At the door of the senior block Burgess, going out, met Bob coming in,hurrying, as he was rather late.
"Congratulate you, Bob," he said; and passed on.
Bob stared after him. As he stared, Trevor came out of the block.
"Congratulate you, Bob.""What's the matter now?""Haven't you seen?""Seen what?""Why the list. You've got your first.""My--what? you're rotting.""No, I'm not. Go and look."The thing seemed incredible. Had he dreamed that conversation betweenSpence and Burgess on the pavilion steps? Had he mixed up the names?
He was certain that he had heard Spence give his verdict for Mike, andBurgess agree with him.
Just then, Mike, feeling very ill, came down the steps. He caughtsight of Bob and was passing with a feeble grin, when something toldhim that this was one of those occasions on which one has to show aRed Indian fortitude and stifle one's private feelings.
"Congratulate you, Bob," he said awkwardly.
"Thanks awfully," said Bob, with equal awkwardness. Trevor moved on,delicately. This was no place for him. Bob's face was looking like astuffed frog's, which was Bob's way of trying to appear unconcernedand at his ease, while Mike seemed as if at any moment he might burstinto tears. Spectators are not wanted at these awkward interviews.
There was a short silence.
"Jolly glad you've got it," said Mike.
"I believe there's a mistake. I swear I heard Burgess say to Spence----""He changed his mind probably. No reason why he shouldn't.""Well, it's jolly rummy."Bob endeavoured to find consolation.
"Anyhow, you'll have three years in the first. You're a cert. for nextyear.""Hope so," said Mike, with such manifest lack of enthusiasm that Bobabandoned this line of argument. When one has missed one's colours,next year seems a very, very long way off.
They moved slowly through the cloisters, neither speaking, and up thestairs that led to the Great Hall. Each was gratefully conscious ofthe fact that prayers would be beginning in another minute, putting anend to an uncomfortable situation.
"Heard from home lately?" inquired Mike.
Bob snatched gladly at the subject.
"Got a letter from mother this morning. I showed you the last one,didn't I? I've only just had time to skim through this one, as thepost was late, and I only got it just as I was going to dash across toschool. Not much in it. Here it is, if you want to read it.""Thanks. It'll be something to do during Math.""Marjory wrote, too, for the first time in her life. Haven't had timeto look at it yet.""After you. Sure it isn't meant for me? She owes me a letter.""No, it's for me all right. I'll give it you in the interval."The arrival of the headmaster put an end to the conversation.
* * * * *By a quarter to eleven Mike had begun to grow reconciled to his fate.
The disappointment was still there, but it was lessened. These thingsare like kicks on the shin. A brief spell of agony, and then a dullpain of which we are not always conscious unless our attention isdirected to it, and which in time disappears altogether. When the bellrang for the interval that morning, Mike was, as it were, sitting upand taking nourishment.
He was doing this in a literal as well as in a figurative sense whenBob entered the school shop.
Bob appeared curiously agitated. He looked round, and, seeing Mike,pushed his way towards him through the crowd. Most of those presentcongratulated him as he passed; and Mike noticed, with some surprise,that, in place of the blushful grin which custom demands from the manwho is being congratulated on receipt of colours, there appeared onhis face a worried, even an irritated look. He seemed to havesomething on his mind.
"Hullo," said Mike amiably. "Got that letter?""Yes. I'll show it you outside.""Why not here?""Come on."Mike resented the tone, but followed. Evidently something had happenedto upset Bob seriously. As they went out on the gravel, somebodycongratulated Bob again, and again Bob hardly seemed to appreciateit.'
Bob led the way across the gravel and on to the first terrace. Whenthey had left the crowd behind, he stopped.
"What's up?" asked Mike.
"I want you to read----""Jackson!"They both turned. The headmaster was standing on the edge of thegravel.
Bob pushed the letter into Mike's hands.
"Read that," he said, and went up to the headmaster. Mike heard thewords "English Essay," and, seeing that the conversation wasapparently going to be one of some length, capped the headmaster andwalked off. He was just going to read the letter when the bell rang.
He put the missive in his pocket, and went to his form-room wonderingwhat Marjory could have found to say to Bob to touch him on the raw tosuch an extent. She was a breezy correspondent, with a style of herown, but usually she entertained rather than upset people. Nosuspicion of the actual contents of the letter crossed his mind.
He read it during school, under the desk; and ceased to wonder. Bobhad had cause to look worried. For the thousand and first time in hercareer of crime Marjory had been and done it! With a strong hand shehad shaken the cat out of the bag, and exhibited it plainly to allwhom it might concern.
There was a curious absence of construction about the letter. Mostauthors of sensational matter nurse their bomb-shell, lead up toit, and display it to the best advantage. Marjory dropped hers intothe body of the letter, and let it take its chance with the othernews-items.
"DEAR BOB" (the letter ran),--"I hope you are quite well. I am quite well. Phyllis has a cold,Ella cheeked Mademoiselle yesterday, and had to write out 'LittleGirls must be polite and obedient' a hundred times in French. Shewas jolly sick about it. I told her it served her right. Joe madeeighty-three against Lancashire. Reggie made a duck. Have you gotyour first? If you have, it will be all through Mike. Uncle Johntold Father that Mike pretended to hurt his wrist so that you couldplay instead of him for the school, and Father said it was verysporting of Mike but nobody must tell you because it wouldn't befair if you got your first for you to know that you owed it to Mikeand I wasn't supposed to hear but I did because I was in the roomonly they didn't know I was (we were playing hide-and-seek and I washiding) so I'm writing to tell you,"From your affectionate sister"Marjory."There followed a P.S.
"I'll tell you what you ought to do. I've been reading a jolly goodbook called 'The Boys of Dormitory Two,' and the hero's an awfullynice boy named Lionel Tremayne, and his friend Jack Langdale saveshis life when a beast of a boatman who's really employed by Lionel'scousin who wants the money that Lionel's going to have when he growsup stuns him and leaves him on the beach to drown. Well, Lionel isgoing to play for the school against Loamshire, and it's _the_match of the season, but he goes to the headmaster and says he wantsJack to play instead of him. Why don't you do that?
"M.
"P.P.S.--This has been a frightful fag to write."For the life of him Mike could not help giggling as he pictured whatBob's expression must have been when his brother read this document.
But the humorous side of the thing did not appeal to him for long.
What should he say to Bob? What would Bob say to him? Dash it all, itmade him look such an awful _ass_! Anyhow, Bob couldn't do much.
In fact he didn't see that he could do anything. The team was filledup, and Burgess was not likely to alter it. Besides, why should healter it? Probably he would have given Bob his colours anyhow. Still,it was beastly awkward. Marjory meant well, but she had put her footright in it. Girls oughtn't to meddle with these things. No girl oughtto be taught to write till she came of age. And Uncle John had behavedin many respects like the Complete Rotter. If he was going to let outthings like that, he might at least have whispered them, or lookedbehind the curtains to see that the place wasn't chock-full of femalekids. Confound Uncle John!
Throughout the dinner-hour Mike kept out of Bob's way. But in a smallcommunity like a school it is impossible to avoid a man for ever. Theymet at the nets.
"Well?" said Bob.
"How do you mean?" said Mike.
"Did you read it?""Yes.""Well, is it all rot, or did you--you know what I mean--sham a crockedwrist?""Yes," said Mike, "I did."Bob stared gloomily at his toes.
"I mean," he said at last, apparently putting the finishing-touch tosome train of thought, "I know I ought to be grateful, and all that. Isuppose I am. I mean it was jolly good of you--Dash it all," he brokeoff hotly, as if the putting his position into words had suddenlyshowed him how inglorious it was, "what did you want to do if_for_? What was the idea? What right have you got to go aboutplaying Providence over me? Dash it all, it's like giving a fellowmoney without consulting him.""I didn't think you'd ever know. You wouldn't have if only that assUncle John hadn't let it out.""How did he get to know? Why did you tell him?""He got it out of me. I couldn't choke him off. He came down when youwere away at Geddington, and would insist on having a look at my arm,and naturally he spotted right away there was nothing the matter withit. So it came out; that's how it was."Bob scratched thoughtfully at the turf with a spike of his boot.
"Of course, it was awfully decent----"Then again the monstrous nature of the affair came home to him.
"But what did you do it _for_? Why should you rot up your ownchances to give me a look in?""Oh, I don't know.... You know, you did _me_ a jolly good turn.""I don't remember. When?""That Firby-Smith business.""What about it?""Well, you got me out of a jolly bad hole.""Oh, rot! And do you mean to tell me it was simply because of that----?"Mike appeared to him in a totally new light. He stared at him as if hewere some strange creature hitherto unknown to the human race. Mikeshuffled uneasily beneath the scrutiny.
"Anyhow, it's all over now," Mike said, "so I don't see what's thepoint of talking about it.""I'm hanged if it is. You don't think I'm going to sit tight and takemy first as if nothing had happened?""What can you do? The list's up. Are you going to the Old Man to askhim if I can play, like Lionel Tremayne?"The hopelessness of the situation came over Bob like a wave. He lookedhelplessly at Mike.
"Besides," added Mike, "I shall get in next year all right. Half asecond, I just want to speak to Wyatt about something."He sidled off.
"Well, anyhow," said Bob to himself, "I must see Burgess about it."
There are situations in life which are beyond one. The sensible manrealises this, and slides out of such situations, admitting imselfbeaten. Others try to grapple with them, but it never does any good.
When affairs get into a real tangle, it is best to sit still and letthem straighten themselves out. Or, if one does not do that, simply tothink no more about them. This is Philosophy. The true philosopher isthe man who says "All right," and goes to sleep in his arm-chair.
One's attitude towards Life's Little Difficulties should be that ofthe gentleman in the fable, who sat down on an acorn one day, andhappened to doze. The warmth of his body caused the acorn togerminate, and it grew so rapidly that, when he awoke, he foundhimself sitting in the fork of an oak, sixty feet from the ground. Hethought he would go home, but, finding this impossible, he altered hisplans. "Well, well," he said, "if I cannot compel circumstances to mywill, I can at least adapt my will to circumstances. I decide toremain here." Which he did, and had a not unpleasant time. The oaklacked some of the comforts of home, but the air was splendid and theview excellent.
To-day's Great Thought for Young Readers. Imitate this man.
Bob should have done so, but he had not the necessary amount ofphilosophy. He still clung to the idea that he and Burgess, incouncil, might find some way of making things right for everybody.
