, who had frequently come into contact withBob in the house, and owed him many grudges. With Mike he had alwaystried to form an alliance, though without success.
He happened to meet Mike going to school next morning, and unburdenedhis soul to him. It chanced that Bob and he had had another smallencounter immediately after breakfast, and Burton felt revengeful.
"I say," said Burton, "I'm jolly glad you're playing for the firstagainst Geddington.""Thanks," said Mike.
"I'm specially glad for one reason.""What's that?" inquired Mike, without interest.
"Because your beast of a brother has been chucked out. He'd have beenplaying but for you."At any other time Mike would have heard Bob called a beast withoutactive protest. He would have felt that it was no business of his tofight his brother's battles for him. But on this occasion he deviatedfrom his rule.
He kicked Burton. Not once or twice, but several times, so thatBurton, retiring hurriedly, came to the conclusion that it must besomething in the Jackson blood, some taint, as it were. They were_all_ beasts.
* * * * *Mike walked on, weighing this remark, and gradually made up his mind.
It must be remembered that he was in a confused mental condition, andthat the only thing he realised clearly was that Bob had pulled himout of an uncommonly nasty hole. It seemed to him that it wasnecessary to repay Bob. He thought the thing over more fully duringschool, and his decision remained unaltered.
On the evening before the Geddington match, just before lock-up, Miketapped at Burgess's study door. He tapped with his right hand, for hisleft was in a sling.
"Come in!" yelled the captain. "Hullo!""I'm awfully sorry, Burgess," said Mike. "I've crocked my wrist abit.""How did you do that? You were all right at the nets?""Slipped as I was changing," said Mike stolidly.
"Is it bad?""Nothing much. I'm afraid I shan't be able to play to-morrow.""I say, that's bad luck. Beastly bad luck. We wanted your batting,too. Be all right, though, in a day or two, I suppose?""Oh, yes, rather.""Hope so, anyway.""Thanks. Good-night.""Good-night."And Burgess, with the comfortable feeling that he had managed tocombine duty and pleasure after all, wrote a note to Bob atDonaldson's, telling him to be ready to start with the team forGeddington by the 8.54 next morning.
Mike's Uncle John was a wanderer on the face of the earth. He had beenan army surgeon in the days of his youth, and, after an adventurouscareer, mainly in Afghanistan, had inherited enough money to keep himin comfort for the rest of his life. He had thereupon left theservice, and now spent most of his time flitting from one spot ofEurope to another. He had been dashing up to Scotland on the day whenMike first became a Wrykynian, but a few weeks in an uncomfortablehotel in Skye and a few days in a comfortable one in Edinburgh hadleft him with the impression that he had now seen all that there wasto be seen in North Britain and might reasonably shift his camp again.
Coming south, he had looked in on Mike's people for a brief space,and, at the request of Mike's mother, took the early express to Wrykynin order to pay a visit of inspection.
His telegram arrived during morning school. Mike went down to thestation to meet him after lunch.
Uncle John took command of the situation at once.
"School playing anybody to-day, Mike? I want to see a match.""They're playing Geddington. Only it's away. There's a second matchon.""Why aren't you--Hullo, I didn't see. What have you been doing toyourself?""Crocked my wrist a bit. It's nothing much.""How did you do that?""Slipped while I was changing after cricket.""Hurt?""Not much, thanks.""Doctor seen it?""No. But it's really nothing. Be all right by Monday.""H'm. Somebody ought to look at it. I'll have a look later on."Mike did not appear to relish this prospect.
"It isn't anything, Uncle John, really. It doesn't matter a bit.""Never mind. It won't do any harm having somebody examine it who knowsa bit about these things. Now, what shall we do. Go on the river?""I shouldn't be able to steer.""I could manage about that. Still, I think I should like to see theplace first. Your mother's sure to ask me if you showed me round. It'slike going over the stables when you're stopping at a country-house.
Got to be done, and better do it as soon as possible."It is never very interesting playing the part of showman at school.
Both Mike and his uncle were inclined to scamp the business. Mikepointed out the various landmarks without much enthusiasm--it is onlyafter one has left a few years that the school buildings take tothemselves romance--and Uncle John said, "Ah yes, I see. Very nice,"two or three times in an absent voice; and they passed on to thecricket field, where the second eleven were playing a neighbouringengineering school. It was a glorious day. The sun had never seemed toMike so bright or the grass so green. It was one of those days whenthe ball looks like a large vermilion-coloured football as it leavesthe bowler's hand. If ever there was a day when it seemed to Mike thata century would have been a certainty, it was this Saturday. A sudden,bitter realisation of all he had given up swept over him, but hechoked the feeling down. The thing was done, and it was no goodbrooding over the might-have-beens now. Still--And the Geddingtonground was supposed to be one of the easiest scoring grounds of allthe public schools!
"Well hit, by George!" remarked Uncle John, as Trevor, who had gone infirst wicket for the second eleven, swept a half-volley to leg roundto the bank where they were sitting.
"That's Trevor," said Mike. "Chap in Donaldson's. The fellow at theother end is Wilkins. He's in the School House. They look as if theywere getting set. By Jove," he said enviously, "pretty good funbatting on a day like this."Uncle John detected the envious note.
"I suppose you would have been playing here but for your wrist?""No, I was playing for the first.""For the first? For the school! My word, Mike, I didn't know that. Nowonder you're feeling badly treated. Of course, I remember your fathersaying you had played once for the school, and done well; but Ithought that was only as a substitute. I didn't know you were aregular member of the team. What bad luck. Will you get anotherchance?""Depends on Bob.""Has Bob got your place?"Mike nodded.