Though, at the moment, he did not see how eleven caps were to bedivided amongst twelve candidates in such a way that each should haveone.
And Burgess, consulted on the point, confessed to the same inabilityto solve the problem. It took Bob at least a quarter of an hour to getthe facts of the case into the captain's head, but at last Burgessgrasped the idea of the thing. At which period he remarked that it wasa rum business.
"Very rum," Bob agreed. "Still, what you say doesn't help us out much,seeing that the point is, what's to be done?""Why do anything?"Burgess was a philosopher, and took the line of least resistance, likethe man in the oak-tree.
"But I must do something," said Bob. "Can't you see how rotten it isfor me?""I don't see why. It's not your fault. Very sporting of your brotherand all that, of course, though I'm blowed if I'd have done it myself;but why should you do anything? You're all right. Your brother stoodout of the team to let you in it, and here you _are_, in it.
What's he got to grumble about?""He's not grumbling. It's me.""What's the matter with you? Don't you want your first?""Not like this. Can't you see what a rotten position it is for me?""Don't you worry. You simply keep on saying you're all right. Besides,what do you want me to do? Alter the list?"But for the thought of those unspeakable outsiders, Lionel Tremayneand his headmaster, Bob might have answered this question in theaffirmative; but he had the public-school boy's terror of seeming topose or do anything theatrical. He would have done a good deal to putmatters right, but he could _not_ do the self-sacrificing younghero business. It would not be in the picture. These things, if theyare to be done at school, have to be carried through stealthily, afterMike's fashion.
"I suppose you can't very well, now it's up. Tell you what, though, Idon't see why I shouldn't stand out of the team for the Ripton match.
I could easily fake up some excuse.""I do. I don't know if it's occurred to you, but the idea is rather towin the Ripton match, if possible. So that I'm a lot keen on puttingthe best team into the field. Sorry if it upsets your arrangements inany way.""You know perfectly well Mike's every bit as good as me.""He isn't so keen.""What do you mean?""Fielding. He's a young slacker."When Burgess had once labelled a man as that, he did not readily letthe idea out of his mind.
"Slacker? What rot! He's as keen as anything.""Anyhow, his keenness isn't enough to make him turn out forhouse-fielding. If you really want to know, that's why you'vegot your first instead of him. You sweated away, and improvedyour fielding twenty per cent.; and I happened to be talking toFirby-Smith and found that young Mike had been shirking his, soout he went. A bad field's bad enough, but a slack field wantsskinning.""Smith oughtn't to have told you.""Well, he did tell me. So you see how it is. There won't be anychanges from the team I've put up on the board.""Oh, all right," said Bob. "I was afraid you mightn't be able to doanything. So long.""Mind the step," said Burgess.
* * * * *At about the time when this conversation was in progress, Wyatt,crossing the cricket-field towards the school shop in search ofsomething fizzy that might correct a burning thirst acquired at thenets, espied on the horizon a suit of cricket flannels surmounted by ahuge, expansive grin. As the distance between them lessened, hediscovered that inside the flannels was Neville-Smith's body andbehind the grin the rest of Neville-Smith's face. Their visit to thenets not having coincided in point of time, as the Greek exercisebooks say, Wyatt had not seen his friend since the list of the teamhad been posted on the board, so he proceeded to congratulate him onhis colours.
"Thanks," said Neville-Smith, with a brilliant display of front teeth.
"Feeling good?""Not the word for it. I feel like--I don't know what.""I'll tell you what you look like, if that's any good to you. Thatslight smile of yours will meet behind, if you don't look out, andthen the top of your head'll come off.""I don't care. I've got my first, whatever happens. Little Willie'sgoing to buy a nice new cap and a pretty striped jacket all for hisown self! I say, thanks for reminding me. Not that you did, butsupposing you had. At any rate, I remember what it was I wanted tosay to you. You know what I was saying to you about the bust I meantto have at home in honour of my getting my first, if I did, which Ihave--well, anyhow it's to-night. You can roll up, can't you?""Delighted. Anything for a free feed in these hard times. What timedid you say it was?""Eleven. Make it a bit earlier, if you like.""No, eleven'll do me all right.""How are you going to get out?""'Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.' That's whatthe man said who wrote the libretto for the last set of Latin Verseswe had to do. I shall manage it.""They ought to allow you a latch-key.""Yes, I've often thought of asking my pater for one. Still, I get onvery well. Who are coming besides me?""No boarders. They all funked it.""The race is degenerating.""Said it wasn't good enough.""The school is going to the dogs. Who did you ask?""Clowes was one. Said he didn't want to miss his beauty-sleep. AndHenfrey backed out because he thought the risk of being sacked wasn'tgood enough.""That's an aspect of the thing that might occur to some people. Idon't blame him--I might feel like that myself if I'd got anothercouple of years at school.""But one or two day-boys are coming. Clephane is, for one. AndBeverley. We shall have rather a rag. I'm going to get the thingsnow.""When I get to your place--I don't believe I know the way, now I cometo think of it--what do I do? Ring the bell and send in my card? orsmash the nearest window and climb in?""Don't make too much row, for goodness sake. All the servants'll havegone to bed. You'll see the window of my room. It's just above theporch. It'll be the only one lighted up. Heave a pebble at it, andI'll come down.""So will the glass--with a run, I expect. Still, I'll try to do aslittle damage as possible. After all, I needn't throw a brick.""You _will_ turn up, won't you?""Nothing shall stop me.""Good man."As Wyatt was turning away, a sudden compunction seized uponNeville-Smith. He called him back.
"I say, you don't think it's too risky, do you? I mean, you always arebreaking out at night, aren't you? I don't want to get you into arow.""Oh, that's all right," said Wyatt. "Don't you worry about me. Ishould have gone out anyhow to-night."
You may not know it, said Wyatt to Mike in the dormitory that night,"but this is the maddest, merriest day of all the glad New Year."Mike could not help thinking that for himself it was the very reverse,but he did not state his view of the case.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Neville-Smith's giving a meal at his place in honour of his gettinghis first. I understand the preparations are on a scale of the utmostmagnificence. No expense has been spared. Ginger-beer will flow likewater. The oldest cask of lemonade has been broached; and a sardine isroasting whole in the market-place.""Are you going?""If I can tear myself away from your delightful society. The kick-offis fixed for eleven sharp. I am to stand underneath his window andheave bricks till something happens. I don't know if he keeps a dog.
If so, I shall probably get bitten to the bone.""When are you going to start?""About five minutes after Wain has been round the dormitories to seethat all's well. That ought to be somewhere about half-past ten.""Don't go getting caught.""I shall do my little best not to be. Rather tricky work, though,getting back. I've got to climb two garden walls, and I shall probablybe so full of Malvoisie that you'll be able to hear it swishing aboutinside me. No catch steeple-chasing if you're like that. They've nothought for people's convenience here. Now at Bradford they've gotstudies on the ground floor, the windows looking out over theboundless prairie. No climbing or steeple-chasing needed at all. Allyou have to do is to open the window and step out. Still, we must makethe best of things. Push us over a pinch of that tooth-powder ofyours. I've used all mine."Wyatt very seldom penetrated further than his own garden on theoccasions when he roamed abroad at night. For cat-shooting the Wainspinneys were unsurpassed. There was one particular dustbin where onemight be certain of flushing a covey any night; and the wall by thepotting-shed was a feline club-house.
But when he did wish to get out into the open country he had a specialroute which he always took. He climbed down from the wall that ranbeneath the dormitory window into the garden belonging to Mr. Appleby,the master who had the house next to Mr. Wain's. Crossing this, heclimbed another wall, and dropped from it into a small lane whichended in the main road leading to Wrykyn town.
This was the route which he took to-night. It was a glorious Julynight, and the scent of the flowers came to him with a curiousdistinctness as he let himself down from the dormitory window. At anyother time he might have made a lengthy halt, and enjoyed the scentsand small summer noises, but now he felt that it would be better notto delay. There was a full moon, and where he stood he could be seendistinctly from the windows of both houses. They were all dark, it istrue, but on these occasions it was best to take no risks.
He dropped cautiously into Appleby's garden, ran lightly across it,and was in the lane within a minute.
There he paused, dusted his trousers, which had suffered on thetwo walls, and strolled meditatively in the direction of the town.
Half-past ten had just chimed from the school clock. He was in plentyof time.
"What a night!" he said to himself, sniffing as he walked.
* * * * *Now it happened that he was not alone in admiring the beauty of thatparticular night. At ten-fifteen it had struck Mr. Appleby, lookingout of his study into the moonlit school grounds, that a pipe in theopen would make an excellent break in his night's work. He hadacquired a slight headache as the result of correcting a batch ofexamination papers, and he thought that an interval of an hour in theopen air before approaching the half-dozen or so papers which stillremained to be looked at might do him good. The window of his studywas open, but the room had got hot and stuffy. Nothing like a littlefresh air for putting him right.
For a few moments he debated the rival claims of a stroll in thecricket-field and a seat in the garden. Then he decided on the latter.
The little gate in the railings opposite his house might not beopen, and it was a long way round to the main entrance. So he took adeck-chair which leaned against the wall, and let himself out of theback door.
He took up his position in the shadow of a fir-tree with his back tothe house. From here he could see the long garden. He was fond of hisgarden, and spent what few moments he could spare from work and gamespottering about it. He had his views as to what the ideal gardenshould be, and he hoped in time to tinker his own three acres up tothe desired standard. At present there remained much to be done. Whynot, for instance, take away those laurels at the end of the lawn, andhave a flower-bed there instead? Laurels lasted all the year round,true, whereas flowers died and left an empty brown bed in the winter,but then laurels were nothing much to look at at any time, and agarden always had a beastly appearance in winter, whatever you did toit. Much better have flowers, and get a decent show for one's money insummer at any rate.
The problem of the bed at the end of the lawn occupied his completeattention for more than a quarter of an hour, at the end of whichperiod he discovered that his pipe had gone out.
He was just feeling for his matches to relight it when Wyatt droppedwith a slight thud into his favourite herbaceous border.
The surprise, and the agony of feeling that large boots were tramplingamong his treasures kept him transfixed for just the length of timenecessary for Wyatt to cross the garden and climb the opposite wall.
As he dropped into the lane, Mr. Appleby recovered himselfsufficiently to emit a sort of strangled croak, but the sound was tooslight to reach Wyatt. That reveller was walking down the Wrykyn roadbefore Mr. Appleby had left his chair.