"If he does well to-day, they'll probably keep him in.""Isn't there room for both of you?""Such a lot of old colours. There are only three vacancies, andHenfrey got one of those a week ago. I expect they'll give one of theother two to a bowler, Neville-Smith, I should think, if he does wellagainst Geddington. Then there'll be only the last place left.""Rather awkward, that.""Still, it's Bob's last year. I've got plenty of time. But I wish Icould get in this year."After they had watched the match for an hour, Uncle John's restlessnature asserted itself.
"Suppose we go for a pull on the river now?" he suggested.
They got up.
"Let's just call at the shop," said Mike. "There ought to be atelegram from Geddington by this time. I wonder how Bob's got on."Apparently Bob had not had a chance yet of distinguishing himself. Thetelegram read, "Geddington 151 for four. Lunch.""Not bad that," said Mike. "But I believe they're weak in bowling."They walked down the road towards the school landing-stage.
"The worst of a school," said Uncle John, as he pulled up-stream withstrong, unskilful stroke, "is that one isn't allowed to smoke on thegrounds. I badly want a pipe. The next piece of shade that you see,sing out, and we'll put in there.""Pull your left," said Mike. "That willow's what you want."Uncle John looked over his shoulder, caught a crab, recovered himself,and steered the boat in under the shade of the branches.
"Put the rope over that stump. Can you manage with one hand? Here, letme--Done it? Good. A-ah!"He blew a great cloud of smoke into the air, and sighed contentedly.
"I hope you don't smoke, Mike?""No.""Rotten trick for a boy. When you get to my age you need it. Boysought to be thinking about keeping themselves fit and being good atgames. Which reminds me. Let's have a look at the wrist."A hunted expression came into Mike's eyes.
"It's really nothing," he began, but his uncle had already removed thesling, and was examining the arm with the neat rapidity of one who hasbeen brought up to such things.
To Mike it seemed as if everything in the world was standing still andwaiting. He could hear nothing but his own breathing.
His uncle pressed the wrist gingerly once or twice, then gave it alittle twist.
"That hurt?" he asked.
"Ye--no," stammered Mike.
Uncle John looked up sharply. Mike was crimson.
"What's the game?" inquired Uncle John.
Mike said nothing.
There was a twinkle in his uncle's eyes.
"May as well tell me. I won't give you away. Why this wounded warriorbusiness when you've no more the matter with you than I have?"Mike hesitated.
"I only wanted to get out of having to write this morning. There wasan exam, on."The idea had occurred to him just before he spoke. It had struck himas neat and plausible.
To Uncle John it did not appear in the same light.
"Do you always write with your left hand? And if you had gone with thefirst eleven to Geddington, wouldn't that have got you out of yourexam? Try again."When in doubt, one may as well tell the truth. Mike told it.
"I know. It wasn't that, really. Only----""Well?""Oh, well, dash it all then. Old Bob got me out of an awful row theday before yesterday, and he seemed a bit sick at not playing for thefirst, so I thought I might as well let him. That's how it was. Lookhere, swear you won't tell him."Uncle John was silent. Inwardly he was deciding that the fiveshillings which he had intended to bestow on Mike on his departureshould become a sovereign. (This, it may be mentioned as aninteresting biographical fact, was the only occasion in his lifeon which Mike earned money at the rate of fifteen shillings ahalf-minute.)"Swear you won't tell him. He'd be most frightfully sick if he knew.""I won't tell him."Conversation dwindled to vanishing-point. Uncle John smoked on inweighty silence, while Mike, staring up at the blue sky through thebranches of the willow, let his mind wander to Geddington, where hisfate was even now being sealed. How had the school got on? What hadBob done? If he made about twenty, would they give him his cap?
Supposing....
A faint snore from Uncle John broke in on his meditations. Then therewas a clatter as a briar pipe dropped on to the floor of the boat, andhis uncle sat up, gaping.
"Jove, I was nearly asleep. What's the time? Just on six? Didn't knowit was so late.""I ought to be getting back soon, I think. Lock-up's at half-past.""Up with the anchor, then. You can tackle that rope with two handsnow, eh? We are not observed. Don't fall overboard. I'm going to shoveher off.""There'll be another telegram, I should think," said Mike, as theyreached the school gates.
"Shall we go and look?"They walked to the shop.
A second piece of grey paper had been pinned up under the first. Mikepushed his way through the crowd. It was a longer message this time.
It ran as follows:
"Geddington 247 (Burgess six wickets, Neville-Smith four).
Wrykyn 270 for nine (Berridge 86, Marsh 58, Jackson 48)."Mike worked his way back through the throng, and rejoined his uncle.
"Well?" said Uncle John.
"We won."He paused for a moment.
"Bob made forty-eight," he added carelessly.
Uncle John felt in his pocket, and silently slid a sovereign intoMike's hand.
It was the only possible reply.
Wyatt got back late that night, arriving at the dormitory as Mike wasgoing to bed.
"By Jove, I'm done," he said. "It was simply baking at Geddington. AndI came back in a carriage with Neville-Smith and Ellerby, and theyragged the whole time. I wanted to go to sleep, only they wouldn't letme. Old Smith was awfully bucked because he'd taken four wickets. Ishould think he'd go off his nut if he took eight ever. He was singingcomic songs when he wasn't trying to put Ellerby under the seat. How'syour wrist?""Oh, better, thanks."Wyatt began to undress.
"Any colours?" asked Mike after a pause. First eleven colours weregenerally given in the pavilion after a match or on the journey home.
"No. Only one or two thirds. Jenkins and Clephane, and another chap,can't remember who. No first, though.""What was Bob's innings like?""Not bad. A bit lucky. He ought to have been out before he'd scored,and he was out when he'd made about sixteen, only the umpire didn'tseem to know that it's l-b-w when you get your leg right in front ofthe wicket and the ball hits it. Never saw a clearer case in my life.
I was in at the other end. Bit rotten for the Geddington chaps. Justlost them the match. Their umpire, too. Bit of luck for Bob. He didn'tgive the ghost of a chance after that.""I should have thought they'd have given him his colours.""Most captains would have done, only Burgess is so keen on fieldingthat he rather keeps off it.""Why, did he field badly?""Rottenly. And the man always will choose Billy's bowling to dropcatches off. And Billy would cut his rich uncle from Australia if hekept on dropping them off him. Bob's fielding's perfectly sinful. Hewas pretty bad at the beginning of the season, but now he's got sonervous that he's a dozen times worse. He turns a delicate green whenhe sees a catch coming. He let their best man off twice in one over,off Billy, to-day; and the chap went on and made a hundred odd.
Ripping innings bar those two chances. I hear he's got an average ofeighty in school matches this season. Beastly man to bowl to. Knockedme off in half a dozen overs. And, when he does give a couple of easychances, Bob puts them both on the floor. Billy wouldn't have givenhim his cap after the match if he'd made a hundred. Bob's the sort ofman who wouldn't catch a ball if you handed it to him on a plate, withwatercress round it."Burgess, reviewing the match that night, as he lay awake in hiscubicle, had come to much the same conclusion. He was very fond ofBob, but two missed catches in one over was straining the bonds ofhuman affection too far. There would have been serious trouble betweenDavid and Jonathan if either had persisted in dropping catches off theother's bowling. He writhed in bed as he remembered the second of thetwo chances which the wretched Bob had refused. The scene wasindelibly printed on his mind. Chap had got a late cut which hefancied rather. With great guile he had fed this late cut. Sent down acouple which he put to the boundary. Then fired a third much fasterand a bit shorter. Chap had a go at it, just as he had expected: andhe felt that life was a good thing after all when the ball justtouched the corner of the bat and flew into Bob's hands. And Bobdropped it!
The memory was too bitter. If he dwelt on it, he felt, he would getinsomnia. So he turned to pleasanter reflections: the yorker which hadshattered the second-wicket man, and the slow head-ball which had ledto a big hitter being caught on the boundary. Soothed by thesememories, he fell asleep.
Next morning he found himself in a softened frame of mind. He thoughtof Bob's iniquities with sorrow rather than wrath. He felt towards himmuch as a father feels towards a prodigal son whom there is still achance of reforming. He overtook Bob on his way to chapel.
Directness was always one of Burgess's leading qualities.
"Look here, Bob. About your fielding. It's simply awful."Bob was all remorse.
"It's those beastly slip catches. I can't time them.""That one yesterday was right into your hands. Both of them were.""I know. I'm frightfully sorry.""Well, but I mean, why _can't_ you hold them? It's no good beinga good bat--you're that all right--if you're going to give away runsin the field.""Do you know, I believe I should do better in the deep. I could gettime to watch them there. I wish you'd give me a shot in the deep--forthe second.""Second be blowed! I want your batting in the first. Do you thinkyou'd really do better in the deep?""I'm almost certain I should. I'll practise like mad. Trevor'll hit meup catches. I hate the slips. I get in the dickens of a funk directlythe bowler starts his run now. I know that if a catch does come, Ishall miss it. I'm certain the deep would be much better.""All right then. Try it."The conversation turned to less pressing topics.
* * * * *In the next two matches, accordingly, Bob figured on the boundary,where he had not much to do except throw the ball back to the bowler,and stop an occasional drive along the carpet. The beauty of fieldingin the deep is that no unpleasant surprises can be sprung upon one.
There is just that moment or two for collecting one's thoughts whichmakes the whole difference. Bob, as he stood regarding the game fromafar, found his self-confidence returning slowly, drop by drop.
As for Mike, he played for the second, and hoped for the day.
* * * * *His opportunity came at last. It will be remembered that on themorning after the Great Picnic the headmaster made an announcement inHall to the effect that, owing to an outbreak of chicken-pox in thetown, all streets except the High Street would be out of bounds. Thisdid not affect the bulk of the school, for most of the shops to whichany one ever thought of going were in the High Street. But there werecertain inquiring minds who liked to ferret about in odd corners.
Among these was one Leather-Twigg, of Seymour's, better known incriminal circles as Shoeblossom.
Shoeblossom was a curious mixture of the Energetic Ragger and theQuiet Student. On a Monday evening you would hear a hideous uproarproceeding from Seymour's junior day-room; and, going down with aswagger-stick to investigate, you would find a tangled heap ofsquealing humanity on the floor, and at the bottom of the heap,squealing louder than any two others, would be Shoeblossom, his collarburst and blackened and his face apoplectically crimson. On theTuesday afternoon, strolling in some shady corner of the grounds youwould come upon him lying on his chest, deep in some work of fictionand resentful of interruption. On the Wednesday morning he would be inreceipt of four hundred lines from his housemaster for breaking threewindows and a gas-globe. Essentially a man of moods, Shoeblossom.