It is an interesting point that it was the gardener rather than theschoolmaster in Mr. Appleby that first awoke to action. It was not theidea of a boy breaking out of his house at night that occurred to himfirst as particularly heinous; it was the fact that the boy had brokenout _via_ his herbaceous border. In four strides he was on thescene of the outrage, examining, on hands and knees, with the aid ofthe moonlight, the extent of the damage done.
As far as he could see, it was not serious. By a happy accidentWyatt's boots had gone home to right and left of precious plants butnot on them. With a sigh of relief Mr. Appleby smoothed over thecavities, and rose to his feet.
At this point it began to strike him that the episode affected him asa schoolmaster also.
In that startled moment when Wyatt had suddenly crossed his line ofvision, he had recognised him. The moon had shone full on his face ashe left the flowerbed. There was no doubt in his mind as to theidentity of the intruder.
He paused, wondering how he should act. It was not an easy question.
There was nothing of the spy about Mr. Appleby. He went his wayopenly, liked and respected by boys and masters. He always played thegame. The difficulty here was to say exactly what the game was.
Sentiment, of course, bade him forget the episode, treat it as if ithad never happened. That was the simple way out of the difficulty.
There was nothing unsporting about Mr. Appleby. He knew that therewere times when a master might, without blame, close his eyes or lookthe other way. If he had met Wyatt out of bounds in the day-time, andit had been possible to convey the impression that he had not seenhim, he would have done so. To be out of bounds is not a particularlydeadly sin. A master must check it if it occurs too frequently, but hemay use his discretion.
Breaking out at night, however, was a different thing altogether. Itwas on another plane. There are times when a master must waivesentiment, and remember that he is in a position of trust, and owes aduty directly to his headmaster, and indirectly, through theheadmaster, to the parents. He receives a salary for doing this duty,and, if he feels that sentiment is too strong for him, he shouldresign in favour of some one of tougher fibre.
This was the conclusion to which Mr. Appleby came over his relightedpipe. He could not let the matter rest where it was.
In ordinary circumstances it would have been his duty to report theaffair to the headmaster but in the present case he thought that aslightly different course might be pursued. He would lay the wholething before Mr. Wain, and leave him to deal with it as he thoughtbest. It was one of the few cases where it was possible for anassistant master to fulfil his duty to a parent directly, instead ofthrough the agency of the headmaster.
* * * * *Knocking out the ashes of his pipe against a tree, he folded hisdeck-chair and went into the house. The examination papers werespread invitingly on the table, but they would have to wait. Heturned down his lamp, and walked round to Wain's.
There was a light in one of the ground-floor windows. He tapped on thewindow, and the sound of a chair being pushed back told him that hehad been heard. The blind shot up, and he had a view of a roomlittered with books and papers, in the middle of which stood Mr. Wain,like a sea-beast among rocks.
Mr. Wain recognised his visitor and opened the window. Mr. Applebycould not help feeling how like Wain it was to work on a warm summer'snight in a hermetically sealed room. There was always something queerand eccentric about Wyatt's step-father.
"Can I have a word with you, Wain?" he said.
"Appleby! Is there anything the matter? I was startled when youtapped. Exceedingly so.""Sorry," said Mr. Appleby. "Wouldn't have disturbed you, only it'ssomething important. I'll climb in through here, shall I? No need tounlock the door." And, greatly to Mr. Wain's surprise and rather tohis disapproval, Mr. Appleby vaulted on to the window-sill, andsqueezed through into the room.
Got some rather bad news for you, I'm afraid, began Mr. Appleby.
"I'll smoke, if you don't mind. About Wyatt.""James!""I was sitting in my garden a few minutes ago, having a pipe beforefinishing the rest of my papers, and Wyatt dropped from the wall on tomy herbaceous border."Mr. Appleby said this with a tinge of bitterness. The thing stillrankled.
"James! In your garden! Impossible. Why, it is not a quarter of anhour since I left him in his dormitory.""He's not there now.""You astound me, Appleby. I am astonished.""So was I.""How is such a thing possible? His window is heavily barred.""Bars can be removed.""You must have been mistaken.""Possibly," said Mr. Appleby, a little nettled. Gaping astonishment isalways apt to be irritating. "Let's leave it at that, then. Sorry tohave disturbed you.""No, sit down, Appleby. Dear me, this is most extraordinary.
Exceedingly so. You are certain it was James?""Perfectly. It's like daylight out of doors."Mr. Wain drummed on the table with his fingers.
"What shall I do?"Mr. Appleby offered no suggestion.
"I ought to report it to the headmaster. That is certainly the courseI should pursue.""I don't see why. It isn't like an ordinary case. You're the parent.
You can deal with the thing directly. If you come to think of it, aheadmaster's only a sort of middleman between boys and parents. Heplays substitute for the parent in his absence. I don't see why youshould drag in the master at all here.""There is certainly something in what you say," said Mr. Wain onreflection.
"A good deal. Tackle the boy when he comes in, and have it out withhim. Remember that it must mean expulsion if you report him to theheadmaster. He would have no choice. Everybody who has ever broken outof his house here and been caught has been expelled. I should stronglyadvise you to deal with the thing yourself.""I will. Yes. You are quite right, Appleby. That is a very good ideaof yours. You are not going?""Must. Got a pile of examination papers to look over. Good-night.""Good-night."Mr. Appleby made his way out of the window and through the gate intohis own territory in a pensive frame of mind. He was wondering whatwould happen. He had taken the only possible course, and, if only Wainkept his head and did not let the matter get through officially to theheadmaster, things might not be so bad for Wyatt after all. He hopedthey would not. He liked Wyatt. It would be a thousand pities, hefelt, if he were to be expelled. What would Wain do? What would_he_ do in a similar case? It was difficult to say. Probably talkviolently for as long as he could keep it up, and then consider theepisode closed. He doubted whether Wain would have the common sense todo this. Altogether it was very painful and disturbing, and he wastaking a rather gloomy view of the assistant master's lot as he satdown to finish off the rest of his examination papers. It was not allroses, the life of an assistant master at a public school. He hadcontinually to be sinking his own individual sympathies in the claimsof his duty. Mr. Appleby was the last man who would willingly havereported a boy for enjoying a midnight ramble. But he was the last manto shirk the duty of reporting him, merely because it was onedecidedly not to his taste.
Mr. Wain sat on for some minutes after his companion had left,pondering over the news he had heard. Even now he clung to the ideathat Appleby had made some extraordinary mistake. Gradually he beganto convince himself of this. He had seen Wyatt actually in bed aquarter of an hour before--not asleep, it was true, but apparently onthe verge of dropping off. And the bars across the window had lookedso solid.... Could Appleby have been dreaming? Something of the kindmight easily have happened. He had been working hard, and the nightwas warm....
Then it occurred to him that he could easily prove or disprove thetruth of his colleague's statement by going to the dormitory andseeing if Wyatt were there or not. If he had gone out, he would hardlyhave returned yet.
He took a candle, and walked quietly upstairs.
Arrived at his step-son's dormitory, he turned the door-handle softlyand went in. The light of the candle fell on both beds. Mike wasthere, asleep. He grunted, and turned over with his face to the wallas the light shone on his eyes. But the other bed was empty. Applebyhad been right.
If further proof had been needed, one of the bars was missing from thewindow. The moon shone in through the empty space.
The house-master sat down quietly on the vacant bed. He blew thecandle out, and waited there in the semi-darkness, thinking. For yearshe and Wyatt had lived in a state of armed neutrality, broken byvarious small encounters. Lately, by silent but mutual agreement, theyhad kept out of each other's way as much as possible, and it hadbecome rare for the house-master to have to find fault officially withhis step-son. But there had never been anything even remotelyapproaching friendship between them. Mr. Wain was not a man whoinspired affection readily, least of all in those many years youngerthan himself. Nor did he easily grow fond of others. Wyatt he hadregarded, from the moment when the threads of their lives becameentangled, as a complete nuisance.
It was not, therefore, a sorrowful, so much as an exasperated, vigilthat he kept in the dormitory. There was nothing of the sorrowingfather about his frame of mind. He was the house-master about to dealwith a mutineer, and nothing else.
This breaking-out, he reflected wrathfully, was the last straw.
Wyatt's presence had been a nervous inconvenience to him for years.
The time had come to put an end to it. It was with a comfortablefeeling of magnanimity that he resolved not to report the breach ofdiscipline to the headmaster. Wyatt should not be expelled. But heshould leave, and that immediately. He would write to the bank beforehe went to bed, asking them to receive his step-son at once; and theletter should go by the first post next day. The discipline of thebank would be salutary and steadying. And--this was a particularlygrateful reflection--a fortnight annually was the limit of the holidayallowed by the management to its junior employees.
Mr. Wain had arrived at this conclusion, and was beginning to feel alittle cramped, when Mike Jackson suddenly sat up.
"Hullo!" said Mike.
"Go to sleep, Jackson, immediately," snapped the house-master.
Mike had often heard and read of people's hearts leaping to theirmouths, but he had never before experienced that sensation ofsomething hot and dry springing in the throat, which is what reallyhappens to us on receipt of a bad shock. A sickening feeling that thegame was up beyond all hope of salvation came to him. He lay downagain without a word.
What a frightful thing to happen! How on earth had this come about?
What in the world had brought Wain to the dormitory at that hour? Poorold Wyatt! If it had upset _him_ (Mike) to see the house-masterin the room, what would be the effect of such a sight on Wyatt,returning from the revels at Neville-Smith's!
And what could he do? Nothing. There was literally no way out. Hismind went back to the night when he had saved Wyatt by a brilliant_coup_. The most brilliant of _coups_ could effect nothing now.
Absolutely and entirely the game was up.
* * * * *Every minute that passed seemed like an hour to Mike. Dead silencereigned in the dormitory, broken every now and then by the creak ofthe other bed, as the house-master shifted his position. Twelve boomedacross the field from the school clock. Mike could not help thinkingwhat a perfect night it must be for him to be able to hear the strokesso plainly. He strained his ears for any indication of Wyatt'sapproach, but could hear nothing. Then a very faint scraping noisebroke the stillness, and presently the patch of moonlight on the floorwas darkened.
At that moment Mr. Wain relit his candle.
The unexpected glare took Wyatt momentarily aback. Mike saw him start.
Then he seemed to recover himself. In a calm and leisurely manner heclimbed into the room.
"James!" said Mr. Wain. His voice sounded ominously hollow.
Wyatt dusted his knees, and rubbed his hands together. "Hullo, is thatyou, father!" he said pleasantly.