It happened about the date of the Geddington match that he took outfrom the school library a copy of "The Iron Pirate," and for the nextday or two he wandered about like a lost spirit trying to find asequestered spot in which to read it. His inability to hit on such aspot was rendered more irritating by the fact that, to judge from thefirst few chapters (which he had managed to get through during prep.
one night under the eye of a short-sighted master), the book wasobviously the last word in hot stuff. He tried the junior day-room,but people threw cushions at him. He tried out of doors, and a ballhit from a neighbouring net nearly scalped him. Anything in the natureof concentration became impossible in these circumstances.
Then he recollected that in a quiet backwater off the High Streetthere was a little confectioner's shop, where tea might be had at areasonable sum, and also, what was more important, peace.
He made his way there, and in the dingy back shop, all amongst thedust and bluebottles, settled down to a thoughtful perusal of chaptersix.
Upstairs, at the same moment, the doctor was recommending that MasterJohn George, the son of the house, be kept warm and out of draughtsand not permitted to scratch himself, however necessary such an actionmight seem to him. In brief, he was attending J. G. for chicken-pox.
Shoeblossom came away, entering the High Street furtively, lestAuthority should see him out of bounds, and returned to the school,where he went about his lawful occasions as if there were no suchthing as chicken-pox in the world.
But all the while the microbe was getting in some unostentatious butclever work. A week later Shoeblossom began to feel queer. He hadoccasional headaches, and found himself oppressed by a queer distastefor food. The professional advice of Dr. Oakes, the school doctor, wascalled for, and Shoeblossom took up his abode in the Infirmary, wherehe read _Punch_, sucked oranges, and thought of Life.
Two days later Barry felt queer. He, too, disappeared from Society.
Chicken-pox is no respecter of persons. The next victim was Marsh, ofthe first eleven. Marsh, who was top of the school averages. Wherewere his drives now, his late cuts that were wont to set the pavilionin a roar. Wrapped in a blanket, and looking like the spotted marvelof a travelling circus, he was driven across to the Infirmary in afour-wheeler, and it became incumbent upon Burgess to select asubstitute for him.
And so it came about that Mike soared once again into the ranks of theelect, and found his name down in the team to play against theIncogniti.
Wrykyn went down badly before the Incogs. It generally happens atleast once in a school cricket season that the team collapseshopelessly, for no apparent reason. Some schools do it in nearly everymatch, but Wrykyn so far had been particularly fortunate this year.
They had only been beaten once, and that by a mere twenty odd runs ina hard-fought game. But on this particular day, against a notoverwhelmingly strong side, they failed miserably. The weather mayhave had something to do with it, for rain fell early in the morning,and the school, batting first on the drying wicket, found themselvesconsiderably puzzled by a slow left-hander. Morris and Berridge leftwith the score still short of ten, and after that the rout began. Bob,going in fourth wicket, made a dozen, and Mike kept his end up, andwas not out eleven; but nobody except Wyatt, who hit out at everythingand knocked up thirty before he was stumped, did anything todistinguish himself. The total was a hundred and seven, and theIncogniti, batting when the wicket was easier, doubled this.
The general opinion of the school after this match was that eitherMike or Bob would have to stand down from the team when it wasdefinitely filled up, for Neville-Smith, by showing up well with theball against the Incogniti when the others failed with the bat, madeit practically certain that he would get one of the two vacancies.
"If I do" he said to Wyatt, "there will be the biggest bust of moderntimes at my place. My pater is away for a holiday in Norway, and I'malone, bar the servants. And I can square them. Will you come?""Tea?""Tea!" said Neville-Smith scornfully.
"Well, what then?""Don't you ever have feeds in the dorms. after lights-out in thehouses?""Used to when I was a kid. Too old now. Have to look after mydigestion. I remember, three years ago, when Wain's won the footercup, we got up and fed at about two in the morning. All sorts ofluxuries. Sardines on sugar-biscuits. I've got the taste in my mouthstill. Do you remember Macpherson? Left a couple of years ago. Hisfood ran out, so he spread brown-boot polish on bread, and ate that.
Got through a slice, too. Wonderful chap! But what about this thing ofyours? What time's it going to be?""Eleven suit you?""All right.""How about getting out?""I'll do it as quickly as the team did to-day. I can't say more thanthat.""You were all right.""I'm an exceptional sort of chap.""What about the Jacksons?""It's going to be a close thing. If Bob's fielding were to improvesuddenly, he would just do it. But young Mike's all over him as a bat.
In a year or two that kid'll be a marvel. He's bound to get in nextyear, of course, so perhaps it would be better if Bob got the place asit's his last season. Still, one wants the best man, of course."* * * * *Mike avoided Bob as much as possible during this anxious period; andhe privately thought it rather tactless of the latter when, meetinghim one day outside Donaldson's, he insisted on his coming in andhaving some tea.
Mike shuffled uncomfortably as his brother filled the kettle and litthe Etna. It required more tact than he had at his disposal to carryoff a situation like this.
Bob, being older, was more at his ease. He got tea ready, makingdesultory conversation the while, as if there were no particularreason why either of them should feel uncomfortable in the other'spresence. When he had finished, he poured Mike out a cup, passed himthe bread, and sat down.
"Not seen much of each other lately, Mike, what?"Mike murmured unintelligibly through a mouthful of bread-and-jam.
"It's no good pretending it isn't an awkward situation," continuedBob, "because it is. Beastly awkward.""Awful rot the pater sending us to the same school.""Oh, I don't know. We've all been at Wrykyn. Pity to spoil the record.
It's your fault for being such a young Infant Prodigy, and mine for notbeing able to field like an ordinary human being.""You get on much better in the deep.""Bit better, yes. Liable at any moment to miss a sitter, though. Notthat it matters much really whether I do now."Mike stared.
"What! Why?""That's what I wanted to see you about. Has Burgess said anything toyou yet?""No. Why? What about?""Well, I've a sort of idea our little race is over. I fancy you'vewon.""I've not heard a word----""I have. I'll tell you what makes me think the thing's settled. Iwas in the pav. just now, in the First room, trying to find abatting-glove I'd mislaid. There was a copy of the _Wrykynian_lying on the mantelpiece, and I picked it up and started reading it.
So there wasn't any noise to show anybody outside that there was someone in the room. And then I heard Burgess and Spence jawing on thesteps. They thought the place was empty, of course. I couldn't helphearing what they said. The pav.'s like a sounding-board. I heard everyword. Spence said, 'Well, it's about as difficult a problem as anycaptain of cricket at Wrykyn has ever had to tackle.' I had a sort ofidea that old Billy liked to boss things all on his own, but apparentlyhe does consult Spence sometimes. After all, he's cricket-master, andthat's what he's there for. Well, Billy said, 'I don't know what todo. What do you think, sir?' Spence said, 'Well, I'll give you myopinion, Burgess, but don't feel bound to act on it. I'm simply sayingwhat I think.' 'Yes, sir,' said old Bill, doing a big Young Disciplewith Wise Master act. '_I_ think M.,' said Spence. 'Decidedly M.
He's a shade better than R. now, and in a year or two, of course,there'll be no comparison.'""Oh, rot," muttered Mike, wiping the sweat off his forehead. This wasone of the most harrowing interviews he had ever been through.
"Not at all. Billy agreed with him. 'That's just what I think, sir,'
he said. 'It's rough on Bob, but still----' And then they walked downthe steps. I waited a bit to give them a good start, and then sheeredoff myself. And so home."Mike looked at the floor, and said nothing.
There was nothing much to _be_ said.
"Well, what I wanted to see you about was this," resumed Bob. "I don'tpropose to kiss you or anything; but, on the other hand, don't let'sgo to the other extreme. I'm not saying that it isn't a bit of a brickjust missing my cap like this, but it would have been just as bad foryou if you'd been the one dropped. It's the fortune of war. I don'twant you to go about feeling that you've blighted my life, and so on,and dashing up side-streets to avoid me because you think the sight ofyou will be painful. As it isn't me, I'm jolly glad it's you; and Ishall cadge a seat in the pavilion from you when you're playing forEngland at the Oval. Congratulate you."It was the custom at Wrykyn, when you congratulated a man on gettingcolours, to shake his hand. They shook hands.
"Thanks, awfully, Bob," said Mike. And after that there seemed to benothing much to talk about. So Mike edged out of the room, and toreacross to Wain's.
He was sorry for Bob, but he would not have been human (which hecertainly was) if the triumph of having won through at last into thefirst eleven had not dwarfed commiseration. It had been his oneambition, and now he had achieved it.
The annoying part of the thing was that he had nobody to talk to aboutit. Until the news was official he could not mention it to the commonherd. It wouldn't do. The only possible confidant was Wyatt. And Wyattwas at Bisley, shooting with the School Eight for the Ashburton. Forbull's-eyes as well as cats came within Wyatt's range as a marksman.
Cricket took up too much of his time for him to be captain of theEight and the man chosen to shoot for the Spencer, as he wouldotherwise almost certainly have been; but even though short ofpractice he was well up in the team.
Until he returned, Mike could tell nobody. And by the time he returnedthe notice would probably be up in the Senior Block with the othercricket notices.
In this fermenting state Mike went into the house.
The list of the team to play for Wain's _v_. Seymour's on thefollowing Monday was on the board. As he passed it, a few wordsscrawled in pencil at the bottom caught his eye.
"All the above will turn out for house-fielding at 6.30 to-morrowmorning.--W. F.-S.""Oh, dash it," said Mike, "what rot! Why on earth can't he leave usalone!"For getting up an hour before his customary time for rising was notamong Mike's favourite pastimes. Still, orders were orders, he felt.
It would have to be done.
Mike was a stout supporter of the view that sleep in large quantitiesis good for one. He belonged to the school of thought which holds thata man becomes plain and pasty if deprived of his full spell in bed. Heaimed at the peach-bloom complexion.
To be routed out of bed a clear hour before the proper time, even on asummer morning, was not, therefore, a prospect that appealed to him.
When he woke it seemed even less attractive than it had done whenhe went to sleep. He had banged his head on the pillow six timesover-night, and this silent alarm proved effective, as it alwaysdoes. Reaching out a hand for his watch, he found that it was fiveminutes past six.
This was to the good. He could manage another quarter of an hourbetween the sheets. It would only take him ten minutes to wash and getinto his flannels.
He took his quarter of an hour, and a little more. He woke from a sortof doze to find that it was twenty-five past.
Man's inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing.
One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightesteffect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoilone's whole day. And one also knows that a single resolute heave willdo the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there.
Mike thought he would take another minute.
And during that minute there floated into his mind the question, Who_was_ Firby-Smith? That was the point. Who _was_ he, after all?