A silence followed. To Mike, lying in bed, holding his breath, itseemed a long silence. As a matter of fact it lasted for perhaps tenseconds. Then Mr. Wain spoke.
"You have been out, James?"It is curious how in the more dramatic moments of life the inaneremark is the first that comes to us.
"Yes, sir," said Wyatt.
"I am astonished. Exceedingly astonished.""I got a bit of a start myself," said Wyatt.
"I shall talk to you in my study. Follow me there.""Yes, sir."He left the room, and Wyatt suddenly began to chuckle.
"I say, Wyatt!" said Mike, completely thrown off his balance by theevents of the night.
Wyatt continued to giggle helplessly. He flung himself down on hisbed, rolling with laughter. Mike began to get alarmed.
"It's all right," said Wyatt at last, speaking with difficulty. "But,I say, how long had he been sitting there?""It seemed hours. About an hour, I suppose, really.""It's the funniest thing I've ever struck. Me sweating to get inquietly, and all the time him camping out on my bed!""But look here, what'll happen?"Wyatt sat up.
"That reminds me. Suppose I'd better go down.""What'll he do, do you think?""Ah, now, what!""But, I say, it's awful. What'll happen?""That's for him to decide. Speaking at a venture, I should say----""You don't think----?""The boot. The swift and sudden boot. I shall be sorry to part withyou, but I'm afraid it's a case of 'Au revoir, my little Hyacinth.' Weshall meet at Philippi. This is my Moscow. To-morrow I shall go outinto the night with one long, choking sob. Years hence a white-hairedbank-clerk will tap at your door when you're a prosperous professionalcricketer with your photograph in _Wisden_. That'll be me. Well,I suppose I'd better go down. We'd better all get to bed _some_time to-night. Don't go to sleep.""Not likely.""I'll tell you all the latest news when I come back. Where are meslippers? Ha, 'tis well! Lead on, then, minions. I follow."* * * * *In the study Mr. Wain was fumbling restlessly with his papers whenWyatt appeared.
"Sit down, James," he said.
Wyatt sat down. One of his slippers fell off with a clatter. Mr. Wainjumped nervously.
"Only my slipper," explained Wyatt. "It slipped."Mr. Wain took up a pen, and began to tap the table.
"Well, James?"Wyatt said nothing.
"I should be glad to hear your explanation of this disgracefulmatter.""The fact is----" said Wyatt.
"Well?""I haven't one, sir.""What were you doing out of your dormitory, out of the house, at thathour?""I went for a walk, sir.""And, may I inquire, are you in the habit of violating the strictestschool rules by absenting yourself from the house during the night?""Yes, sir.""What?""Yes, sir.""This is an exceedingly serious matter."Wyatt nodded agreement with this view.
"Exceedingly."The pen rose and fell with the rapidity of the cylinder of amotor-car. Wyatt, watching it, became suddenly aware that thething was hypnotising him. In a minute or two he would be asleep.
"I wish you wouldn't do that, father. Tap like that, I mean. It'ssending me to sleep.""James!""It's like a woodpecker.""Studied impertinence----""I'm very sorry. Only it _was_ sending me off."Mr. Wain suspended tapping operations, and resumed the thread of hisdiscourse.
"I am sorry, exceedingly, to see this attitude in you, James. It isnot fitting. It is in keeping with your behaviour throughout. Yourconduct has been lax and reckless in the extreme. It is possible thatyou imagine that the peculiar circumstances of our relationship secureyou from the penalties to which the ordinary boy----""No, sir.""I need hardly say," continued Mr. Wain, ignoring the interruption,"that I shall treat you exactly as I should treat any other member ofmy house whom I had detected in the same misdemeanour.""Of course," said Wyatt, approvingly.
"I must ask you not to interrupt me when I am speaking to you, James.
I say that your punishment will be no whit less severe than would bethat of any other boy. You have repeatedly proved yourself lacking inballast and a respect for discipline in smaller ways, but this is afar more serious matter. Exceedingly so. It is impossible for me tooverlook it, even were I disposed to do so. You are aware of thepenalty for such an action as yours?""The sack," said Wyatt laconically.
"It is expulsion. You must leave the school. At once."Wyatt nodded.
"As you know, I have already secured a nomination for you in theLondon and Oriental Bank. I shall write to-morrow to the managerasking him to receive you at once----""After all, they only gain an extra fortnight of me.""You will leave directly I receive his letter. I shall arrange withthe headmaster that you are withdrawn privately----""_Not_ the sack?""Withdrawn privately. You will not go to school to-morrow. Do youunderstand? That is all. Have you anything to say?"Wyatt reflected.
"No, I don't think----"His eye fell on a tray bearing a decanter and a syphon.
"Oh, yes," he said. "Can't I mix you a whisky and soda, father, beforeI go off to bed?"* * * * *"Well?" said Mike.
Wyatt kicked off his slippers, and began to undress.
"What happened?""We chatted.""Has he let you off?""Like a gun. I shoot off almost immediately. To-morrow I take awell-earned rest away from school, and the day after I become thegay young bank-clerk, all amongst the ink and ledgers."Mike was miserably silent.
"Buck up," said Wyatt cheerfully. "It would have happened anyhow inanother fortnight. So why worry?"Mike was still silent. The reflection was doubtless philosophic, butit failed to comfort him.
Bad news spreads quickly. By the quarter to eleven interval next daythe facts concerning Wyatt and Mr. Wain were public property. Mike, asan actual spectator of the drama, was in great request as aninformant. As he told the story to a group of sympathisers outside theschool shop, Burgess came up, his eyes rolling in a fine frenzy.
"Anybody seen young--oh, here you are. What's all this about JimmyWyatt? They're saying he's been sacked, or some rot."[Illustration: "WHAT'S ALL THIS ABOUT JIMMY WYATT?"]
"So he has--at least, he's got to leave.""What? When?""He's left already. He isn't coming to school again."Burgess's first thought, as befitted a good cricket captain, was forhis team.
"And the Ripton match on Saturday!"Nobody seemed to have anything except silent sympathy at his command.
"Dash the man! Silly ass! What did he want to do it for! Poor oldJimmy, though!" he added after a pause. "What rot for him!""Beastly," agreed Mike.
"All the same," continued Burgess, with a return to the austere mannerof the captain of cricket, "he might have chucked playing the goattill after the Ripton match. Look here, young Jackson, you'll turn outfor fielding with the first this afternoon. You'll play on Saturday.""All right," said Mike, without enthusiasm. The Wyatt disaster was toorecent for him to feel much pleasure at playing against Ripton_vice_ his friend, withdrawn.
Bob was the next to interview him. They met in the cloisters.
"Hullo, Mike!" said Bob. "I say, what's all this about Wyatt?""Wain caught him getting back into the dorm. last night afterNeville-Smith's, and he's taken him away from the school.""What's he going to do? Going into that bank straight away?""Yes. You know, that's the part he bars most. He'd have been leavinganyhow in a fortnight, you see; only it's awful rot for a chap likeWyatt to have to go and froust in a bank for the rest of his life.""He'll find it rather a change, I expect. I suppose you won't beseeing him before he goes?""I shouldn't think so. Not unless he comes to the dorm. during thenight. He's sleeping over in Wain's part of the house, but I shouldn'tbe surprised if he nipped out after Wain has gone to bed. Hope hedoes, anyway.""I should like to say good-bye. But I don't suppose it'll bepossible."They separated in the direction of their respective form-rooms. Mikefelt bitter and disappointed at the way the news had been received.
Wyatt was his best friend, his pal; and it offended him that theschool should take the tidings of his departure as they had done. Mostof them who had come to him for information had expressed a sort ofsympathy with the absent hero of his story, but the chief sensationseemed to be one of pleasurable excitement at the fact that somethingbig had happened to break the monotony of school routine. They treatedthe thing much as they would have treated the announcement that arecord score had been made in first-class cricket. The school was notso much regretful as comfortably thrilled. And Burgess had actuallycursed before sympathising. Mike felt resentful towards Burgess. As amatter of fact, the cricket captain wrote a letter to Wyatt duringpreparation that night which would have satisfied even Mike's sense ofwhat was fit. But Mike had no opportunity of learning this.
There was, however, one exception to the general rule, one member ofthe school who did not treat the episode as if it were merely aninteresting and impersonal item of sensational news. Neville-Smithheard of what had happened towards the end of the interval, and rushedoff instantly in search of Mike. He was too late to catch him beforehe went to his form-room, so he waited for him at half-past twelve,when the bell rang for the end of morning school.
"I say, Jackson, is this true about old Wyatt?"Mike nodded.
"What happened?"Mike related the story for the sixteenth time. It was a melancholypleasure to have found a listener who heard the tale in the rightspirit. There was no doubt about Neville-Smith's interest andsympathy. He was silent for a moment after Mike had finished.
"It was all my fault," he said at length. "If it hadn't been for me,this wouldn't have happened. What a fool I was to ask him to my place!
I might have known he would be caught.""Oh, I don't know," said Mike.
"It was absolutely my fault."Mike was not equal to the task of soothing Neville-Smith's woundedconscience. He did not attempt it. They walked on without furtherconversation till they reached Wain's gate, where Mike left him.
Neville-Smith proceeded on his way, plunged in meditation.
The result of which meditation was that Burgess got a second shockbefore the day was out. Bob, going over to the nets rather late in theafternoon, came upon the captain of cricket standing apart from hisfellow men with an expression on his face that spoke of mentalupheavals on a vast scale.
"What's up?" asked Bob.
"Nothing much," said Burgess, with a forced and grisly calm. "Onlythat, as far as I can see, we shall play Ripton on Saturday with asort of second eleven. You don't happen to have got sacked oranything, by the way, do you?""What's happened now?""Neville-Smith. In extra on Saturday. That's all. Only our first- andsecond-change bowlers out of the team for the Ripton match in one day.
I suppose by to-morrow half the others'll have gone, and we shall takethe field on Saturday with a scratch side of kids from the JuniorSchool.""Neville-Smith! Why, what's he been doing?""Apparently he gave a sort of supper to celebrate his getting hisfirst, and it was while coming back from that that Wyatt got collared.
Well, I'm blowed if Neville-Smith doesn't toddle off to the Old Manafter school to-day and tell him the whole yarn! Said it was all hisfault. What rot! Sort of thing that might have happened to any one. IfWyatt hadn't gone to him, he'd probably have gone out somewhere else.""And the Old Man shoved him in extra?""Next two Saturdays.""Are Ripton strong this year?" asked Bob, for lack of anything betterto say.