This started quite a new train of thought. Previously Mike had firmlyintended to get up--some time. Now he began to waver.
The more he considered the Gazeka's insignificance and futility andhis own magnificence, the more outrageous did it seem that he shouldbe dragged out of bed to please Firby-Smith's vapid mind. Here was he,about to receive his first eleven colours on this very day probably,being ordered about, inconvenienced--in short, put upon by a worm whohad only just scraped into the third.
Was this right, he asked himself. Was this proper?
And the hands of the watch moved round to twenty to.
What was the matter with his fielding? _It_ was all right. Makethe rest of the team fag about, yes. But not a chap who, dash it all,had got his first _for_ fielding!
It was with almost a feeling of self-righteousness that Mike turnedover on his side and went to sleep again.
And outside in the cricket-field, the massive mind of the Gazeka wasfilled with rage, as it was gradually borne in upon him that this wasnot a question of mere lateness--which, he felt, would be bad enough,for when he said six-thirty he meant six-thirty--but of actualdesertion. It was time, he said to himself, that the foot of Authoritywas set firmly down, and the strong right hand of Justice allowed toput in some energetic work. His comments on the team's fielding thatmorning were bitter and sarcastic. His eyes gleamed behind theirpince-nez.
The painful interview took place after breakfast. The head of thehouse despatched his fag in search of Mike, and waited. He paced upand down the room like a hungry lion, adjusting his pince-nez (athing, by the way, which lions seldom do) and behaving in otherrespects like a monarch of the desert. One would have felt, looking athim, that Mike, in coming to his den, was doing a deed which wouldmake the achievement of Daniel seem in comparison like the tentativeeffort of some timid novice.
And certainly Mike was not without qualms as he knocked at the door,and went in in response to the hoarse roar from the other side of it.
Firby-Smith straightened his tie, and glared.
"Young Jackson," he said, "look here, I want to know what it allmeans, and jolly quick. You weren't at house-fielding this morning.
Didn't you see the notice?"Mike admitted that he had seen the notice.
"Then you frightful kid, what do you mean by it? What?"Mike hesitated. Awfully embarrassing, this. His real reason for notturning up to house-fielding was that he considered himself above suchthings, and Firby-Smith a toothy weed. Could he give this excuse? Hehad not his Book of Etiquette by him at the moment, but he ratherfancied not. There was no arguing against the fact that the head ofthe house _was_ a toothy weed; but he felt a firm conviction thatit would not be politic to say so.
Happy thought: over-slept himself.
He mentioned this.
"Over-slept yourself! You must jolly well not over-sleep yourself.
What do you mean by over-sleeping yourself?"Very trying this sort of thing.
"What time did you wake up?""Six," said Mike.
It was not according to his complicated, yet intelligible code ofmorality to tell lies to save himself. When others were concerned hecould suppress the true and suggest the false with a face of brass.
"Six!""Five past.""Why didn't you get up then?""I went to sleep again.""Oh, you went to sleep again, did you? Well, just listen to me. I'vehad my eye on you for some time, and I've seen it coming on. You'vegot swelled head, young man. That's what you've got. Frightful swelledhead. You think the place belongs to you.""I don't," said Mike indignantly.
"Yes, you do," said the Gazeka shrilly. "You think the whole frightfulplace belongs to you. You go siding about as if you'd bought it. Justbecause you've got your second, you think you can do what you like;turn up or not, as you please. It doesn't matter whether I'm only inthe third and you're in the first. That's got nothing to do with it.
The point is that you're one of the house team, and I'm captain of it,so you've jolly well got to turn out for fielding with the others whenI think it necessary. See?"Mike said nothing.
"Do--you--see, you frightful kid?"[Illustration: "DO--YOU--SEE, YOU FRIGHTFUL KID?"]
Mike remained stonily silent. The rather large grain of truth in whatFirby-Smith had said had gone home, as the unpleasant truth aboutourselves is apt to do; and his feelings were hurt. He was determinednot to give in and say that he saw even if the head of the houseinvoked all the majesty of the prefects' room to help him, as he hadnearly done once before. He set his teeth, and stared at a photographon the wall.
Firby-Smith's manner became ominously calm. He produced aswagger-stick from a corner.
"Do you see?" he asked again.
Mike's jaw set more tightly.
What one really wants here is a row of stars.
* * * * *Mike was still full of his injuries when Wyatt came back. Wyatt wasworn out, but cheerful. The school had finished sixth for theAshburton, which was an improvement of eight places on their lastyear's form, and he himself had scored thirty at the two hundred andtwenty-seven at the five hundred totals, which had put him in a verygood humour with the world.
"Me ancient skill has not deserted me," he said, "That's the cats. Theman who can wing a cat by moonlight can put a bullet where he likes ona target. I didn't hit the bull every time, but that was to give theother fellows a chance. My fatal modesty has always been a hindranceto me in life, and I suppose it always will be. Well, well! And whatof the old homestead? Anything happened since I went away? Me oldfather, is he well? Has the lost will been discovered, or is there amortgage on the family estates? By Jove, I could do with a stoup ofMalvoisie. I wonder if the moke's gone to bed yet. I'll go down andlook. A jug of water drawn from the well in the old courtyard where myancestors have played as children for centuries back would just aboutsave my life."He left the dormitory, and Mike began to brood over his wrongs oncemore.
Wyatt came back, brandishing a jug of water and a glass.
"Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, theblushful Hippocrene! Have you ever tasted Hippocrene, young Jackson?
Rather like ginger-beer, with a dash of raspberry-vinegar. Very heady.
Failing that, water will do. A-ah!"He put down the glass, and surveyed Mike, who had maintained a moodysilence throughout this speech.
"What's your trouble?" he asked. "For pains in the back try Ju-jar. Ifit's a broken heart, Zam-buk's what you want. Who's been quarrellingwith you?""It's only that ass Firby-Smith.""Again! I never saw such chaps as you two. Always at it. What was thetrouble this time? Call him a grinning ape again? Your passion for thetruth'll be getting you into trouble one of these days.""He said I stuck on side.""Why?""I don't know.""I mean, did he buttonhole you on your way to school, and say,'Jackson, a word in your ear. You stick on side.' Or did he lead up toit in any way? Did he say, 'Talking of side, you stick it on.' Whathad you been doing to him?""It was the house-fielding.""But you can't stick on side at house-fielding. I defy any one to.
It's too early in the morning.""I didn't turn up.""What! Why?""Oh, I don't know.""No, but, look here, really. Did you simply bunk it?""Yes."Wyatt leaned on the end of Mike's bed, and, having observed itsoccupant thoughtfully for a moment, proceeded to speak wisdom for thegood of his soul.
"I say, I don't want to jaw--I'm one of those quiet chaps withstrong, silent natures; you may have noticed it--but I must put ina well-chosen word at this juncture. Don't pretend to be droppingoff to sleep. Sit up and listen to what your kind old uncle's got tosay to you about manners and deportment. Otherwise, blood as you areat cricket, you'll have a rotten time here. There are some things yousimply can't do; and one of them is bunking a thing when you're putdown for it. It doesn't matter who it is puts you down. If he'scaptain, you've got to obey him. That's discipline, that 'ere is. Thespeaker then paused, and took a sip of water from the carafe whichstood at his elbow. Cheers from the audience, and a voice 'Hear!
Hear!'"Mike rolled over in bed and glared up at the orator. Most of his facewas covered by the water-jug, but his eyes stared fixedly from aboveit. He winked in a friendly way, and, putting down the jug, drew adeep breath.
"Nothing like this old '87 water," he said. "Such body.""I like you jawing about discipline," said Mike morosely.
"And why, my gentle che-ild, should I not talk about discipline?""Considering you break out of the house nearly every night.""In passing, rather rum when you think that a burglar would get ithot for breaking in, while I get dropped on if I break out. Whyshould there be one law for the burglar and one for me? But you weresaying--just so. I thank you. About my breaking out. When you're awhite-haired old man like me, young Jackson, you'll see that thereare two sorts of discipline at school. One you can break if you feellike taking the risks; the other you mustn't ever break. I don't knowwhy, but it isn't done. Until you learn that, you can never hope tobecome the Perfect Wrykynian like," he concluded modestly, "me."Mike made no reply. He would have perished rather than admit it, butWyatt's words had sunk in. That moment marked a distinct epoch in hiscareer. His feelings were curiously mixed. He was still furious withFirby-Smith, yet at the same time he could not help acknowledging tohimself that the latter had had the right on his side. He saw andapproved of Wyatt's point of view, which was the more impressive tohim from his knowledge of his friend's contempt for, or, rather,cheerful disregard of, most forms of law and order. If Wyatt, recklessthough he was as regarded written school rules, held so rigid arespect for those that were unwritten, these last must be things whichcould not be treated lightly. That night, for the first time in hislife, Mike went to sleep with a clear idea of what the public schoolspirit, of which so much is talked and written, really meant.
When Burgess, at the end of the conversation in the pavilion with Mr.
Spence which Bob Jackson had overheard, accompanied the cricket-masteracross the field to the boarding-houses, he had distinctly made up hismind to give Mike his first eleven colours next day. There was onlyone more match to be played before the school fixture-list wasfinished. That was the match with Ripton. Both at cricket and footballRipton was the school that mattered most. Wrykyn did not always winits other school matches; but it generally did. The public schools ofEngland divide themselves naturally into little groups, as far asgames are concerned. Harrow, Eton, and Winchester are one group:
Westminster and Charterhouse another: Bedford, Tonbridge, Dulwich,Haileybury, and St. Paul's are a third. In this way, Wrykyn, Ripton,Geddington, and Wilborough formed a group. There was no actualchampionship competition, but each played each, and by the end of theseason it was easy to see which was entitled to first place. Thisnearly always lay between Ripton and Wrykyn. Sometimes an exceptionalGeddington team would sweep the board, or Wrykyn, having beatenRipton, would go down before Wilborough. But this did not happenoften. Usually Wilborough and Geddington were left to scramble for thewooden spoon.
Secretaries of cricket at Ripton and Wrykyn always liked to arrangethe date of the match towards the end of the term, so that they mighttake the field with representative and not experimental teams. By Julythe weeding-out process had generally finished. Besides which themembers of the teams had had time to get into form.
At Wrykyn it was the custom to fill up the team, if possible, beforethe Ripton match. A player is likely to show better form if he has gothis colours than if his fate depends on what he does in thatparticular match.
Burgess, accordingly, had resolved to fill up the first eleven just aweek before Ripton visited Wrykyn. There were two vacancies. One gavehim no trouble. Neville-Smith was not a great bowler, but he wassteady, and he had done well in the earlier matches. He had fairlyearned his place. But the choice between Bob and Mike had kept himawake into the small hours two nights in succession. Finally he hadconsulted Mr. Spence, and Mr. Spence had voted for Mike.