"Very, from all accounts. They whacked the M.C.C. Jolly hot team ofM.C.C. too. Stronger than the one we drew with.""Oh, well, you never know what's going to happen at cricket. I mayhold a catch for a change."Burgess grunted.
Bob went on his way to the nets. Mike was just putting on his pads.
"I say, Mike," said Bob. "I wanted to see you. It's about Wyatt. I'vethought of something.""What's that?""A way of getting him out of that bank. If it comes off, that's tosay.""By Jove, he'd jump at anything. What's the idea?""Why shouldn't he get a job of sorts out in the Argentine? There oughtto be heaps of sound jobs going there for a chap like Wyatt. He's ajolly good shot, to start with. I shouldn't wonder if it wasn't rathera score to be able to shoot out there. And he can ride, I know.""By Jove, I'll write to father to-night. He must be able to work it, Ishould think. He never chucked the show altogether, did he?"Mike, as most other boys of his age would have been, was profoundlyignorant as to the details by which his father's money had been, orwas being, made. He only knew vaguely that the source of revenue hadsomething to do with the Argentine. His brother Joe had been born inBuenos Ayres; and once, three years ago, his father had gone overthere for a visit, presumably on business. All these things seemed toshow that Mr. Jackson senior was a useful man to have about if youwanted a job in that Eldorado, the Argentine Republic.
As a matter of fact, Mike's father owned vast tracts of land upcountry, where countless sheep lived and had their being. He had longretired from active superintendence of his estate. Like Mr. Spenlow,he had a partner, a stout fellow with the work-taint highly developed,who asked nothing better than to be left in charge. So Mr. Jackson hadreturned to the home of his fathers, glad to be there again. But hestill had a decided voice in the ordering of affairs on the ranches,and Mike was going to the fountain-head of things when he wrote to hisfather that night, putting forward Wyatt's claims to attention andability to perform any sort of job with which he might be presented.
The reflection that he had done all that could be done tended toconsole him for the non-appearance of Wyatt either that night or nextmorning--a non-appearance which was due to the simple fact that hepassed that night in a bed in Mr. Wain's dressing-room, the door ofwhich that cautious pedagogue, who believed in taking no chances,locked from the outside on retiring to rest.
Mike got an answer from his father on the morning of the Ripton match.
A letter from Wyatt also lay on his plate when he came down tobreakfast.
Mr. Jackson's letter was short, but to the point. He said he would goand see Wyatt early in the next week. He added that being expelledfrom a public school was not the only qualification for success as asheep-farmer, but that, if Mike's friend added to this a generalintelligence and amiability, and a skill for picking off cats with anair-pistol and bull's-eyes with a Lee-Enfield, there was no reason whysomething should not be done for him. In any case he would buy him alunch, so that Wyatt would extract at least some profit from hisvisit. He said that he hoped something could be managed. It was a pitythat a boy accustomed to shoot cats should be condemned for the restof his life to shoot nothing more exciting than his cuffs.
Wyatt's letter was longer. It might have been published under thetitle "My First Day in a Bank, by a Beginner." His advent hadapparently caused little sensation. He had first had a briefconversation with the manager, which had run as follows:
"Mr. Wyatt?""Yes, sir.""H'm ... Sportsman?""Yes, sir.""Cricketer?""Yes, sir.""Play football?""Yes, sir.""H'm ... Racquets?""Yes, sir.""Everything?""Yes, sir.""H'm ... Well, you won't get any more of it now."After which a Mr. Blenkinsop had led him up to a vast ledger, in whichhe was to inscribe the addresses of all out-going letters. Theseletters he would then stamp, and subsequently take in bundles to thepost office. Once a week he would be required to buy stamps. "If Iwere one of those Napoleons of Finance," wrote Wyatt, "I should cookthe accounts, I suppose, and embezzle stamps to an incredible amount.
But it doesn't seem in my line. I'm afraid I wasn't cut out for abusiness career. Still, I have stamped this letter at the expenseof the office, and entered it up under the heading 'Sundries,' whichis a sort of start. Look out for an article in the _Wrykynian_,'Hints for Young Criminals, by J. Wyatt, champion catch-as-catch-canstamp-stealer of the British Isles.' So long. I suppose you areplaying against Ripton, now that the world of commerce has found thatit can't get on without me. Mind you make a century, and then perhapsBurgess'll give you your first after all. There were twelve coloursgiven three years ago, because one chap left at half-term and the manwho played instead of him came off against Ripton."* * * * *This had occurred to Mike independently. The Ripton match was aspecial event, and the man who performed any outstanding feat againstthat school was treated as a sort of Horatius. Honours were heapedupon him. If he could only make a century! or even fifty. Even twenty,if it got the school out of a tight place. He was as nervous on theSaturday morning as he had been on the morning of the M.C.C. match. Itwas Victory or Westminster Abbey now. To do only averagely well, to beamong the ruck, would be as useless as not playing at all, as far ashis chance of his first was concerned.
It was evident to those who woke early on the Saturday morning thatthis Ripton match was not likely to end in a draw. During the Fridayrain had fallen almost incessantly in a steady drizzle. It had stoppedlate at night; and at six in the morning there was every prospect ofanother hot day. There was that feeling in the air which shows thatthe sun is trying to get through the clouds. The sky was a dull greyat breakfast time, except where a flush of deeper colour gave a hintof the sun. It was a day on which to win the toss, and go in first. Ateleven-thirty, when the match was timed to begin, the wicket would betoo wet to be difficult. Runs would come easily till the sun came outand began to dry the ground. When that happened there would be troublefor the side that was batting.
Burgess, inspecting the wicket with Mr. Spence during the quarter toeleven interval, was not slow to recognise this fact.
"I should win the toss to-day, if I were you, Burgess," said Mr.
Spence.
"Just what I was thinking, sir.""That wicket's going to get nasty after lunch, if the sun comes out. Aregular Rhodes wicket it's going to be.""I wish we _had_ Rhodes," said Burgess. "Or even Wyatt. It wouldjust suit him, this."Mr. Spence, as a member of the staff, was not going to be drawn intodiscussing Wyatt and his premature departure, so he diverted theconversation on to the subject of the general aspect of the school'sattack.
"Who will go on first with you, Burgess?""Who do you think, sir? Ellerby? It might be his wicket."Ellerby bowled medium inclining to slow. On a pitch that suited him hewas apt to turn from leg and get people out caught at the wicket orshort slip.
"Certainly, Ellerby. This end, I think. The other's yours, though I'mafraid you'll have a poor time bowling fast to-day. Even with plentyof sawdust I doubt if it will be possible to get a decent footholdtill after lunch.""I must win the toss," said Burgess. "It's a nuisance too, about ourbatting. Marsh will probably be dead out of form after being in theInfirmary so long. If he'd had a chance of getting a bit of practiceyesterday, it might have been all right.""That rain will have a lot to answer for if we lose. On a dry, hardwicket I'm certain we should beat them four times out of six. I wastalking to a man who played against them for the Nomads. He said thaton a true wicket there was not a great deal of sting in their bowling,but that they've got a slow leg-break man who might be dangerous on aday like this. A boy called de Freece. I don't know of him. He wasn'tin the team last year.""I know the chap. He played wing three for them at footer against usthis year on their ground. He was crocked when they came here. He's apretty useful chap all round, I believe. Plays racquets for them too.""Well, my friend said he had one very dangerous ball, of the Bosanquettype. Looks as if it were going away, and comes in instead.""I don't think a lot of that," said Burgess ruefully. "One consolationis, though, that that sort of ball is easier to watch on a slowwicket. I must tell the fellows to look out for it.""I should. And, above all, win the toss."* * * * *Burgess and Maclaine, the Ripton captain, were old acquaintances. Theyhad been at the same private school, and they had played against oneanother at football and cricket for two years now.
"We'll go in first, Mac," said Burgess, as they met on the pavilionsteps after they had changed.
"It's awfully good of you to suggest it," said Maclaine. "but I thinkwe'll toss. It's a hobby of mine. You call.""Heads.""Tails it is. I ought to have warned you that you hadn't a chance.
I've lost the toss five times running, so I was bound to win to-day.""You'll put us in, I suppose?""Yes--after us.""Oh, well, we sha'n't have long to wait for our knock, that's acomfort. Buck up and send some one in, and let's get at you."And Burgess went off to tell the ground-man to have plenty of sawdustready, as he would want the field paved with it.
* * * * *The policy of the Ripton team was obvious from the first over. Theymeant to force the game. Already the sun was beginning to peep throughthe haze. For about an hour run-getting ought to be a tolerably simpleprocess; but after that hour singles would be as valuable as threesand boundaries an almost unheard-of luxury.
So Ripton went in to hit.
The policy proved successful for a time, as it generally does.
Burgess, who relied on a run that was a series of tiger-like leapsculminating in a spring that suggested that he meant to lower the longjump record, found himself badly handicapped by the state of theground. In spite of frequent libations of sawdust, he was compelled totread cautiously, and this robbed his bowling of much of its pace. Thescore mounted rapidly. Twenty came in ten minutes. At thirty-five thefirst wicket fell, run out.
At sixty Ellerby, who had found the pitch too soft for him and hadbeen expensive, gave place to Grant. Grant bowled what were supposedto be slow leg-breaks, but which did not always break. The changeworked.
Maclaine, after hitting the first two balls to the boundary, skied thethird to Bob Jackson in the deep, and Bob, for whom constant practicehad robbed this sort of catch of its terrors, held it.
A yorker from Burgess disposed of the next man before he could settledown; but the score, seventy-four for three wickets, was large enoughin view of the fact that the pitch was already becoming moredifficult, and was certain to get worse, to make Ripton feel that theadvantage was with them. Another hour of play remained before lunch.
The deterioration of the wicket would be slow during that period. Thesun, which was now shining brightly, would put in its deadliest workfrom two o'clock onwards. Maclaine's instructions to his men were togo on hitting.
A too liberal interpretation of the meaning of the verb "to hit" ledto the departure of two more Riptonians in the course of the next twoovers. There is a certain type of school batsman who considers that toforce the game means to swipe blindly at every ball on the chance oftaking it half-volley. This policy sometimes leads to a boundary ortwo, as it did on this occasion, but it means that wickets will fall,as also happened now. Seventy-four for three became eighty-six forfive. Burgess began to look happier.
His contentment increased when he got the next man leg-before-wicketwith the total unaltered. At this rate Ripton would be out beforelunch for under a hundred.