Burgess was glad the thing was settled. The temptation to allowsentiment to interfere with business might have become too strong ifhe had waited much longer. He knew that it would be a wrenchdefinitely excluding Bob from the team, and he hated to have to do it.
The more he thought of it, the sorrier he was for him. If he couldhave pleased himself, he would have kept Bob In. But, as the poet hasit, "Pleasure is pleasure, and biz is biz, and kep' in a sepyrit jug."The first duty of a captain is to have no friends.
From small causes great events do spring. If Burgess had not picked upa particularly interesting novel after breakfast on the morning ofMike's interview with Firby-Smith in the study, the list would havegone up on the notice-board after prayers. As it was, engrossed in hisbook, he let the moments go by till the sound on the bell startled himinto movement. And then there was only time to gather up his cap, andsprint. The paper on which he had intended to write the list and thepen he had laid out to write it with lay untouched on the table.
And, as it was not his habit to put up notices except during themorning, he postponed the thing. He could write it after tea. Afterall, there was a week before the match.
* * * * *When school was over, he went across to the Infirmary to Inquire aboutMarsh. The report was more than favourable. Marsh had better not seeany one just yet, In case of accident, but he was certain to be out intime to play against Ripton.
"Doctor Oakes thinks he will be back in school on Tuesday.""Banzai!" said Burgess, feeling that life was good. To take the fieldagainst Ripton without Marsh would have been to court disaster.
Marsh's fielding alone was worth the money. With him at short slip,Burgess felt safe when he bowled.
The uncomfortable burden of the knowledge that he was abouttemporarily to sour Bob Jackson's life ceased for the moment totrouble him. He crooned extracts from musical comedy as he walkedtowards the nets.
Recollection of Bob's hard case was brought to him by the sight ofthat about-to-be-soured sportsman tearing across the ground in themiddle distance in an effort to get to a high catch which Trevor hadhit up to him. It was a difficult catch, and Burgess waited to see ifhe would bring it off.
Bob got to it with one hand, and held it. His impetus carried him onalmost to where Burgess was standing.
"Well held," said Burgess.
"Hullo," said Bob awkwardly. A gruesome thought had flashed across hismind that the captain might think that this gallery-work was anorganised advertisement.
"I couldn't get both hands to it," he explained.
"You're hot stuff in the deep.""Easy when you're only practising.""I've just been to the Infirmary.""Oh. How's Marsh?""They wouldn't let me see him, but it's all right. He'll be able toplay on Saturday.""Good," said Bob, hoping he had said it as if he meant it. It wasdecidedly a blow. He was glad for the sake of the school, of course,but one has one's personal ambitions. To the fact that Mike and nothimself was the eleventh cap he had become partially resigned: but hehad wanted rather badly to play against Ripton.
Burgess passed on, his mind full of Bob once more. What hard luck itwas! There was he, dashing about in the sun to improve his fielding,and all the time the team was filled up. He felt as if he were playingsome low trick on a pal.
Then the Jekyll and Hyde business completed itself. He suppressed hispersonal feelings, and became the cricket captain again.
It was the cricket captain who, towards the end of the evening, cameupon Firby-Smith and Mike parting at the conclusion of a conversation.
That it had not been a friendly conversation would have been evidentto the most casual observer from the manner in which Mike stumped off,swinging his cricket-bag as if it were a weapon of offence. There aremany kinds of walk. Mike's was the walk of the Overwrought Soul.
"What's up?" inquired Burgess.
"Young Jackson, do you mean? Oh, nothing. I was only telling him thatthere was going to be house-fielding to-morrow before breakfast.""Didn't he like the idea?""He's jolly well got to like it," said the Gazeka, as who should say,"This way for Iron Wills." "The frightful kid cut it this morning.
There'll be worse trouble if he does it again."There was, it may be mentioned, not an ounce of malice in the headof Wain's house. That by telling the captain of cricket that Mike hadshirked fielding-practice he might injure the latter's prospects of afirst eleven cap simply did not occur to him. That Burgess would feel,on being told of Mike's slackness, much as a bishop might feel if heheard that a favourite curate had become a Mahometan or a Mumbo-Jumboist,did not enter his mind. All he considered was that the story of hisdealings with Mike showed him, Firby-Smith, in the favourable anddashing character of the fellow-who-will-stand-no-nonsense, a sortof Captain Kettle on dry land, in fact; and so he proceeded to tellit in detail.
Burgess parted with him with the firm conviction that Mike was a youngslacker. Keenness in fielding was a fetish with him; and to cutpractice struck him as a crime.
He felt that he had been deceived in Mike.
* * * * *When, therefore, one takes into consideration his private bias infavour of Bob, and adds to it the reaction caused by this suddenunmasking of Mike, it is not surprising that the list Burgess made outthat night before he went to bed differed in an important respect fromthe one he had intended to write before school.
Mike happened to be near the notice-board when he pinned it up. It wasonly the pleasure of seeing his name down in black-and-white that madehim trouble to look at the list. Bob's news of the day beforeyesterday had made it clear how that list would run.
The crowd that collected the moment Burgess had walked off carried himright up to the board.
He looked at the paper.
"Hard luck!" said somebody.
Mike scarcely heard him.
He felt physically sick with the shock of the disappointment. For theinitial before the name Jackson was R.
There was no possibility of mistake. Since writing was invented, therehad never been an R. that looked less like an M. than the one on thatlist.
Bob had beaten him on the tape.