But the rot stopped with the fall of that wicket. Dashing tactics werelaid aside. The pitch had begun to play tricks, and the pair now insettled down to watch the ball. They plodded on, scoring slowly andjerkily till the hands of the clock stood at half-past one. ThenEllerby, who had gone on again instead of Grant, beat the less steadyof the pair with a ball that pitched on the middle stump and shot intothe base of the off. A hundred and twenty had gone up on the board atthe beginning of the over.
That period which is always so dangerous, when the wicket is bad, theten minutes before lunch, proved fatal to two more of the enemy. Thelast man had just gone to the wickets, with the score at a hundred andthirty-one, when a quarter to two arrived, and with it the luncheoninterval.
So far it was anybody's game.
The Ripton last-wicket man was de Freece, the slow bowler. He wasapparently a young gentleman wholly free from the curse ofnervousness. He wore a cheerful smile as he took guard beforereceiving the first ball after lunch, and Wrykyn had plenty ofopportunity of seeing that that was his normal expression when at thewickets. There is often a certain looseness about the attack afterlunch, and the bowler of googlies took advantage of it now. He seemedto be a batsman with only one hit; but he had also a very accurateeye, and his one hit, a semicircular stroke, which suggested the golflinks rather than the cricket field, came off with distressingfrequency. He mowed Burgess's first ball to the square-leg boundary,missed his second, and snicked the third for three over long-slip'shead. The other batsman played out the over, and de Freece proceededto treat Ellerby's bowling with equal familiarity. The scoring-boardshowed an increase of twenty as the result of three overs. Everyrun was invaluable now, and the Ripton contingent made the pavilionre-echo as a fluky shot over mid-on's head sent up the hundred andfifty.
There are few things more exasperating to the fielding side than alast-wicket stand. It resembles in its effect the dragging-out of abook or play after the _dénouement_ has been reached. At the fallof the ninth wicket the fieldsmen nearly always look on their outingas finished. Just a ball or two to the last man, and it will be theirturn to bat. If the last man insists on keeping them out in the field,they resent it.
What made it especially irritating now was the knowledge that astraight yorker would solve the whole thing. But when Burgess bowled ayorker, it was not straight. And when he bowled a straight ball, itwas not a yorker. A four and a three to de Freece, and a four bye sentup a hundred and sixty.
It was beginning to look as if this might go on for ever, whenEllerby, who had been missing the stumps by fractions of an inch,for the last ten minutes, did what Burgess had failed to do. Hebowled a straight, medium-paced yorker, and de Freece, swiping at itwith a bright smile, found his leg-stump knocked back. He had madetwenty-eight. His record score, he explained to Mike, as they walkedto the pavilion, for this or any ground.
The Ripton total was a hundred and sixty-six.
* * * * *With the ground in its usual true, hard condition, Wrykyn would havegone in against a score of a hundred and sixty-six with the cheeryintention of knocking off the runs for the loss of two or threewickets. It would have been a gentle canter for them.
But ordinary standards would not apply here. On a good wicket Wrykynthat season were a two hundred and fifty to three hundred side. On abad wicket--well, they had met the Incogniti on a bad wicket, andtheir total--with Wyatt playing and making top score--had worked outat a hundred and seven.
A grim determination to do their best, rather than confidence thattheir best, when done, would be anything record-breaking, was thespirit which animated the team when they opened their innings.
And in five minutes this had changed to a dull gloom.
The tragedy started with the very first ball. It hardly seemed thatthe innings had begun, when Morris was seen to leave the crease, andmake for the pavilion.
"It's that googly man," said Burgess blankly.
"What's happened?" shouted a voice from the interior of the firsteleven room.
"Morris is out.""Good gracious! How?" asked Ellerby, emerging from the room with onepad on his leg and the other in his hand.
"L.-b.-w. First ball.""My aunt! Who's in next? Not me?""No. Berridge. For goodness sake, Berry, stick a bat in the way, andnot your legs. Watch that de Freece man like a hawk. He breaks likesin all over the shop. Hullo, Morris! Bad luck! Were you out, do youthink?" A batsman who has been given l.-b.-w. is always asked thisquestion on his return to the pavilion, and he answers it in ninecases out of ten in the negative. Morris was the tenth case. Hethought it was all right, he said.
"Thought the thing was going to break, but it didn't.""Hear that, Berry? He doesn't always break. You must look out forthat," said Burgess helpfully. Morris sat down and began to take offhis pads.
"That chap'll have Berry, if he doesn't look out," he said.
But Berridge survived the ordeal. He turned his first ball to leg fora single.
This brought Marsh to the batting end; and the second tragedyoccurred.
It was evident from the way he shaped that Marsh was short ofpractice. His visit to the Infirmary had taken the edge off hisbatting. He scratched awkwardly at three balls without hitting them.
The last of the over had him in two minds. He started to play forward,changed his stroke suddenly and tried to step back, and the nextmoment the bails had shot up like the _débris_ of a smallexplosion, and the wicket-keeper was clapping his gloved hands gentlyand slowly in the introspective, dreamy way wicket-keepers have onthese occasions.
A silence that could be felt brooded over the pavilion.
The voice of the scorer, addressing from his little wooden hut themelancholy youth who was working the telegraph-board, broke it.
"One for two. Last man duck."Ellerby echoed the remark. He got up, and took off his blazer.
"This is all right," he said, "isn't it! I wonder if the man at theother end is a sort of young Rhodes too!"Fortunately he was not. The star of the Ripton attack was evidently deFreece. The bowler at the other end looked fairly plain. He sent themdown medium-pace, and on a good wicket would probably have beensimple. But to-day there was danger in the most guileless-lookingdeliveries.
Berridge relieved the tension a little by playing safely through theover, and scoring a couple of twos off it. And when Ellerby not onlysurvived the destructive de Freece's second over, but actually lifteda loose ball on to the roof of the scoring-hut, the cloud beganperceptibly to lift. A no-ball in the same over sent up the first ten.
Ten for two was not good; but it was considerably better than one fortwo.
With the score at thirty, Ellerby was missed in the slips off deFreece. He had been playing with slowly increasing confidence tillthen, but this seemed to throw him out of his stride. He played insidethe next ball, and was all but bowled: and then, jumping out to drive,he was smartly stumped. The cloud began to settle again.
Bob was the next man in.
Ellerby took off his pads, and dropped into the chair next to Mike's.
Mike was silent and thoughtful. He was in after Bob, and to be on theeve of batting does not make one conversational.
"You in next?" asked Ellerby.
Mike nodded.
"It's getting trickier every minute," said Ellerby. "The only thingis, if we can only stay in, we might have a chance. The wicket'll getbetter, and I don't believe they've any bowling at all bar de Freece.
By George, Bob's out!... No, he isn't."Bob had jumped out at one of de Freece's slows, as Ellerby had done,and had nearly met the same fate. The wicket-keeper, however, hadfumbled the ball.
"That's the way I was had," said Ellerby. "That man's keeping such ajolly good length that you don't know whether to stay in your groundor go out at them. If only somebody would knock him off his length, Ibelieve we might win yet."The same idea apparently occurred to Burgess. He came to where Mikewas sitting.
"I'm going to shove you down one, Jackson," he said. "I shall go innext myself and swipe, and try and knock that man de Freece off.""All right," said Mike. He was not quite sure whether he was glad orsorry at the respite.
"It's a pity old Wyatt isn't here," said Ellerby. "This is just thesort of time when he might have come off.""Bob's broken his egg," said Mike.
"Good man. Every little helps.... Oh, you silly ass, get _back_!"Berridge had called Bob for a short run that was obviously no run.
Third man was returning the ball as the batsmen crossed. The nextmoment the wicket-keeper had the bails off. Berridge was out by ayard.
"Forty-one for four," said Ellerby. "Help!"Burgess began his campaign against de Freece by skying his firstball over cover's head to the boundary. A howl of delight went upfrom the school, which was repeated, _fortissimo_, when, moreby accident than by accurate timing, the captain put on two morefours past extra-cover. The bowler's cheerful smile never varied.
Whether Burgess would have knocked de Freece off his length or not wasa question that was destined to remain unsolved, for in the middle ofthe other bowler's over Bob hit a single; the batsmen crossed; andBurgess had his leg-stump uprooted while trying a gigantic pull-stroke.
The melancholy youth put up the figures, 54, 5, 12, on the board.
Mike, as he walked out of the pavilion to join Bob, was not consciousof any particular nervousness. It had been an ordeal having to waitand look on while wickets fell, but now that the time of inaction wasat an end he felt curiously composed. When he had gone out to batagainst the M.C.C. on the occasion of his first appearance for theschool, he experienced a quaint sensation of unreality. He seemed tobe watching his body walking to the wickets, as if it were some oneelse's. There was no sense of individuality.
But now his feelings were different. He was cool. He noticed smallthings--mid-off chewing bits of grass, the bowler re-tying the scarfround his waist, little patches of brown where the turf had been wornaway. He took guard with a clear picture of the positions of thefieldsmen photographed on his brain.
Fitness, which in a batsman exhibits itself mainly in an increasedpower of seeing the ball, is one of the most inexplicable thingsconnected with cricket. It has nothing, or very little, to do withactual health. A man may come out of a sick-room with just that extraquickness in sighting the ball that makes all the difference; or hemay be in perfect training and play inside straight half-volleys. Mikewould not have said that he felt more than ordinarily well that day.
Indeed, he was rather painfully conscious of having bolted his food atlunch. But something seemed to whisper to him, as he settled himselfto face the bowler, that he was at the top of his batting form. Adifficult wicket always brought out his latent powers as a bat. It wasa standing mystery with the sporting Press how Joe Jackson managed tocollect fifties and sixties on wickets that completely upset men whowere, apparently, finer players. On days when the Olympians of thecricket world were bringing their averages down with ducks andsingles, Joe would be in his element, watching the ball and pushing itthrough the slips as if there were no such thing as a tricky wicket.
And Mike took after Joe.
A single off the fifth ball of the over opened his score and broughthim to the opposite end. Bob played ball number six back to thebowler, and Mike took guard preparatory to facing de Freece.
The Ripton slow bowler took a long run, considering his pace. In theearly part of an innings he often trapped the batsmen in this way, byleading them to expect a faster ball than he actually sent down. Aqueer little jump in the middle of the run increased the difficulty ofwatching him.
The smiting he had received from Burgess in the previous over had nothad the effect of knocking de Freece off his length. The ball was tooshort to reach with comfort, and not short enough to take libertieswith. It pitched slightly to leg, and whipped in quickly. Mike hadfaced half-left, and stepped back. The increased speed of the ballafter it had touched the ground beat him. The ball hit his right pad.
"'S that?" shouted mid-on. Mid-on has a habit of appealing forl.-b.-w. in school matches.
De Freece said nothing. The Ripton bowler was as conscientious in thematter of appeals as a good bowler should be. He had seen that theball had pitched off the leg-stump.
The umpire shook his head. Mid-on tried to look as if he had notspoken.
Mike prepared himself for the next ball with a glow of confidence. Hefelt that he knew where he was now. Till then he had not thought thewicket was so fast. The two balls he had played at the other end hadtold him nothing. They had been well pitched up, and he had smotheredthem. He knew what to do now. He had played on wickets of this pace athome against Saunders's bowling, and Saunders had shown him the rightway to cope with them.
The next ball was of the same length, but this time off the off-stump.
Mike jumped out, and hit it before it had time to break. It flew alongthe ground through the gap between cover and extra-cover, acomfortable three.
Bob played out the over with elaborate care.
Off the second ball of the other man's over Mike scored his firstboundary. It was a long-hop on the off. He banged it behind point tothe terrace-bank. The last ball of the over, a half-volley to leg, helifted over the other boundary.
"Sixty up," said Ellerby, in the pavilion, as the umpire signalledanother no-ball. "By George! I believe these chaps are going to knockoff the runs. Young Jackson looks as if he was in for a century.""You ass," said Berridge. "Don't say that, or he's certain to getout."Berridge was one of those who are skilled in cricket superstitions.
But Mike did not get out. He took seven off de Freece's next over bymeans of two cuts and a drive. And, with Bob still exhibiting a stolidand rock-like defence, the score mounted to eighty, thence to ninety,and so, mainly by singles, to a hundred.
At a hundred and four, when the wicket had put on exactly fifty, Bobfell to a combination of de Freece and extra-cover. He had stuck likea limpet for an hour and a quarter, and made twenty-one.
Mike watched him go with much the same feelings as those of a man whoturns away from the platform after seeing a friend off on a longrailway journey. His departure upset the scheme of things. For himselfhe had no fear now. He might possibly get out off his next ball, buthe felt set enough to stay at the wickets till nightfall. He had hadnarrow escapes from de Freece, but he was full of that conviction,which comes to all batsmen on occasion, that this was his day. He hadmade twenty-six, and the wicket was getting easier. He could feel thesting going out of the bowling every over.
Henfrey, the next man in, was a promising rather than an effectivebat. He had an excellent style, but he was uncertain. (Two yearslater, when he captained the Wrykyn teams, he made a lot of runs.) Butthis season his batting had been spasmodic.
To-day he never looked like settling down. He survived an over from deFreece, and hit a fast change bowler who had been put on at the otherend for a couple of fluky fours. Then Mike got the bowling for threeconsecutive overs, and raised the score to a hundred and twenty-six. Abye brought Henfrey to the batting end again, and de Freece's petgoogly, which had not been much in evidence hitherto, led to hissnicking an easy catch into short-slip's hands.
A hundred and twenty-seven for seven against a total of a hundred andsixty-six gives the impression that the batting side has theadvantage. In the present case, however, it was Ripton who were reallyin the better position. Apparently, Wrykyn had three more wickets tofall. Practically they had only one, for neither Ashe, nor Grant, norDevenish had any pretensions to be considered batsmen. Ashe was theschool wicket-keeper. Grant and Devenish were bowlers. Between themthe three could not be relied on for a dozen in a decent match.
Mike watched Ashe shape with a sinking heart. The wicket-keeper lookedlike a man who feels that his hour has come. Mike could see himlicking his lips. There was nervousness written all over him.
He was not kept long in suspense. De Freece's first ball made ahideous wreck of his wicket.
"Over," said the umpire.
Mike felt that the school's one chance now lay in his keeping thebowling. But how was he to do this? It suddenly occurred to him thatit was a delicate position that he was in. It was not often that hewas troubled by an inconvenient modesty, but this happened now. Grantwas a fellow he hardly knew, and a school prefect to boot. Could he goup to him and explain that he, Jackson, did not consider him competentto bat in this crisis? Would not this get about and be accounted tohim for side? He had made forty, but even so....
Fortunately Grant solved the problem on his own account. He came up toMike and spoke with an earnestness born of nerves. "For goodnesssake," he whispered, "collar the bowling all you know, or we're done.
I shall get outed first ball.""All right," said Mike, and set his teeth. Forty to win! A largeorder. But it was going to be done. His whole existence seemed toconcentrate itself on those forty runs.
The fast bowler, who was the last of several changes that had beentried at the other end, was well-meaning but erratic. The wicket wasalmost true again now, and it was possible to take liberties.
Mike took them.
A distant clapping from the pavilion, taken up a moment later allround the ground, and echoed by the Ripton fieldsmen, announced thathe had reached his fifty.
The last ball of the over he mishit. It rolled in the direction ofthird man.
"Come on," shouted Grant.
Mike and the ball arrived at the opposite wicket almostsimultaneously. Another fraction of a second, and he would have beenrun out.
[Illustration: MIKE AND THE BALL ARRIVED ALMOST SIMULTANEOUSLY]
The last balls of the next two overs provided repetitions of thisperformance. But each time luck was with him, and his bat was acrossthe crease before the bails were off. The telegraph-board showed ahundred and fifty.
The next over was doubly sensational. The original medium-paced bowlerhad gone on again in place of the fast man, and for the first fiveballs he could not find his length. During those five balls Mikeraised the score to a hundred and sixty.
But the sixth was of a different kind. Faster than the rest and of aperfect length, it all but got through Mike's defence. As it was, hestopped it. But he did not score. The umpire called "Over!" and therewas Grant at the batting end, with de Freece smiling pleasantly as hewalked back to begin his run with the comfortable reflection that atlast he had got somebody except Mike to bowl at.
That over was an experience Mike never forgot.
Grant pursued the Fabian policy of keeping his bat almost immovableand trusting to luck. Point and the slips crowded round. Mid-off andmid-on moved half-way down the pitch. Grant looked embarrassed, butdetermined. For four balls he baffled the attack, though once nearlycaught by point a yard from the wicket. The fifth curled round hisbat, and touched the off-stump. A bail fell silently to the ground.
Devenish came in to take the last ball of the over.
It was an awe-inspiring moment. A great stillness was over all theground. Mike's knees trembled. Devenish's face was a delicate grey.
The only person unmoved seemed to be de Freece. His smile was evenmore amiable than usual as he began his run.
The next moment the crisis was past. The ball hit the very centre ofDevenish's bat, and rolled back down the pitch.
The school broke into one great howl of joy. There were still sevenruns between them and victory, but nobody appeared to recognise thisfact as important. Mike had got the bowling, and the bowling was notde Freece's.
It seemed almost an anti-climax when a four to leg and two two'sthrough the slips settled the thing.
* * * * *Devenish was caught and bowled in de Freece's next over; but theWrykyn total was one hundred and seventy-two.
* * * * *"Good game," said Maclaine, meeting Burgess in the pavilion. "Who wasthe man who made all the runs? How many, by the way?""Eighty-three. It was young Jackson. Brother of the other one.""That family! How many more of them are you going to have here?""He's the last. I say, rough luck on de Freece. He bowled rippingly."Politeness to a beaten foe caused Burgess to change his usual "notbad.""The funny part of it is," continued he, "that young Jackson was onlyplaying as a sub.""You've got a rum idea of what's funny," said Maclaine.
It was a morning in the middle of September. The Jacksons werebreakfasting. Mr. Jackson was reading letters. The rest, includingGladys Maud, whose finely chiselled features were graduallydisappearing behind a mask of bread-and-milk, had settled down toserious work. The usual catch-as-catch-can contest between Marjory andPhyllis for the jam (referee and time-keeper, Mrs. Jackson) hadresulted, after both combatants had been cautioned by the referee, ina victory for Marjory, who had duly secured the stakes. The hour beingnine-fifteen, and the official time for breakfast nine o'clock, Mike'splace was still empty.
"I've had a letter from MacPherson," said Mr. Jackson.
MacPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman, referred to ina previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Ayres sheep.
"He seems very satisfied with Mike's friend Wyatt. At the moment ofwriting Wyatt is apparently incapacitated owing to a bullet in theshoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly. That young man seems tomake things fairly lively wherever he is. I don't wonder he found apublic school too restricted a sphere for his energies.""Has he been fighting a duel?" asked Marjory, interested.
"Bushrangers," said Phyllis.
"There aren't any bushrangers in Buenos Ayres," said Ella.
"How do you know?" said Phyllis clinchingly.
"Bush-ray, bush-ray, bush-ray," began Gladys Maud, conversationally,through the bread-and-milk; but was headed off.
"He gives no details. Perhaps that letter on Mike's plate suppliesthem. I see it comes from Buenos Ayres.""I wish Mike would come and open it," said Marjory. "Shall I go andhurry him up?"The missing member of the family entered as she spoke.
"Buck up, Mike," she shouted. "There's a letter from Wyatt. He's beenwounded in a duel.""With a bushranger," added Phyllis.
"Bush-ray," explained Gladys Maud.
"Is there?" said Mike. "Sorry I'm late."He opened the letter and began to read.
"What does he say?" inquired Marjory. "Who was the duel with?""How many bushrangers were there?" asked Phyllis.
Mike read on.
"Good old Wyatt! He's shot a man.""Killed him?" asked Marjory excitedly.
"No. Only potted him in the leg. This is what he says. First page ismostly about the Ripton match and so on. Here you are. 'I'm dictatingthis to a sportsman of the name of Danvers, a good chap who can't helpbeing ugly, so excuse bad writing. The fact is we've been having abust-up here, and I've come out of it with a bullet in the shoulder,which has crocked me for the time being. It happened like this. Anass of a Gaucho had gone into the town and got jolly tight, andcoming back, he wanted to ride through our place. The old woman whokeeps the lodge wouldn't have it at any price. Gave him the absolutemiss-in-baulk. So this rotter, instead of shifting off, proceeded tocut the fence, and go through that way. All the farms out here havetheir boundaries marked by wire fences, and it is supposed to be adeadly sin to cut these. Well, the lodge-keeper's son dashed off insearch of help. A chap called Chester, an Old Wykehamist, and I weredipping sheep close by, so he came to us and told us what had happened.
We nipped on to a couple of horses, pulled out our revolvers, andtooled after him. After a bit we overtook him, and that's when thetrouble began. The johnny had dismounted when we arrived. I thoughthe was simply tightening his horse's girths. What he was really doingwas getting a steady aim at us with his revolver. He fired as we cameup, and dropped poor old Chester. I thought he was killed at first, butit turned out it was only his leg. I got going then. I emptied all thesix chambers of my revolver, and missed him clean every time. In themeantime he got me in the right shoulder. Hurt like sin afterwards,though it was only a sort of dull shock at the moment. The next itemof the programme was a forward move in force on the part of the enemy.
The man had got his knife out now--why he didn't shoot again I don'tknow--and toddled over in our direction to finish us off. Chester wasunconscious, and it was any money on the Gaucho, when I happened tocatch sight of Chester's pistol, which had fallen just by where I camedown. I picked it up, and loosed off. Missed the first shot, but gothim with the second in the ankle at about two yards; and his day'swork was done. That's the painful story. Danvers says he's gettingwriter's cramp, so I shall have to stop....'""By Jove!" said Mike.
"What a dreadful thing!" said Mrs. Jackson.
"Anyhow, it was practically a bushranger," said Phyllis.
"I told you it was a duel, and so it was," said Marjory.
"What a terrible experience for the poor boy!" said Mrs. Jackson.
"Much better than being in a beastly bank," said Mike, summing up.
"I'm glad he's having such a ripping time. It must be almost as decentas Wrykyn out there.... I say, what's under that dish?"
Two years have elapsed and Mike is home again for the Easter holidays.
If Mike had been in time for breakfast that morning he might havegathered from the expression on his father's face, as Mr. Jacksonopened the envelope containing his school report and read thecontents, that the document in question was not exactly a paean ofpraise from beginning to end. But he was late, as usual. Mike alwayswas late for breakfast in the holidays.
When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was nearlyover. Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence with him;Mrs. Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike appeared thething had resolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl between Phyllis andElla for the jam, while Marjory, who had put her hair up a fortnightbefore, looked on in a detached sort of way, as if these juvenilegambols distressed her.
"Hullo, Mike," she said, jumping up as he entered; "here you are--I'vebeen keeping everything hot for you.""Have you? Thanks awfully. I say--" his eye wandered in mild surpriseround the table. "I'm a bit late."Marjory was bustling about, fetching and carrying for Mike, as shealways did. She had adopted him at an early age, and did the thingthoroughly. She was fond of her other brothers, especially when theymade centuries in first-class cricket, but Mike was her favourite. Shewould field out in the deep as a natural thing when Mike was battingat the net in the paddock, though for the others, even for Joe, whohad played in all five Test Matches in the previous summer, she woulddo it only as a favour.
Phyllis and Ella finished their dispute and went out. Marjory sat onthe table and watched Mike eat.
"Your report came this morning, Mike," she said.
The kidneys failed to retain Mike's undivided attention. He looked upinterested. "What did it say?""I didn't see--I only caught sight of the Wrykyn crest on theenvelope. Father didn't say anything."Mike seemed concerned. "I say, that looks rather rotten! I wonder ifit was awfully bad. It's the first I've had from Appleby.""It can't be any worse than the horrid ones Mr. Blake used to writewhen you were in his form.""No, that's a comfort," said Mike philosophically. "Think there's anymore tea in that pot?""I call it a shame," said Marjory; "they ought to be jolly glad tohave you at Wrykyn just for cricket, instead of writing beastlyreports that make father angry and don't do any good to anybody.""Last summer he said he'd take me away if I got another one.""He didn't mean it really, I _know_ he didn't! He couldn't!
You're the best bat Wrykyn's ever had.""What ho!" interpolated Mike.
"You _are_. Everybody says you are. Why, you got your first thevery first term you were there--even Joe didn't do anything nearly sogood as that. Saunders says you're simply bound to play for England inanother year or two.""Saunders is a jolly good chap. He bowled me a half-volley on the offthe first ball I had in a school match. By the way, I wonder if he'sout at the net now. Let's go and see."Saunders was setting up the net when they arrived. Mike put on hispads and went to the wickets, while Marjory and the dogs retired asusual to the far hedge to retrieve.
She was kept busy. Saunders was a good sound bowler of the M.C.C.
minor match type, and there had been a time when he had worried Mikeconsiderably, but Mike had been in the Wrykyn team for three seasonsnow, and each season he had advanced tremendously in his batting. Hehad filled out in three years. He had always had the style, and now hehad the strength as well. Saunders's bowling on a true wicket seemedsimple to him. It was early in the Easter holidays, but already he wasbeginning to find his form. Saunders, who looked on Mike as his ownspecial invention, was delighted.
"If you don't be worried by being too anxious now that you're captain,Master Mike," he said, "you'll make a century every match next term.""I wish I wasn't; it's a beastly responsibility."Henfrey, the Wrykyn cricket captain of the previous season, was notreturning next term, and Mike was to reign in his stead. He liked theprospect, but it certainly carried with it a rather awe-inspiringresponsibility. At night sometimes he would lie awake, appalled by thefear of losing his form, or making a hash of things by choosing thewrong men to play for the school and leaving the right men out. It isno light thing to captain a public school at cricket.
As he was walking towards the house, Phyllis met him. "Oh, I've beenhunting for you, Mike; father wants you.""What for?""I don't know.""Where?""He's in the study. He seems--" added Phyllis, throwing in theinformation by way of a make-weight, "in a beastly wax."Mike's jaw fell slightly. "I hope the dickens it's nothing to do withthat bally report," was his muttered exclamation.
Mike's dealings with his father were as a rule of a most pleasantnature. Mr. Jackson was an understanding sort of man, who treated hissons as companions. From time to time, however, breezes were apt toruffle the placid sea of good-fellowship. Mike's end-of-term reportwas an unfailing wind-raiser; indeed, on the arrival of Mr. Blake'ssarcastic _résumé_ of Mike's short-comings at the end of theprevious term, there had been something not unlike a typhoon. It wason this occasion that Mr. Jackson had solemnly declared his intentionof removing Mike from Wrykyn unless the critics became moreflattering; and Mr. Jackson was a man of his word.
It was with a certain amount of apprehension, therefore, that Jacksonentered the study.
"Come in, Mike," said his father, kicking the waste-paper basket; "Iwant to speak to you."Mike, skilled in omens, scented a row in the offing. Only in momentsof emotion was Mr. Jackson in the habit of booting the basket.
There followed an awkward silence, which Mike broke by remarking thathe had carted a half-volley from Saunders over the on-side hedge thatmorning.
"It was just a bit short and off the leg stump, so I stepped out--mayI bag the paper-knife for a jiffy? I'll just show----""Never mind about cricket now," said Mr. Jackson; "I want you tolisten to this report.""Oh, is that my report, father?" said Mike, with a sort of sicklyinterest, much as a dog about to be washed might evince in his tub.
"It is," replied Mr. Jackson in measured tones, "your report; what ismore, it is without exception the worst report you have ever had.""Oh, I say!" groaned the record-breaker.
"'His conduct,'" quoted Mr. Jackson, "'has been unsatisfactory in theextreme, both in and out of school.'""It wasn't anything really. I only happened----"Remembering suddenly that what he had happened to do was to drop acannon-ball (the school weight) on the form-room floor, not once, buton several occasions, he paused.
"'French bad; conduct disgraceful----'""Everybody rags in French.""'Mathematics bad. Inattentive and idle.'""Nobody does much work in Math.""'Latin poor. Greek, very poor.'""We were doing Thucydides, Book Two, last term--all speeches anddoubtful readings, and cruxes and things--beastly hard! Everybody saysso.""Here are Mr. Appleby's remarks: 'The boy has genuine ability, whichhe declines to use in the smallest degree.'"Mike moaned a moan of righteous indignation.
"'An abnormal proficiency at games has apparently destroyed all desirein him to realise the more serious issues of life.' There is more tothe same effect."Mr. Appleby was a master with very definite ideas as to whatconstituted a public-school master's duties. As a man he wasdistinctly pro-Mike. He understood cricket, and some of Mike's shotson the off gave him thrills of pure aesthetic joy; but as a master healways made it his habit to regard the manners and customs of the boysin his form with an unbiased eye, and to an unbiased eye Mike in aform-room was about as near the extreme edge as a boy could be, andMr. Appleby said as much in a clear firm hand.
"You remember what I said to you about your report at Christmas,Mike?" said Mr. Jackson, folding the lethal document and replacing itin its envelope.
Mike said nothing; there was a sinking feeling in his interior.
"I shall abide by what I said."Mike's heart thumped.
"You will not go back to Wrykyn next term."Somewhere in the world the sun was shining, birds were twittering;somewhere in the world lambkins frisked and peasants sang blithely attheir toil (flat, perhaps, but still blithely), but to Mike at thatmoment the sky was black, and an icy wind blew over the face of theearth.
The tragedy had happened, and there was an end of it. He made noattempt to appeal against the sentence. He knew it would be useless,his father, when he made up his mind, having all the unbendingtenacity of the normally easy-going man.
Mr. Jackson was sorry for Mike. He understood him, and for that reasonhe said very little now.
"I am sending you to Sedleigh," was his next remark.
Sedleigh! Mike sat up with a jerk. He knew Sedleigh by name--one ofthose schools with about a hundred fellows which you never hear ofexcept when they send up their gymnasium pair to Aldershot, or theirEight to Bisley. Mike's outlook on life was that of a cricketer, pureand simple. What had Sedleigh ever done? What were they ever likely todo? Whom did they play? What Old Sedleighan had ever done anything atcricket? Perhaps they didn't even _play_ cricket!
"But it's an awful hole," he said blankly.
Mr. Jackson could read Mike's mind like a book. Mike's point of viewwas plain to him. He did not approve of it, but he knew that in Mike'splace and at Mike's age he would have felt the same. He spoke drily tohide his sympathy.
"It is not a large school," he said, "and I don't suppose it couldplay Wrykyn at cricket, but it has one merit--boys work there. YoungBarlitt won a Balliol scholarship from Sedleigh last year." Barlittwas the vicar's son, a silent, spectacled youth who did not entervery largely into Mike's world. They had met occasionally attennis-parties, but not much conversation had ensued. Barlitt'smind was massive, but his topics of conversation were not Mike's.
"Mr. Barlitt speaks very highly of Sedleigh," added Mr. Jackson.
Mike said nothing, which was a good deal better than saying what hewould have liked to have said.